Chapter Text
Nick
Nick is dreaming of sand. He’s loved beaches as long as he can remember. Not the pebbly shores in England, but Mediterranean sand—warm and silky, that you could squish between your toes, or pick up by the handful, and watch as it fell and drifted in the wind. He adored the sensation of it, smooth in scoopfuls, then gritty when rubbed against skin. He appreciated its versatility: how it could be shaped when it was wet and was impervious to control when it was dry. Every year growing up, he used to build sandcastles with his brother, before David turned into a total arsehole. Some of his earliest, happiest memories are from their yearly holidays to Menorca. As he grew older, he connected in a different way; there was something primal and timeless about these beaches—a bridge between the past and the future. When Nick was old enough to philosophise, he would watch the sand sprinkle through his fingers, and imagine it was his time on earth unspooling. Each grain a moment so insignificant it was forgotten before it had settled, coalescing through sheer numbers into his life. Change, like the piles he would create, were gradual: an accumulation of them shaping who he was, gathering a personality trait here and eroding one there. Subject to the whims of nature: wind, waves, errant feet.
Sometimes, when he sifted through the grains, he would find something unique: a pretty piece of shell, a bit of sea glass, a shark’s tooth. These, thought his teenage brain, (the one filled with Marvel and the multiverse), are the memorable moments, the ones that stand out from the indistinguishable millions. They’re the change points when who you are could diverge in numerous directions if a different decision was made or a moment was missed or delayed. These were the ones that hit like a burst of fireworks or a bomb detonating. Experiences that seared an afterimage into neurons, like the day he first played rugby and discovered a love outside of his family. Or the ones, like his dad leaving, that strike like an earthquake, so profound was the divide in him between before and after. Others, he mused, have a rippling impact, irrevocably altering the landscape of his life in slow, relentless waves. As he matured, he thought of attending Leeds like that. It’s where he befriended Tara and Darcy. It’s where he gained enough confidence to come out as bisexual. It’s where he met Marjorie.
Nick Nelson’s dream visions of sparkling water and sunlit shores morphs into stormy skies, violent waves, and a quagmire of quicksand sucking at his feet. The squelching as he tries to free himself becomes an offensive, blaring sound, which eventually resolves into his alarm as he’s ripped from the dream-turned-nightmare. He blinks the image away. He only wishes he were at the beach, stormy or otherwise. Long months stretch ahead of him until his and his mum’s yearly holiday. Instead, he’s in his boring bedroom, the tangle of his navy sheets and duvet an indication of just how poorly he slept.
He sluggishly trudges through the motions of his morning routine. It’s his sixth day in a row headed to the spa, having picked up a shift from a co-worker, Elia, who needed someone to cover. The shift on offer was overbooked at six hours of massage—Nick doesn’t like handling more than five, and even that is grueling when the shifts are consecutive. The massages suffer, he suffers. He likes Elia though and wanted to help, and his damnable people-pleasing heart couldn’t say no.
Then, because the universe decided to give him the two-fingered salute, Marjorie had called him out of the blue the night before, sloshed. Nick, big idiot that he is, had picked up the call in a moment of weakness. As he sits on the tube, the conversation replays in Nick’s stupidly tired brain, a loop of recriminations and regret.
“Nick I’m so glad you picked up,” she slurred at him.
“Is everything ok?” he asked hesitantly. It’d been months since a call.
“I just don’t understand, Nicksy, you have to help me understand,” she sobbed. He hated that nickname, His skin crawled hearing it.
“I’m not sure what’s hard to understand, Marjorie. I wasn’t happy anymore.” That was a fucking understatement, but there’s no point in getting into it.
“But we were so good together.” Nick almost laughed, but he’s never been intentionally cruel.
“We weren’t good together at the end,” he replied instead, overcome by a wave of tiredness.
“We were happy…”
Nick sighed, a long, hissing exhale of frustration. They’d been through all of this before, too many times to count. “At one point, Marjorie, but not for a long time.”
“We coulda fixed it if you hadn’t given up,” she sniffled and hiccupped. “Don’t you miss what we had—” she drops her voice, “—physically? I miss your hands."
Nick didn't want to think of Marjorie in that way. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he could hardly stand to be with her in the end, but he held himself in check.
“Marjorie, it’s been a year. I’m sorry you’re still hurting but I can’t keep doing this. I’m not going to pick up next time.”
“Please, Nicksy, I still love you.”
His anger unfurled. “No, you don’t. Not the real me anyway.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel!” she retorted, voice rising.
“You could never accept that I was bi!” He hated that he’d raised his voice to match her volume, that his blood pressure was rising, that he let himself be drawn into the same dead-end argument every time.
“You always bring that shit up!” Marjorie scoffed. “What did it fucking matter? You were in a relationship with ME! Why did you always have to make that a thing?!” The word ‘that’ dripped with disgust.
And it had only gone downhill from there.
The morning is a bleary blur. He arrives at work, greets a few co-workers, and starts his day. It drags on, until he is certain he has entered some sort of time warp where every second lengthens and multiplies. Rugby has taught him to compartmentalise, and he utilizes those skills to push through hour by hour, but it’s tough. None of these are his usual clients, one of them is particularly vexed that it’s Nick instead of Elia, and by this last appointment, fatigue is chipping away at the cracks in his composure, threatening to swallow him whole.
Nick sways on his feet on his side of the couple’s massage room, weary to his core. There’s no chairs, and he’s tempted for a moment to just slide down the brick wall onto the grey, laminate tiles. His brain has inconveniently chosen today to review his life choices and find them wanting. Some combination of his lingering dream, fatigue and regret have scraped away his normal defences to float through the day. His breaks and lunch, instead of offering respite, have given his thoughts time to spiral. He keeps assessing those moments of profound change in his life. He wonders who he would be if he (or others, like his father and brother) had chosen differently. Would those other iterations of Nick be recognizable to him? Would those Nicks experience the same ennui and despair at 24, to be in this job that they never wanted, hardly recognizing who they've become, their lives slipping through fingers and piling up behind them in scattered heaps? Or would they be living better, more fulfilling lives doing a job they loved, being with someone they loved?
