Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I just want to state for the record that this is a terrible idea.” 

“God, I know that, Tao,” Charlie hits back, pumping up a balloon with a little too much gusto. “I’m in a bit deep now, though.”

“You could still cancel,” Tao points out.

“I can’t, I’ve made a whole Facebook event and everything. Like, who does that?” 

“I still don’t know why you told him it was your birthday,” Isaac adds.

“Because,” Charlie says, depressing the handle on the pump with such force that even Darcy looks a little alarmed and promptly takes it from his hands. “I wanted him to actually come.”

“I think Nick would still come if you threw a party for your own ingrown toenail removal,” Elle interjects cheerfully from the kitchen counter, where she is sitting and doing her nails, clearly unmoved by Charlie’s plight.

“Do not tell him about that,” Charlie shudders. “Fuck,” he says, sitting down on the sofa and putting his head in his hands. “What if he doesn’t come?” 

He’s known Nick for a few months now, after joining Queer Soc during freshers and being introduced to him through Tara and Darcy. They don’t really cross over at the events, much to Charlie’s chagrin — Nick doesn’t come to many of the evening socials, saying he wants to stay sharp for rugby, and Charlie often misses the day-time events because of his seminars — but, whenever they do, they seem to gravitate towards each other, lingering at the back of coffee mornings to talk, or whispering to each other during committee meetings until the Chairperson has to tell them off. Charlie thinks, hopes, that it’s been verging on flirtatious, but neither of them seem to be able to take that final step. 

Charlie is, admittedly, a little scared. Nick seems to be kind and softly spoken with pretty much everybody, and he is worried that he’s reading too much into their interactions. He would hate to watch those warm, brown eyes cloud over as Nick searched for the best way to reject him, or worse, let him down gently. Then, over the winter break, Nick had replied to one of his stories, and after that they’d messaged almost constantly. When Charlie had argued with his mum on Christmas Day and realised the first person he wanted to message about it was Nick, he resolved to finally do something about the whole thing when they got back to uni.

So, here he was in mid-January, throwing himself a birthday party three months too early. His friends' reactions had verged from the delighted (Darcy) to the exasperated (Tao) and everything in between. Still, they’d joined in on the ruse, and Elle had even come home that morning with an iced cake from Costco that read Happy Un-birthday Charlie. Which — objectively unhelpful, but still, Charlie can’t help but feel heart-warmed at how badly they all want to see him happy. 

“He will come,” Tara reassures him, patting him on the back and sounding far more certain than she has any right to be. “He told me yesterday that he was looking forward to it.”

Darcy nods along, with a glimmer in their eye that Charlie doesn’t like the look of. “I don’t know why you seem so pleased,” he says, pointing at them, “this is all your fault.” 

Darcy throws their hands up. “All I said was you should throw a party and invite him so you could spend some time together outside of Queer Soc stuff. You came up with the fake birthday thing all by yourself, which is genius, really. I’m actually sad I didn’t come up with it.”

“I panicked,” Charlie says mournfully. “He just seemed so taken aback that I had asked him.”

“More like completely fucking overjoyed,” Isaac mutters, and Tara slaps him lightly on the arm. “I made a playlist, by the way,” Isaac continues brightly before Charlie can dissect that particular comment, brandishing his phone under his nose.

Charlie takes it off him and scrolls through the songs — mostly hyperpop, not Charlie’s usual thing — before he clocks the title. Isaac’s birthday playlist for luuuurve. With four u’s.

“I mean, thank you, I guess, but you need to change the title. What if Nick wants to queue a song?” 

“Oh, so Nick’s allowed to queue songs but I’m banned, am I?” Tao grumbles. 

“You can queue songs again when you stop picking from the Hereditary score,” Elle replies mildly.

“They’re good songs!”

“They are terrifying and a complete vibe kill, babe.”

“Whatever,” Tao huffs, returning to pinning up the Happy Birthday sign that Charlie had bought from Tesco in a panic that morning. “Guess we’ll listen to Isaac’s high-bpm nonsense.” 

Isaac just smiles smugly in lieu of reply, flipping to the next page in his book.  

Suddenly, the doorbell to their shared house rings. Charlie glances at the clock on the wall in alarm — it’s only 8pm. “Who is that, do you think?” he asks. “Is anyone expecting a delivery?” He looks round the room at his friends, who all just shrug and shake their heads. 

Sighing, Charlie gets up and answers the door. He swings it open, prepared to fend off whatever lost Uber Eats driver or salesman it might be. When he looks up though, he realises that it’s Nick, standing on the doorstep with a small gift-bag clutched in his hand. 

“Hi,” Nick says. “Happy birthday!”

Charlie just stares for a moment, stunned. He thought he had at least two more hours to prepare himself; as far as he knows, no one actually turns up to a uni party on time. Nick looks fantastic, of course: he’s got a padded, canvas jacket on that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, and, underneath, a tight white t-shirt tucked into jeans. The t-shirt is clean, but the fabric looks faded and soft from frequent use. The neckline is slightly stretched out — probably from years of Nick pulling it over that massive, gorgeous head of his — and the silver chain Nick is wearing sits just above it, matching the small, flat stud that sits in his right earlobe. 

Charlie has lost hours to that piercing, including just before the holidays, when they had been assigned the same slot to man the society’s charity bake-sale, and he’s almost certain Nick caught him staring. Once, Nick had even turned up to a committee meeting with it still taped over from rugby, and Charlie had been so helplessly endeared that he had to excuse himself to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

When Charlie doesn’t speak, Nick presses on, his words coming in an anxious rush. “God, you look surprised… Shit, sorry, is this the wrong day? Or am I early? It’s just, the Facebook event said eight and I didn’t want to be late.” He frowns and passes a hand through his hair. When he’s done, it falls back across his forehead in a way that makes Charlie want to push it back for him, again and again, just to have an excuse to touch him. 

Charlie shakes himself out of his reverie. “Um, hi. No, no, come in, please. You’re right, the event said eight. I was just… anyway, a few of the others are in the living room getting set up.” 

“OK, cool,” Nick grins and steps inside, so they are facing each other in the hallway. There’s only about a foot of space between them; Charlie wants to hook his fingers around that chain and pull Nick closer, to find out just how soft the fabric of his t-shirt is as he runs his hands up his sides and-  

“This is for you.” Nick interrupts his train of thought, holding up the bag in his hands. “Sorry it’s not much, you didn’t really give me much time to prepare.” Nick smiles as if to take the edge off the gentle teasing, and the sight of it warms Charlie straight through. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, taking the bag from him, torn between intense guilt that he’s essentially tricked Nick into buying him a present, and the barely-repressible glee that Nick thought of him enough to make the effort to go out and find something. “You didn’t have to.”

Nick shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

Charlie reaches into the bag and pulls out something rectangular, wrapped neatly in blue tissue. He carefully unwraps it, and realises with a start that it’s a photo in a hand-decorated frame. 

The photo is from a few hours after the bake sale, actually. Tara, Darcy and Isaac had come to help them pack everything away, and on the way home it started snowing in earnest. They’d stopped together on campus to watch it fall, and, once they realised it was sticking, quickly descended into a rather protracted and intense snowball fight. When they’d finally admitted defeat, lying together on the snow, Tara had taken a quick selfie of them all. Charlie had begged her to send him the photo: all of them were looking into the camera, grinning, except for Nick, who was looking over at Charlie with something soft and unnamed in his eyes. Charlie has lost hours to that photo, too. 

“It’s a bit handmade,” Nick apologises. “That was just one of my favourite days. Ever.”

“It’s amazing, Nick,” Charlie smiles up at him. Then, feeling emboldened: “it’s really good to see you. I- I missed you over the break.” 

Charlie swears he sees Nick’s shoulders relax. “I missed you, too,” he replies softly. “Messaging you was the best part of the holidays, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Charlie breathes, blushing. “Not, like, seeing your family? And Nellie?” he asks, a little teasing.

“OK, second favourite after seeing Nellie then,” Nick laughs. “But, yeah, Christmas was kind of a washout, anyway. I love my Mum, but my brother can be… a bit of a dick.” 

“I’m sorry,” Charlie frowns. Nick had mentioned some tension with his brother over their messages, but had never gone into detail. “I hate that it spoiled your time off.” 

“Don’t worry,” Nick shakes his head. “I feel much better now I’m here.” They look at each other for a moment before Nick clears his throat. “You look great, by the way,” he continues, reaching out to tug at the hem of Charlie’s shirt. 