He resists the urge to collapse completely, rubbing his hands vigorously against his face.
Darcy peeks around the privacy screen from her half of the room. She’s an ivory-skinned, spiky-blond explosion of a woman, and one of his favourite people. He’s grateful at least that she’s the other massage therapist for this upcoming session. “Nick knack you look knackered. Nick knackered!”
“I don’t have energy for bad puns today,” he groans at her unwarranted delight. The massage table beckons invitingly, and he leans his hands on it for support, inhaling deeply, trying to draw up energy from long depleted reserves. He generally likes to spend his breaks checking everything. Now, he relies on those that came before. He can smell that the aromatherapy diffusers are on and he hopes there’s enough oil to last. The instrumental wellness playlist is running and he thinks there’s enough songs to last an hour (Darcy calls it mind numbing auditory torture, but Nick finds it relaxing when he isn’t fighting the urge to fall asleep standing up). He can tell the lights are dimmed, and the sheets appear at least perfunctory clean and properly folded. The space isn’t as tidy as he’d normally like, but it’s probably not noticeable to others. Not enough for him to move, anyway.
“Rough day?” Darcy asks sympathetically.
“Rough night. Marjorie called.”
Darcy narrows her eyes at him and puts a hand on her hip. “Nicholas Luke Nelson, I thought you blocked that biphobic bitch the last time she called you sobbing drunk!”
He groans. “I know, I know. I was going to and then I just worried if there was an emergency or something…”
“Then she’s someone else’s problem! One of the benefits of you dumping her sorry arse a YEAR ago! You are entirely too nice for your own good.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Nick mumbles, head drooping lower between his shoulders. He’s tempted to slide his arms and head onto the massage bed and figure out how to meld with it. Or curl his 6’2” frame under the table for a nap. The impulse is so strong he has to lock his muscles to fight it.
“Give me your phone.” He can see in his periphery that Darcy is sticking her hand out, palm up.
“It’s in the break room,” he mutters.
“Ok, well, when this massage is done, I’m watching you block her. No more of this shit!” Darcy is shaking her head in obvious disgust. “Unreal, Nelson, unreal.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already kicked myself about the whole damn night.”
“Well, you’ve got about five minutes to pull yourself together before this last massage.” Darcy softens a little. “Almost to the finish line.” She smiles mischievously. “And I knoooooow how much you like to–”
“No, no, stop,” Nick interrupts, huffing out a sound in his throat approximating a laugh. “Wherever you’re going with that, just don’t.”
It gives him that bit of energy he needs, though, to push himself off the massage bed. He steps to the rolling side table to pick up the client form. It covers any previous injuries and health problems, massage and pressure preference, special requests, etc. etc. Nothing stands out. Earlier, he and Darcy had decided they would split the couple by massage type, since the clients hadn’t requested a particular therapist. Darcy’s half of the couple had asked for a Hot Stones Massage. Nick could do them, but he always found them a faff, and Darcy didn’t mind. The other man had just asked for Relaxation, so it was an easy enough way to sort them. He stares at the name on the form to commit it to at least his short-term memory, though his mind is dull and resistant to complying. Charlie Spring. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, he repeats in his head.
“Who’s your person?” Nick asks.
“Ben Hope,” Darcy replies.
Ok, he’s got this, he can remember two names. Ben and Charlie. Charlie and Ben. He tosses the form back on the table and starts to stretch. He pulls his right arm over his head, trying to loosen muscles too tight from overuse and the anxiety of his personal life. It’s hard to give a decent massage if your shoulders are bunched at your neck. He’s distracted mid-stretch by the poster of pride flags on the brick wall to the right of his massage table. Darcy’s half has the Progress Pride flag, but he’s always loved looking at the poster, trying to commit each individual set of colours to memory. They were visual reminders of the venue’s queer-friendly space. It wasn’t technically only for queer people, but with the name Rainbow Oasis, in a place as posh as Hampstead, it had gained a reputation, and most of the staff and customers were part of the alphabet community.
“Crap!” Darcy exclaims, startled. “Nick, we’re actually late, we should get up there.”
Darcy’s anxious voice jolts him from his reverie. She’s bouncing on her toes, and Nick realizes he’s completely zoned out mid-stretch. He looks at the clock and sees it’s just ticked 3 minutes past 6. Shit. It’s a role reversal—normally it’s Nick ensuring they’re on time when they work together, and he usually likes to be early when they greet the clients in reception.
“Yeah, alright,” he nods. “Sorry.” He drops his arm from its never completed stretch, takes a final deep breath, rolls his shoulders and follows her out of the room down a long, narrow hall, plastering a large smile on his face. He hears the voices before they even open the curtain.
“You really don’t need to stand,” comes Liddy’s Scouse accent. “They’ll be out in just a minute.”
“Well, they’re almost five minutes late and I would expect them to be waiting for us for the bloody amount of money this costs—”
Nick’s fake smile slides off his face, and he exchanges a glance with Darcy before they push through the curtain to reveal themselves to the man with the irate voice.
Liddy, their receptionist, turns to them with relief. They are stylish as always, dark hair shaved on the left side and tipped blue at the edges, with a septum piercing and several earrings along their ears, pale skin showing off their many tattoos.
“Aaah, here they are. Mr. Hope, Mr. Spring, this is Nick and Darcy, your massage therapists.” Liddy does an unnecessarily grand hand gesture towards them.