Charlie realises with horror that he’s still wearing his tatty Muse shirt — the one that he usually sleeps in, and occasionally wears for hungover trips to Spar when he’s almost certain he will see no-one he knows — instead of the fitted, slightly sheer black vest he had been planning to wear on Nick’s arrival. Nick sounds sincere, but still. He’s literally in his pyjamas. 

“I’m not wearing this,” he says quickly, by way of explanation, “I just… hadn’t had a chance to get changed yet.”

Nick scrunches up his eyes. “Oh God, I am early,” he groans. “Stop, stop, give me all that back and I’ll come back at a reasonable time and start over. Or maybe just hide in my room until the summer.” He reaches for the package in Charlie’s hand. 

“No!” Charlie protests, laughing and holding his present out of reach. “I’m so, so glad you’re here. Come on, let's go to the kitchen.” He grabs Nick by the hand and drags him through the hallway before he can protest. His friends all shout enthusiastic greetings when they see who it is, and Charlie watches Darcy quickly tie off the balloon they are blowing up before throwing the pump behind the TV, feigning nonchalance. He deposits Nick safely between Elle and Tara on the sofa, throwing Tao a look of warning as he quickly goes to his room to get changed and put the photo somewhere safe. 

By the time he returns, Nick already has a beer in his hand. He’s in conversation with Elle, but stops mid-sentence when Charlie enters the room — Muse shirt abandoned in favour of his vest — and stares at him for a second, eyes flitting wildly between his chest and his face. Charlie smiles at him, and Nick smiles back reflexively, before bobbing his head as if shaking something loose and returning his attention to his conversation. Elle magnanimously pretends not to notice his distraction, and picks up where she left off. 

Charlie makes eye contact with Isaac, who has clearly seen the whole exchange and is wiggling his eyebrows at Charlie behind Nick’s back. Charlie subtly flashes him the finger before going to join Nick and Elle, settling himself on the other end of the sofa. Elle promptly makes up some excuse about having to sort out the cake (the fucking cake, for Charlie’s not-birthday) and leaves the two of them alone. Charlie’s not sure if he imagines Nick shuffling slightly closer when she leaves. 

“So,” Nick asks, “what else did you get for your birthday?” 

*

The party is in full swing. It’s one of the first days where everyone is back in halls, and so even the most tangential acquaintances that Charlie added to the event, a last-minute attempt to boost numbers and give his lie some credence, seem to have shown up in full force. Charlie and Nick have mostly stuck to the kitchen, talking quietly as more and more people start to fill out the attached living-area, and the music slowly builds in volume. Charlie’s friends have cycled in and out of the kitchen, bearing the brunt of the hosting duties, and he loves them desperately for it. Nick makes easy conversation with them all whenever they do appear, and Charlie’s heart quickens when he thinks about just how well Nick would fit in with their little group. With him.

The birthday ruse seems to be going strong. Elle brought out the cake before most of the other’s arrived, all of them singing heartily — even Tao, after a little kick from Elle — as Charlie blew out the candles. He’d seen Nick frown slightly when he saw the message piped onto it, but Darcy had breezed over it with a quick, “oh, Charlie’s not really that keen on birthdays.” 

“You have a lot of friends,” Nick observes, as Elle brings out a tray of jelly shots to a chorus of cheers. 

Charlie just hums noncommittally. 

“No one else brought you a present, though,” Nick frowns, looking around the room as if a pile of gift-bags and cards will materialise out of nowhere. “I’m sorry.” 

Charlie doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because half of the people here know for a fact that it is very much not his birthday, and the other half are mostly friends-of-friends who are mostly here looking for an excuse to drink and see in the new term. “Don’t worry about it,” Charlie reassures him, “like Darcy said, I’m not really a birthday person.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re having a party, at least,” Nick says decisively. “You deserve to be celebrated.” 

Charlie’s not quite sure what to respond. Nick keeps saying things like that, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he really believes it. “Thank you,” he settles on, then clinks their bottles together. “I’ve got everything I need, anyways.” He sees Nick smile out of the corner of his eye, and they both look out across the party together.  Charlie should say something, he knows. He’s not an idiot: he’s almost certain Nick has at least a passing interest in him. Still, the thought of putting himself out there and getting knocked back, or going on a few dates and having to watch Nick’s interest gradually fizzle out into nothing, makes him feel ill. He’s never really minded when his handful of previous romantic connections had tailed off, but somehow, with Nick, everything seems to carry a little more weight. 

Darcy, Tara and Isaac are jumping round the living room to Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl, Darcy taking turns to spin the other two about as the song crescendos. One particularly enthusiastic spin, right as the final notes are fading, sends Darcy reeling back with the effort. They throw a hand back on the counter to steady themselves and send an empty beer bottle crashing onto the tiled floor of the kitchen, where it shatters on impact. 

Nick reaches out and pulls Charlie towards him by the waist, away from danger. The move brings Charlie flush with his side, and he has to put a hand on Nick’s chest to steady himself. 

“Sorry,” Nick murmurs when he realises what he’s done, dropping his arm and stepping away to put some space back between them. “Didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s OK,” Charlie whispers, watching the blush colour Nick’s cheeks with a look that he hopes conveys his message of please put your arm back around me and keep it there forever. “I don’t mind.” 

Nick smiles. “Well, OK. Good.” He meets Charlie’s eyes. “Me neither.”

“Shit, sorry!” Darcy shouts above the music as they crouch down to try and clear the glass, swaying slightly in the process. 

“Watch your hands, Darce!” Nick exclaims, tearing his eyes from Charlie’s before grabbing a cardboard box from the pile of recycling in the corner and dropping down to help. 

Darcy lets themselves fall back to a seated position on the floor. “I think I might be too drunk for this,” they confess, watching as Nick carefully picks up the bigger bits of glass to deposit them in the box. 

“That’s OK,” Nick says softly, “you go dance and I’ll sort it.” 

“You’re such an angel, Nick,” Darcy replies. Then, after a pause, “Charlie thinks so, too. Or, wait, no, what was the word you used, Charlie? Adonis?” 

“Darcy!” Charlie exclaims, but Nick just laughs. 

“Charlie’s not so bad himself,” he says, looking up at him slyly. 

Just then, Isaac shows up to spare Charlie’s blushes, reaching down to hoist Darcy up with a cry of, “shots!”

Darcy cheers and springs up to their feet, following after Isaac readily.

“Water, please!” Nick calls after them to no avail, then looks up at Charlie, rolling his eyes fondly. “How much do you want to bet I get a call from them tomorrow morning begging me to drive them to Five Guys again?

“I think they’ll be just fine,” Charlie mutters darkly. Judging by the wink they’d thrown at Charlie as they left, Darcy wasn’t nearly as drunk as they were letting on. He’d have to exact his revenge at a later date. Or his heartfelt gratitude, if Nick wasn’t completely put off by their comment. He goes over to the sink and grabs the dustpan and brush from the cupboard underneath, crouching down next to Nick to begin sweeping the smaller shards up. They work side by side for a moment. The music is still blaring on, the combined voices of the party guests rising up above it, but down here near the floor it feels like they’re in their own little world. 

Nick nudges Charlie on the shoulder. “Adonis, hm?” 

“Oh god,” Charlie groans, although his embarrassment is muted by the pleasant tingling in his gut and in his fingers that the contact has elicited, “please forget you ever heard that.” 

Nick looks over at him and laughs as he throws the last bigger shard into the box, then flinches and frowns as he looks down at his hand. “Fuck, I think I got myself with that last bit.”

“Oh no,” Charlie breathes, grabbing his hand to inspect it. Sure enough, there is a small, clean cut to the pad of Nick’s thumb, beading with blood. It doesn’t look deep, thank God — Charlie doesn’t know if he’d ever recover from Nick coming away from his un-birthday permanently maimed — but still. He frowns in consternation. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“No S-word!” Nick protests. “It’s hardly your fault.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. You’re very distracting.” 

Charlie grins and averts his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the task in hand. “Come on, it looks like it needs a plaster or something. I’ve got a first aid kit in my room.”

“I’m sure it’s fine-” 

“Nick, seriously, come on,” Charlie says in a tone he hopes brokers no argument, standing up and pulling him by his non-injured hand. They wind their way between the bodies in the kitchen, keeping a tight hold on each other as they go. 

The party noise reduces to a muted, bassy thudding as they walk out into the corridor. Charlie unlocks the door to his room and pulls him inside, closing and locking it again behind him. He turns back around and Nick raises an eyebrow at him.

Charlie laughs. “I’m not keeping you trapped, don’t worry. I just hate the idea of someone random coming into my room and messing about with my stuff.”

“I’m not someone random, then?” Nick asks, gaze steady as he looks at Charlie. 