Nick assesses the man standing in front; the other half of the couple is almost entirely hidden. The angry voice belongs to a tall, slim man in bespoke clothing, with pristine sandy skin, perfectly coiffed, highlighted brown hair, and manicured nails. He looks to be early to mid-20s, a similar age to Nick. His hazel eyes are sharp and commanding. Even without the man acting like a total git, there is something about him that ruffles all the tiny hairs on the back of Nick’s neck, setting off his lizard brain. He wonders if it’s Charlie or Ben.
Darcy is uncharacteristically quiet, her lips pursed, and since Nick is the one who’s responsible for them being late, he decides to take charge.
“Sorry about that Mr. ahhhh—”
“Hope,” says the man with a sneer.
“Mr. Hope,” Nick repeats, racking his brain for which first name that belongs to. He hears Darcy give a not-so-subtle sigh and realises this must be Ben. He tries not to show his relief that this arsehole isn’t his client. He’ll hear an earful about it from Darcy later.
“Terribly sorry we’re a few minutes late, but we’ll be sure to make that up to you on the other end.” Nick tries to sound pleasant, though his mind is somewhere between ‘fuck you’ and ‘go fuck yourself.’ He’s too tired to think of creative insults.
“Some of us have appointments to keep,” Ben replies in a clipped manner. “And therefore we’ll not be able to stay any longer than the slot booked. I expect some sort of compensation for this delay.”
His overly posh accent is a cheese grater on Nick’s nerves. He knows he's late, but it’s hard to be contrite when the man is being such a massive twat. However, the client is always right, or some shit like that, so he turns to Liddy and widens his eyes. “I’m sure Liddy can sort something out.”
“Of course,” they agree easily. “We’ll figure out what to do for the err, missing minutes.”
“Can we get different masseuses perhaps?” Ben asks, a curl to his lips as he narrows his eyes at Nick, who wonders if the word choice is an intentional slight or just ignorance. “Since these two can’t bloody be on time.”
“Unfortunately, we’re fully booked,” Liddy responds calmly. “You can, if you want, cancel the massage without the usual cancellation fee.” Nick thinks that sounds like a fantastic idea. He’d love nothing more than to go home an hour early, fall onto his bed, and sleep for the next two days.
Ben opens his mouth to argue again when a soft voice emanates from behind him. Nick can see the other half of the couple has reached out to curve long, thin fingers around Ben’s forearm. “It’s ok, Ben,” the voice says gently, a complete contrast to ‘the maggot’ as Nick dubs him in his head. “Please, let’s just enjoy the massage. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness.” There is something about the cadence and tenor of the still-hidden man’s voice that Nick finds soothing, an instant balm to his frazzled nerves.
The maggot tenses for a moment, then relaxes. “Fine, I expect appropriate compensation.”
Poor Darcy, having to touch that git for an hour. “Right, well, let’s not lose any more time then,” Nick says briskly, before the maggot can protest again. He turns abruptly, sweeping an arm to indicate they should follow. He realizes he and Darcy haven’t properly introduced themselves, but it seems like a minor offense to add to this already disastrous start. Darcy follows behind without a word. It’s very unlike her to remain so quiet, but he thinks perhaps it’s because if she says anything, it will be an insult, and she values her job.
He still hasn’t really caught sight of the second man. In fact, until he reaches the door to the massage room, he isn’t certain the couple has followed them. But when he steps out of the way so Darcy can pass him, the maggot is there, with the other man still obscured behind him.
“Mr. Hope, Darcy will be your massage therapist.” Nick waves his hand towards the left side of the room. She’s standing by her little side table at the front, still visible. Ben steps to the left to join her.
“Mr. Hope, it’s so GREAT to meet you,” Darcy enthuses, with such over the top, forced vigour that Nick watches in fascination. Darcy rarely needs to feign excitement, and the result is manic. “Now, lets briefly go over your questionnaire before I leave you to change!”
It takes a moment for Nick to pull his attention away from the over-energetic train wreck to address his own client, who is still standing hesitantly in the doorway staring at his Converse.
When Nick finally registers the man before him, his intake of air is completely involuntary. He has a wave of déjà vu, that he has lived this before, knows this person, although his logical brain denies this fact. The man standing in front of him is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. If he’d met him before, he would have remembered, yet he can’t shake the feeling of knowing him.
Thick, curly, dark hair frames the most elfin features: olive skin, sharp cheeks and chin, a thick shock of eyebrows, long lashes. His lithe frame is in tight, black skinny jeans (not the kind of easy on/off garment Nick would normally recommend wearing to a massage) and an oversized blue knit jumper. It seems warm for an April outfit, but it lends itself to the man’s ethereal vibe. His whole presence stirs Nick, so that his skin is tingling from head to foot. Instinctually he knows that this is one of those lightning moments in his lives. Whether he is incinerated by it or rises from it whole and new isn’t yet certain.
The other man seems nervous, fiddling with his jumper hem and avoiding looking at Nick, who realises that he’s just been staring at Charlie without saying anything for entirely too long. Luckily, no one else has noticed as the maggot seems too distracted by Darcy’s mile a minute speech. Apparently, he has a long list of notes on his questionnaire to discuss.
Nick finally kickstarts his ability to vocalise. “Please come in Mr. Spring,” he invites, pulling the man’s last name from the recesses of his tired memory. “I’ll be your massage therapist today, Nick.”
“Hi Nick,” Charlie replies softly, eyes travelling slowly upwards, finally meeting Nick’s own, widening slightly when they do. They are a mesmerising, cerulean blue, ringed darker around the edges, their starburst pattern guiding him inwards. Nick finds himself sinking into their depths, wanting to know everything about this man. The moment exists outside of time, the rest of the world falling away, intent, blue eyes his only tether to the earth. Charlie breaks the spell by casting his gaze downward again, and taking a few, hesitant steps inside. Nick struggles to pull himself out of his daze, realising once again he’s paused for too long. He’s never been so unmoored by a client before. He’s always had a strong ethic of professionalism and been keenly aware of the power dynamics between a massage therapist and their client. He does his best to shove the complicated feelings that have arisen into the back of his brain and to pretend they don’t exist. He forces himself once again to speak.