“No,” Charlie smiles. “Definitely not.” He walks over to his desk and starts raking through the drawers for the first aid kit. He knows it’s in there somewhere — his mum had insisted on buying one and had stashed it away for him on the day his parents moved him in. Then, when she’d taken Olly out to get some food, his dad had discreetly placed a box of condoms on the desk, much to Charlie’s mortification and Tori’s glee. That box, thank god, is stashed safely out of sight under Charlie’s bed. Charlie’s single bed. 

Charlie’s room is small, typical for student digs, and made even smaller by the attached en-suite bathroom. He idly wonders if Nick would even fit in his bed. He’d probably take up the whole thing: they’d have to lie very, very close together. Preferably on top of each other. 

Charlie shakes himself out of that line of thinking. He’s genuinely not brought Nick in here with any motivation other than to fix up his hand, and maybe, if he is being really honest, to have a chance to talk to each other away from the thudding noise of the kitchen. Still, now they’re here, the air feels thick with potential. It’s the first time they’ve ever actually been alone together. 

He wonders if Nick feels it too. He glances over at him a few times, to where he’s stood looking at the pictures on Charlie’s pin-board, and, once, they meet eyes, both looking quickly away. Charlie is sure he catches a smile on Nick's face.

Charlie finds the first-aid kit, and holds it up triumphantly. “Found it!” When he looks over at Nick, though, he’s studying one of Charlie’s photos carefully. 

“I didn’t know you played drums,” Nick murmurs, reaching up to tap his finger on one of Charlie’s band photos. “That’s so cool.” 

“Yeah,” Charlie replies, moving over to stand next to him. “I’m in a band with Sahar, from Queer Soc, do you know her?” Nick nods. “You should come see us perform some time.”

“I would really like that,” Nick says enthusiastically. “Like, a lot.” Charlie can tell he means it. He loves that about Nick: the way he really seems to mean what he says, and gives whoever he’s talking to his full, undivided attention. There’s something in his eyes, though, that goes a little over and above his usual gentle curiosity.

“If you’re good, I’ll even take you backstage,” Charlie says primly, and is rewarded by another flash of more in Nick’s eyes. 

“I’d make a really good groupie,” Nick acquiesces, shifting slightly on his feet so his body is turned towards Charlie’s as they stand side-by-side. 

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Charlie breathes. The air in his room is cooler than the kitchen, the open window providing a light breeze, but Charlie feels hot all over. He looks up at Nick, who’s already looking at him intensely, before he suddenly remembers why they came here in the first place. 

“Shit!” Charlie exclaims. “Your hand.”

“Oh yeah,” Nick blinks at the reminder. “I forgot.” 

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Come on, sit up on the desk and I’ll sort it out.”

Nick does as he’s told, leaning back on the desk-top as Charlie opens the kit then cradles his hand in his. It’s really not a bad cut at all, and has begun to scab over at some point whilst they’ve been busy talking, but Charlie still gets out an alcohol wipe and sets to cleaning it gently. He’s not drunk, not really, but the world is pleasantly blurred around the edges, and he can hear them both breathe in sync in the quiet of the room, the noise from the party muffled by the door. 

“What was that other picture of you, by the way?” Nick asks. 

“Which one?” Charlie replies, focusing his attention on the task at hand. They’re standing very close now, and he’s sure that if he looks up at Nick’s face he’ll forget how to speak entirely. 

“The one where you’ve got a headband on, and the number taped to your top. Did you do a marathon or something?”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten that one was up there, actually. “Um, not a marathon, no. I did a charity 10k, in the summer before uni.”

“That’s great,” Nick replies, and Charlie can hear the smile in his voice. “What were you raising money for?” Charlie pauses, trying to think of the best way to word it. They’d spoken a little about Charlie’s time at high school in the past, but never really in any detail.  “You don’t have to tell me, if it’s personal,” Nick reassures him, reading into Charlie’s hesitation.

“No, no, it’s OK. I want to.” He really does. The more time he spends with Nick, the stronger his feeling that he could probably tell him anything. “I have anorexia, and I spent a few months as an inpatient in high school. I wanted to raise some money for the unit I was in, so they could get, like, new art supplies and that sort of thing.” 

“That’s amazing, Charlie,” Nick replies, flipping his hand over in Charlie’s so he can give it a squeeze. “I mean, sorry, not that you had to go to hospital, but that you experienced that and were still looking for a way to give something back.” Charlie finally looks up. Nick’s still looking at him like he was before — soft, and open, and with that something behind his eyes that makes Charlie selfishly hope that he’s never looked at anyone but him like that. “Thanks for telling me.”