“I saw you didn’t have any special requests, is that correct?” Nick asks. Charlie doesn’t answer at first and Nick repeats the question.
Charlie looks up at him again briefly, breathing a little erratic, tensing.
“Oh, um, is it ok if I keep a t-shirt on?”
“Of course,” Nick responds immediately, at the same time he realises the other side has finished their discussion and is listening in on them.
“Charlie, don’t be ridiculous,” comes the scoffing voice of The Maggot™. “It’s a massage, of course you should take your shirt off. You’re the only one who cares about your scars.”
Charlie flinches and shrinks, scrunching up the hem of his jumper in both fists, his breathing stuttering again.
A visceral dislike for Ben Hope erupts inside Nick, larger than before, rising thick and ugly. His muscles tighten involuntarily, but instead of addressing Ben, he turns back to Charlie, consciously gentling his voice.
“Of course you can leave your t-shirt on. It’s totally what you’re comfortable with.”
Charlie looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world but here. His breathing is deteriorating, and Nick fights the urge to put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, which would be unprofessional and likely unwelcome.
Ben pipes up from the other side again. “You know, I think maybe Dory here should work on Charlie. I’m not sure he’ll be comfortable with you.” Ben pops his head around the divider, looking pointedly at Nick.
A spike of alarm shoots through Nick that he doesn’t take time to assess nor allow in his voice. “Unfortunately, Darcy’s specialty is the hot stones,” Nick replies evenly, with a shrug. “My specialty is the relaxation massage.”
Darcy has also stepped into view and shoots Nick a glare before backing him up. “Yep, I may be a lesbian but I’m great with rocks. It’s my specialty! Stones, stoners, getting stoned—pretty much all things stone related!”
Nick winces internally at her response, but outwardly shrugs again.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with this spa?” Ben asks, almost to himself.
Charlie has found his breath again. “It’s fine, Ben, let’s just please get on with it.” Ben gives him a hard look and when he doesn’t immediately respond, Charlie whispers again, “Please.” The fragile tone of his voice is so vulnerable, Nick cannot imagine ever refusing him anything. The maggot is not so easily swayed, dragging out the moment afterwards for an uncomfortably long time. No one speaks, and Nick finds himself unable to breathe, until the maggot throws his arms in the air, exasperated but capitulating. “Oh for fucks sake, fine.” He jabs a finger at Nick, who remains purposefully blank. “But do NOT expect a good review from us.”
“You haven’t even had a chance to experience the pleasure of my hot stones,” Darcy chirrups. “I’m sure I can change your mind. Now! Nick and I are gonna head out for a bit so the two of you can disrobe!”
Nick is reluctant to leave Charlie alone with the maggot, but he realises that’s a ridiculous thought since it’s a couple’s massage and they’re a couple. He tries to give Charlie another reassuring look before he finally, against every screaming instinct, drags himself out of the room. As the door closes, he hears the maggot.
”Charlie, it’s time you get over your little hang ups. It’s as if you try to ruin everything I do for you.”
Nick and Darcy step away from the door a respectful distance and Nick blows out a breath as Darcy fake retches. “Eugh, can’t believe I said the words pleasure and disrobe to him. What a fucking twatwaffle.”
“A total cunt,” Nick vehemently agrees.
“Hey, that’s an insult to vaginas,” Darcy protests.
“What do you think twat means, Darce?”
“Oh, right. How about: he’s a fucking ball sack, or…or a ball sack filled with smegma?”
Nick wrinkles his face in disgust. “It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
“A ballsack would never roll off my tongue,” Darcy replies promptly.
Nick shakes his head, not in the mood to joke anymore. “Fuck, Darce, did you see his partner, Charlie? He looked scared.”
“I didn’t get a great look at him, you’re looming himbo body was kinda in the way. Thanks for throwing me under the bus there when smegma sack wanted us to switch.”
“Sorry. I—I had to stay with Charlie,” Nick replies helplessly, squeezing his fists. “I hated leaving him alone in there with that wanker.”
“Awww, Nick Knack, you’re looking all protective.” Darcy pats him affectionately. “It’s a shame anyone is in a relationship with that shit-spooge but there’s nothing you can do. Let’s just get through this hour and hope we never have to see Mr. Hopeless again. And that he doesn’t get us fired.”
Nick inhales another deep breath to try and ease his nerves, rolling his shoulders again. Somewhere between the confrontations with the maggot and meeting Charlie, his fatigue has receded, rinsed away by the adrenaline that now circulates within him, so that everything around him is sharper, louder and more present. He knocks and opens the door to the dimly lit couple's room.
They part to their respective sides and Nick assesses Charlie. He is face down on the massage table, under the sheet, which is pulled up to his ears. Nick can see, even with Charlie’s face pressed into the headrest, that his eyes are tightly screwed shut and that he holds every muscle clenched. It’s like looking at a frightened and caged animal and slivers of his heart peel away and shatter.
Nick kneels by the side of the table near the curly-haired man’s head. “Charlie,” he whispers hoping that only the intended recipient can hear him. “This massage is supposed to be relaxing but if you’ve changed your mind and don’t want one, that’s totally fine. I don’t have to touch you at all.”
Charlie rotates his head towards the sound of Nick’s voice, resting his right cheek on the left edge of the headrest, bringing his lips within inches of Nick’s own. He relaxes his eyes enough to open them. His pupils are dilated in the low light, edged by a darker blue. Nick finds them entirely captivating.
“We don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Nick adds gently, and because they are so close, his breath blows a few of the hairs that have strayed from a curl that lays on Charlie’s cheek.
Charlie takes a stuttering breath but doesn’t break eye contact. It should be strange, the amount of time they’ve maintained each other’s gaze, but it’s not. There’s an intimacy to it, a familiarity, that same strong sense of déjà vu diffusing through Nick. He holds himself in check, fights his body’s urge to close even the slight distance between them. Not to kiss, but to hold, protect, comfort.
“He’ll ask,” Charlie whispers. “And he’ll know if I lie. He always knows.”
Nick wants to say so many things. You have to leave that arsehole. What are you doing with him? Get away from him. Let me help you. Please. But none of these are appropriate and Nick’s heart is in his throat blocking any words. He feels like a pawn in a sick and twisted head game, helpless to remove himself from it. He won’t force his touch on someone, but if he refuses to give the massage, he knows instinctively Charlie will pay for it in some way. He’s never hated anyone before, not even his brother or bastard ex. But in this moment, he hates Ben Hope.
The emotions rising in Nick put pressure on his tear ducts. He realises that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to cry. He stands abruptly and Charlie flinches defensively, eyes squinched shut again. Nick stops his brain from drawing connections as to why Charlie would startle at sudden movements.
“I’ll start with your feet if that’s ok?” he asks, voice cracking. Charlie nods, eyes still tightly shut. Nick drops his voice again. “We’ll go from there, and you can let me know if you're comfortable with me continuing anywhere else.”
Nick is determined to be more careful in his movements, slowly walking to the small shelf where he keeps the massage oils. Usually, he asks whether clients prefer the lavender or the eucalyptus. But this time he selects the rarely used bergamot. It smells similar to the citrusy soap he uses, a scent that’s always soothed and brightened him, so he rarely uses it here, not wanting to ruin it for himself. Today, however, he decides it's the right choice. He snicks the cap open and pours a little into his hand, spreading it between his palms.
Normally Nick would hold his hands under the person’s headrest, giving them a chance to inhale the scent before he uses it. But he doesn’t think Charlie will appreciate large hands so close to his face and Nick decides to skip this step. He absolutely loathes that his presence inspires such fear in the other man. He keeps shutting down the portion of his brain asking why and what did that bastard do in favour of the immediate—what he can do to ease Charlie’s fear and suffering, if only temporarily. Which is why, rather than the traditional route the massage would take, rolling down the sheet and starting with his back, he’s asked to start with Charlie’s feet. The foot has a lot of pressure points that can lead to extreme relaxation if his client is open to it. If necessary, he will spend whatever remains of this hour focused solely on them.
Nick rolls back the barest minimum of the sheet to expose Charlie’s feet, leaning over to gently touch the left with his now oily hands. This one is delicate, like the rest of its owner, with long, elegant toes. And like its owner, it is effortlessly beautiful. For a moment, he just holds the foot, feeling how cool it is to the touch even though they keep the rooms warm for comfort. He allows Charlie to become used to his hands, and then, with gentle pressure, pushes into the depression beneath the ball of his foot, rubbing in an upward motion to above the heel. He eventually moves from there to the instep, and then on to each toe, and the ankle and Achilles. He lavishes this foot with more attention and care than he would normally, knowing that this massage is going to differ completely from any other. He can see Charlie incrementally unwinding as he slowly begins to trust in Nick’s sure touch.
He adds more oil to his hands and moves to the right foot, and hears Charlie’s soft sigh and his muscles and breathing further relax under Nick’s dedicated ministrations. Each exhale of contentment is a victory that spurs Nick on. When he is done, Nick rolls the sheet over Charlie's feet, then kneels by his head again. Charlie looks at him more readily this time, the tension he had been holding drained from him.
“Are you ok with a hand massage next?” Nick whispers.
Charlie nods, and again they hold eye contact for longer than should feel comfortable.
Charlie’s left hand emerges from the sheet. Nick quickly adds another dollop of oil to his hand before picking it up. Charlie’s eyes follow his movements. Nick stands there, just resting the weight in his own hands for a moment, ensuring Charlie is still ok with his touch. Something sparks within him as he holds Charlie’s hand, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Charlie’s lips are parted slightly and his eyes flutter closed. Nick finally looks at the hand he’s now holding. It’s as graceful as the rest of Charlie. Once again Nick uses his emotional and physical intuition to ‘plug in’ to Charlie, learning his nuances, in the way he breathes or sighs or twitches his muscles. He concentrates on his movements, gently digging his thumbs into Charlie's palm, under the joint of his thumb working outward, up each long, thin finger and in between. When he’s done he carefully places Charlie’s hand down where it now loosely cups the side of the massage table. Then he adds more oil and moves around to the other side to pick up the right hand which has pre-emptively emerged for him. He gives it the same close attention.
After, he once again kneels, this time on Charlie’s right, so that he can speak so that only Charlie may hear. Charlie rotates his head as if he can sense Nick’s presence, eyes opening and locking on Nick’s. The air is thick with the scent of bergamot, and a charge of something between them that Nick can’t define. It’s disturbed slightly by hearing Ben across the divider cry out.
“Ow, those bloody stones are hot!”
“You get the best effect when they’re this warm, trust me it will be super relaxing in a minute!” Darcy chirps.
“Are you ok next with a head and neck massage next?” Nick breathes to Charlie.
Again, a nod.
“For this you would need to turn over and scootch down so you’re off the headrest. I can turn around,” Nick adds, when he sees Charlie hesitate.
“Ok,” comes his whisper quiet reply. Nick rotates so that Charlie can have privacy to situate himself.
He studies the grout in the brick wall, tracing the lines with his eyes, as he listens to the rustle of Charlie behind him. For a moment his skin prickles, as if he’s being watched. Then more rustling, and another quiet: “ok.”