Charlie shrugs as he squeezes Nick’s hand back, then flips it back over to turn his attention back to his thumb. “It’s whatever.” 

“I mean it. I guess a lot of people would want to just try and forget about it. Which is fine, of course. More than fine. I suppose it’s different? For everyone?” Nick looks away. “Sorry, this is coming out all wrong-” 

“Nick,” Charlie says gently. “You’re right. Everyone processes things in their own way. For me… I guess it just feels like part of me, and like, my experience. Recovery is a process. Like, a life-long process,” he emphasises, fixing Nick with a shrewd look. His expression doesn’t falter though; he’s still looking at Charlie with those wide, honest eyes, like he’s completely absorbed with what he’s saying.

“Of course,” Nick nods. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like, pry, or…”

“You didn’t,” Charlie reassures him. “I’m pretty open about it. That’s what works for me.” Charlie picks a plaster out of the kit, opening it and pressing it gently over the now-clean cut. “I’ll tell you more about it, someday, if you like.” 

“Yeah, OK,” Nick smiles. “I kind of feel like I want to know everything about you.” 

“Me too,” Charlie admits quietly. “About you, I mean.” He feels hungry for the details of Nick’s life: about what has shaped him, and brought him joy. What heartaches he has faced. What triumphs. What he thinks of when he goes to sleep at night, and how he looks in the mornings, sleep-rumpled and soft, facing a new day. If he will always want to escape parties, with Charlie, talking softly in their own little bubble as the world continues on around them. It all feels like too lofty an admission for now, though, in this quiet space they’ve carved for themselves, so instead he just asks: “how’s your finger feeling, by the way?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Nick replies, glancing down at it. “Fine. A little sore.” 

Before Charlie can think about it too much, he pulls Nick’s hand to his mouth and ghosts a kiss just over the plaster. “There,” he whispers, clearing his throat at the unexpected rough edge to his voice, “all better.”

“Yeah,” Nick breathes. He lets the hand fall to rest on Charlie’s waist. “Maybe- um, maybe one more, though, just to be sure?” 

Charlie swallows and takes a step closer, until Nick is pressed up against his desk completely, then slides his hands up his sides. He was right: the t-shirt is soft. The skin of Nick’s hips is softer, though, and Charlie lets his palms glide lightly over it. Nick’s eyes flick down to his lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. Finally, gradually, Nick leans down towards him, letting their noses brush as they both take a breath and- 

“Wait!” Charlie shouts suddenly. 

Nick jerks his head back. “Fuck, Charlie, sorry. I thought-”

“No! I mean, yes. You thought right. Fuck. Fuck.” He lets his head fall to Nick’s shoulder. “Sorry, before we… I just need to confess something.”

“Right,” Nick says slowly, clearly unsure at the sudden turn the moment has taken. 

Charlie pulls back and looks him in the eye. “Please, just hear me out before you react.”

“OK,” Nick replies, forehead furrowed with concern. “Are- are you alright?”

“More than alright,” Charlie reassures him. “This is- you’re so- Just please, please don’t let this change your opinion of me.” He pauses. “Also, it was mostly Darcy’s idea,” he adds quickly, knowing Darcy won’t mind being dropped in it slightly in the name of romance.  

Nick’s left eyebrow twitches. “Charlie, whatever it is, you can tell me. I very, very much doubt it’s going to make me want to kiss you any less.” 

Charlie feels himself glow warm, even through the knot of anxiety in his chest. He takes a deep breath. “I… it’s not actually my birthday,” he says quickly, shutting his eyes to avoid the inevitable look of betrayal on Nick’s face. “My birthday is in April.”

When Nick doesn’t say anything for a few moments, Charlie hesitantly opens his eyes. Nick is still looking at him in confusion. “Is that it?” Nick asks.

Charlie tilts his head. “I… yeah?”

Nick throws his head back and laughs. “Well, I know that.” 

“What?” Charlie asks, taken aback. “Um… how?” 

Nick looks at him. “Your real birthday is still on your Facebook profile,” he points out. “And, um, when we first met… well I basically stalked your entire Instagram and I saw the photos from your party last year.” Charlie sees the tips of Nick’s ears go pink at his admission. 