Nick turns back around. Charlie is now face up on the table, below the headrest, his eyes closed. The sheet is still in place, but it’s no longer pulled up past his chin. Nick can now see the line of Charlie’s long neck and Adam's apple. Nick breathes out, focusing only on his work, pushing everything else aside.
He begins to dig his fingers into Charlie’s scalp, picking up his head when necessary to access the occipital region and neck, and into the tops of his shoulders. The silky strands of Charlie’s hair curls around his fingers but he sets that thought aside, instead seeking out pressure points that Nick knows will release tension and stress. He pulls gently on his neck, then rubs his fingers against his scalp. He can see in the subtle change of expression on Charlie’s face that Nick is touching all the right places. Charlie has gone from fully relaxed, to blissful.
When Nick’s done, he grabs a pillow from the side and carefully manoeuvres Charlie’s head onto it. Charlie opens his eyes, and now their gazes are locked upside down. Nick leans over him from behind, hands leaned on the massage table above Charlie’s shoulders on either side of his head, still speaking as quietly as he can manage. “Are you ok if I massage your legs next?” he asks.
He sees Charlie tense again.
“It’s ok to say no,” he reminds him.
Once again Charlie holds his gaze—and his breath—before expelling it in a puff. “If you could just stay below my boxer line,” he whispers nervously.
“Of course.” Nick thinks another moment. “How about I just stick to your calves? Would that be more comfortable?”
Charlie nods, relieved, and then closes his eyes. Nick stares down a moment longer, noticing the smoothness of his olive skin in the soft glow of the dim lights, the curve of his nose, the bow of his sensual, pink lips, his sharp Adam’s apple and the line of his long neck, leading to his exposed clavicle. Nick’s eyes trace the dips and shadows, continuing to the very top of his chest where the blanket has shifted down slightly more, revealing sparse curls of dark chest hairs and the top of a brown areola. Nick steps abruptly away to the opposite end of the massage bed. This man is in his care and he’s in a position of power and he’s desperate to be gentle, and kind, and show him respect. Spending too much time looking at his body and nipple is doing the opposite. Nick berates himself once again, and shoves it all aside.
Only then does it dawn on him. Charlie doesn't have a t-shirt on. Fuck. That fucking maggot bastard must have pressured him.
Focus.
Cautiously, watching Charlie for any sign of discomfort, he rolls the blanket slowly up to his knees. Then he adds more of the oil to his palms. Nick breathes in the bergamot saturated air to help calm himself.
He treats Charlie’s calves to the same level of care as the other parts of his body, digging and kneading, soothing and smoothing. When he’s done with this, rolling the sheet back down, they only have another ten minutes to go. Nick thinks about what else might be safe.
He kneels again to the left of the bed, to put himself at Charlie’s level, who rolls his head to make eye contact. There is so much depth and vulnerability there.
“Charlie,” he whispers. “Are you ok with me massaging part of your arms? I noticed um...you decided not to keep a t-shirt on, but maybe I could just massage the parts that would normally be exposed?”
Charlie lets loose a ragged exhale, and a tear slides out of his left eye, running sideways across his nose. “Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. "Ok."
“Oh Charlie,” Nick breathes, the words issued without conscious thought, and his impulse is to reach out and brush his thumb against Charlie’s face to wipe off his tear, to push back a curl that has partially fallen in front of his eye. To show him tenderness and care, to protect him from the monster that is only a flimsy divider away.
Charlie’s gaze lowers momentarily towards Nick’s lips and then back up to his eyes. Slowly he wriggles his right arm out from under the sheet, so that it shows to halfway up his bicep.
“That’s ok, then,” he says, whispery soft.
Nick takes his arm reverently. He starts kneading as Charlie’s eyes drift closed again. Nick continues slowly upwards to the top of the slight man’s forearm when Charlie hisses and Nick instantly freezes his movement. With the dim lighting and Charlie’s olive skin, Nick is slow to realise that what he thought was a large vein under Charlie’s skin is, in fact, a faded, finger shaped bruise. Charlie has tensed under him again, but Nick doesn’t let go, instead gently rotating Charlie’s arm around to see the matching four bruises on the other side. Now Charlie pulls away hard, Nick releasing his arm as he slides it back under the sheet.
Nick is overtaken by a storm of emotions, and he has no idea what his face looks like when he locks eyes with Charlie again, who immediately flinches and rolls away, pulling himself into a tight ball.
Nick’s first instinct is to run around to the other side of the barrier, lift that fucking piece of rubbish off of the massage table, and repeatedly thrash him into the floor. He wasn’t keen on a GBH but it’s a struggle inside of Nick to wrestle his emotions under control. Instead of assault, he leans over to whisper close to Charlie’s ear.
“You have to leave him,” he says, quietly, but urgently.
“Can’t,” comes the choked reply.
“I can help you.” Even as the words slip from his mouth, he’s thinking how? He’s known Charlie less than an hour, has never experienced a physically abusive relationship, has no idea what he could possibly do.
Charlie doesn’t respond, only curling in further on himself.
Nick is frantic now, as the time ticks down on the last few minutes of the massage. He returns to the side table, and grabs one of the spa cards there, thinking to write his number down on it. Fuck, does he have a pen? Why doesn’t he have a pen? Then again, why would he have a pen?
He kneels by Charlie, whose eyes are still squeezed shut. “Charlie, my number, can you memorise it?”
Charlie’s eyes fly open, wide and bemused.
“0797….” Nick says his phone number in a rush, then repeats it. Even as the numbers fall from his lips, despair replaces hope that Charlie will be able to retain them after a couple of run throughs, and why the hell does he think giving his number will help in the first place?
He starts to repeat it a third time, anyway, because urgency pushes him to do something—anything. Charlie reaches out a hand to press a thin finger to his lips. The touch sears him, hot and cold shooting through him, cascading through nerves shot with tension and anxiety.
“I’ve got it,” Charlie whispers.
“Well that’s time!” Darcy exclaims, much louder than she would normally. There is palpable relief in her voice. Charlie withdraws his finger from Nick’s lips, and pulls it back under the covers. It takes Nick another moment before he can unlock his muscles to stand.
“We’ll uh—” he has to clear his throat, it feels lodged with sawdust. He and Charlie are staring at one another again.
“We’ll leave you to change,” Nick says loudly enough for the room to hear. “I hope you enjoyed your massage.” He stares for a moment longer, as Darcy is exiting, until Charlie drops their eye contact to motion with his head furiously towards the door.
Nick finally wills his muscles to move, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him, unable to look towards Ben. It feels like fleeing, like cowardice.
Darcy has already moved down the hall to the room where they usually wait for the guests to usher them out after. Nick stays by the massage room door, hand still grasping the knob, unable to pull himself further away. He hears the low rustle of people dressing, and Ben’s posh, ugly voice.
“That was the worst bloody massage I’ve ever received. The stones were too hot and she had no idea what she was doing. I’m going to leave this place a terrible review. And what the fuck were you and that dumb brute talking about? I heard you whispering. It’s not a bloody chat show. Was he hitting on you? Were you hitting on him?! I knew I shouldn’t have let him give you a massage.”
Nick’s hand squeezes the knob. He considers bursting back in there, and instead stands frozen with indecision.
“He was just being careful to ask what I liked. Ben, you know I only have eyes for you,” comes Charlie’s placating reply.
“You always flirt when we’re in public. It’s why I don’t like taking you out anymore,” Ben snipes.
He hears them moving closer to the door and before it can hit him, Darcy is forcefully pulling him back down the hallway. She only manages a few steps before the door flies open and Ben storms out. He barrels into Nick, who has drawn up to his full, imposing breadth and height.
“What are you bloody doing right in the middle of the hall?!” Ben asks angrily, shoving him to no effect.
“Sorry, I was just about to knock to see if you wanted any water or tea. We offer that to guests afterwards and I realise we never did offer you any.” It was true that they normally did, although he thought he was more likely to pour the scalding tea over Ben’s head than to offer it to him to drink.
“I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. Worst purchase of my life. Out of my way!” He glares at Nick, and then Darcy, who is standing just beyond Nick in the hallway. With Darcy’s hand pushing against his stomach, Nick flattens himself marginally against the wall, though Ben still has to squeeze past him. Not for the first time, but perhaps the most intensely he’s ever felt it, Nick is glad he's tall and has kept in shape. Nick glares at the back of Ben’s head, but his gaze immediately softens as Charlie walks past, head down, hands crossed into the opposite sleeves of his loose jumper. He's so slight, yet emits on Nick the gravitational force of a thousand suns. Nick can’t stop himself from reaching out, touching his shoulder, and Charlie glances back at him, blue eyes catching his own for one fleeting moment before he turns and slinks again after Ben. Nick's composure begins to crumble.
“Have a great day you two!” Darcy calls peppily. Nick automatically starts to follow them, trying to maintain Charlie in his sight after he passes through the curtain, but Darcy grabs his arm to hold him in place.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “They’re Liddy’s problem now.”
She meets Nick’s eyes and softens. “Come with me,” she says, firm but kind. She doesn’t release him until they’re safely in the small break room where they keep their personal items. She shuts the door behind them, blocking it with her body, as if she doesn’t trust him to stay put. She’s good at reading him. Most people are, he’s terrible at hiding his emotions.
“You’re down bad,” she remarks.
Nick wants to pace, but the room is too small, so it’s more like one step one way, one step the other, and deeply unsatisfying. The shattered feeling of watching Charlie leave reassembles itself into something hot and volatile. He’s so keyed up he pictures himself exploding, and has to resist the urge to punch a wall.
“He abuses him, Darcy. I saw bruises!”
“People can have bruises for other reasons,” she replies calmly.
“Fingerprints!”
“People can have bruises from rough, consensual sex. You can’t just assume.”
“I saw the way Charlie looked after I accidentally touched them. These weren’t consensual,” Nick says through gritted teeth. “He was scared of Ben.”
Darcy’s face is full of sympathy. “You’re probably right. That guy was a total fuckwit. But Nick, it’s not your problem.”
“So I should just let him continue hurting him?!” he asks incredulously, voice raising, hands waving wildly.
“Nick, calm down.”
She asks the impossible; his skin is on fire.
“Let’s close up and then we can get a pint and discuss it,” she offers. “This isn’t the place.”
“I don’t think I can stay here another second.” He pulls his collar away from his chest; his shirt is too tight, too hot.
“How about I close, and I’ll meet you at the Hollybush?”
“The Roebuck. I—I need to walk.”
“Ok. Won’t take me long—be there in thirty?”
Nick nods, not trusting himself to speak.
Darcy must have decided enough time has passed, because she opens the door and allows him to exit. He does, swiping his jacket from the hook. He stalks down the hallway, half hoping that Ben and Charlie are still in reception. But they’ve gone as if they’ve never been.
“Those two were something, huh?” Liddy muses as he storms past. Nick doesn’t reply, still seething. “Are you leaving already?” they ask.
He nods sharply without looking at them, which he knows is rude and out of character for him, but he’s a boiling kettle inside. He slams the glass door behind him harder than necessary and sweeps his gaze around, hoping to see Charlie, and at the same time having no idea what the hell he would do if he did. The pavement is empty, and as he looks, the sun, briefly visible, disappears behind a wall of grey clouds. It's fucking appropriate to his mood. As Nick stalks down Heath Street in the bracing air, he finally inhales his first proper breath in minutes. He begins a series of deep breaths as he turns and strides down the high street in Hampstead, his pace eating up the pavement underneath him. He barely registers anyone or anything else, including the Victorian church-turned-recording studio he normally admires catty corner to his turn down Pond Street. In no time at all he's at the white arches of the pub.