His fucking Facebook profile. He knew he’d missed something. Still, it doesn’t explain Nick’s acceptance of the whole idea. “But… you brought a present. And you were so nice about it!” 

Nick shrugs. “I dunno, some people have like… bad memories associated with birthdays and stuff. I thought you might just be making better ones for yourself.” He smiles and strokes a finger along the hem of Charlie’s vest. “Everyone deserves to have a good birthday.”

“Nick,” Charlie breathes, helplessly endeared. Where did this boy even come from? “You should know, though, I basically just panicked and said it was my birthday so that you would come. This whole party… I only threw it for you, really.” He takes a breath; in for a penny, in for a pound. “I like you. So, so much.” 

“Char,” Nick says, putting both his hands on Charlie’s waist. “I like you, too, obviously. You could have asked me to come to the landfill with you and I would have turned up.”

“Yeah, I think I’m getting that now,” Charlie smiles, leaning closer. Then he registers Nick’s words properly. “Char?”

“Shit, that just slipped out.”

“No, I like it,” Charlie admits, finally reaching up to hook a finger through Nick’s chain. He sees Nick’s pupils dilate. “It’s cute.” 

Nick just smiles and shakes his head a little, huffing out an amused laugh. “You’re so… Can I please, please kiss you now?” 

Charlie moves his hand to cradle Nick’s neck in lieu of reply, and finally, finally, cranes up to slot their lips together. Their first kiss is soft, and chaste, and probably something Charlie will remember forever. They both pull back for a moment to look at each other. “You OK?” Charlie asks. 

“Literally never better,” Nick grins. 

They both lean back in at the same time. Charlie gets lost in it: the slide of lip and tongue, and the perfect pressure of Nick’s hand on his waist and his back. At one point, Nick reaches up and puts a hand in Charlie’s hair, adjusting the angle of their kiss and moving his thumb over the soft skin behind his ear. Charlie can't help but let out a satisfied hum at that, and Nick pulls back a little to speak. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he admits, like it’s a secret just for them. 

“You can do it whenever you like,” Charlie breathes. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

Nick smiles and rests their foreheads together. “I can’t believe how fucking fit you are,” Nick confesses. “And just, like, the most incredible person I’ve ever met.” He kisses him again, hard, hands fisting in the back of Charlie’s shirt so that it rucks up a little and his pinkie makes contact with the skin of Charlie’s back. 

“Nick,” Charlie sighs when they finally part again, white-hot desire removing most of his capacity for language. He glides his thumb over the skin of his neck. “Can I..?”

“Yeah,” Nick replies, resting further back on the desk to improve the angle. “God, yeah, please.” 

Charlie wraps one arm around Nick’s waist completely, and slides the other into his hair to direct the direction of his head, moving down to kiss the line of Nick’s jaw, then his neck. He lets his teeth graze over the chain, before moving past it to pull the collar of his shirt back and suck a mark on his collarbone. Nick groans, and slides his hands into the back pockets of Charlie’s jeans to pull him closer. Charlie presses up against him and feels Nick’s thighs tighten around his waist.

Suddenly, someone is hammering on the door, and the unexpected noise makes them jerk apart in shock. Charlie had forgotten anyone else was even here. Judging by Nick’s dazed look, he had too. “Charlie!” comes Darcy’s voice, “we’re about to head to the union. Come on, birthday boy!”

Charlie strides across the room and rips open the door. He sees Darcy’s eyes widen as they take in Charlie’s rumpled hair, and Nick’s very much untucked t-shirt. “Darce, I don’t think we’re going to come to the club.” He glances back at Nick, who nods his agreement with such enthusiasm that Charlie thinks his brain must rattle with it. “Yeah, we’re not coming to the club. Sorry.”

With that, he closes the door on Darcy’s gleeful face, taking care to lock it again, and hears them shout to the rest of the group — “They’re being gay. Roll out!” — followed by the cacophony of everyone leaving, and the sudden silence when the front door finally shuts behind them.

Charlie turns back around and moves over to where Nick is waiting for him, now standing in the middle of the room. “Right, then,” Nick says, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s waist again. “Where were we?”

“Hmm, I dunno,” Charlie replies, feigning confusion as he rests his palms up between Nick’s shoulder blades. “You might have to remind me.”

Nick leans down and does just that. Charlie was right: they do barely fit in his shitty, single bed. Somehow, though, they make it work. 

It’s the best birthday Charlie’s ever had.