He feels better than when he left the spa, but still keyed up. He knows it will easily take Darcy another fifteen minutes, so he continues his frenzied pace past the pub, down the street, cutting into the entrance to the Heath, the sprawling park in Hampstead. The rain from earlier in the morning has stopped, though wet patches reflect the clouded sky and tops of the trees. He arrives into the Heath proper, at the start of the pond he occasionally visits to watch the geese, ducks, and swans, always having a soft spot for wildlife. Now, he stares blindly at the water, grabbing onto the dirty black railing. It’s blessedly empty of the rotating crowds of people that overfeed the waterfowl. There’s a swan and a few ducks that swim towards him, and gradually disperse when it’s clear he has nothing to offer. A few pigeons land at his feet and he hears a rustle in the hedges nearby that is probably a rat. That's more appropriate company for his mood.
Although it’s not yet sunset, the light is low and cloudy enough that he can see the dotted lights of the houses across the pond reflecting on the rippling water. In any other circumstance he would have found it all charming. Now he can barely register it, instead clutching the cold metal bar beneath him, trying to get a similar hold on his tumultuous thoughts. He stands there for an indefinite amount of time, blinded to everything but fragments of recriminations chasing themselves through his head.
I should have done more. I should have done something else. I should have beat the shit out of Ben. I shouldn’t have let Charlie leave with him. I should have helped Charlie somehow. I should have done more. And on and on in vicious repeat. The rage in him builds again, crawling under his skin, clawing to find a way out. It is contained only through kinesis, the clenching of muscles, the squeezing of fists, the stepping from foot to foot. The desire to smash and scream with no consideration for damage to others or himself boils at the surface. It's larger than him; he wonders how it is possible to cage something bigger than the universe within his body. His grip on the railing has blanched his knuckles of colour, and he realises he’s shaking. It is only the repeated buzzing of his phone in his pocket that snaps him free, the rage settling like sediment in his veins.
Chaos Demon (19:43): Where the hell you at Nick Knack?
Chaos Demon (19:43): I’m at the Roebuck and you most definitely aren’t here
Chaos Demon (19:44): Unless you’re hiding in the disabled toilet making out with someone. If so, carry on
Chaos Demon (19:46): The person who just left there clearly isn’t you so back to my original question
He breathes out a puff of air, dispelling the remaining anger with each breath, trembling muscles stilling, until he's able to text back.
Nick (19:48): Sorry, I’ll be there in a few minutes.
It doesn’t take him long to retrace his steps, though he does so at a more relaxed pace. He finds Darcy inside the pub in the back room, past the curved dark wood of the bar, with two pints waiting. It's a quiet Tuesday night, only one other pair sat in the same room. Nick slides into the seat across from Darcy at their small, dark wooden table, his large thighs bumping the bottom of it. He picks up his pint glass from the sticky tabletop and drains half the beer in one gulp, hoping it will settle his nerves.
“Not wasting any time, are you Nicky boy?”
“Only my mum calls me that,” he mutters.
“I’m your lesbian mum. So talk to me son,” Darcy orders.
“Did you really make the stones too hot?” Nick asks, a grudging note of admiration in his voice.
“Not hot enough that he’ll have the scars to prove it.” Darcy shrugs but is unable to hold in a grin. “Hot enough though to be distinctly uncomfortable. And it seems I forgot every single thing I learned about massage in the course of my many illustrious years of being a therapist. I figured I’d earn that bad review he promised to give us.”
A smile tugs at Nick's lips, an achievement considering his mood a few minutes ago. Leave it to Darcy to find humour even in the worst of times. “That prick deserved so much worse,” Nick says. “You should have seen how scared Charlie was.” Nick begins tensing again.
Darcy reaches across to lay a hand on his forearm. “Nick, I know it’s hard, and I know that guy was a massive douche, but his behaviour—how he treats his boyfriend or husband—is NOT your responsibility.”
“Oh my god, do you think they’re married?” Nick asks, all the blood leaving his face. He doesn’t know why, but the thought had never occurred to him before. He had just assumed boyfriends for no good reason at all.
Darcy shrugs. “I didn’t see any wedding rings but that doesn’t mean they’re not.”
Nick holds onto the hope that it does, indeed, mean something. The anger bubbles inside again.
“Dammit Darcy, I just feel like I should have done more!” His voice is too loud; the other couple glances at him before returning to their own hushed conversation.
Darcy leans in. “Nick, you’re a wonderful friend. You are kind and caring and protective, and goddess knows you make people feel safe. I can see that Charlie boy got under your skin and has all your protective papa bear instincts raised. But this isn’t your problem. It’s really not. It sucks that we both had to witness that, and I'm especially sorry that Charlie's in a relationship with someone who is such a massive tosser and likely abusive to boot. But ultimately Charlie needs to remove himself from that situation. You can’t take this on yourself.”
“But I should have done something,” he protests fiercely, helpless to explain his sense of responsibilty, or the intense connection he had with Charlie that has caused his surge of protectiveness.
“What do you think you could have done that isn’t going to get you banged up?”
“Prison might be worth it,” Nick mutters, fingers pressing unnecessarily hard into the sides of his glass. He gulps another long pull of beer, nearly finishing it.
“Nick in the Nick, now there’s a thought,” Darcy muses. “But what purpose would it serve to be in prison for the rest of your life?”
“If I murdered the bloody bastard I’m pretty sure it would serve Charlie.” He tries to pass it off as a joke but there’s a not so tiny part of him that’s serious.
Darcy raises an eyebrow. “You’ve known Charlie for an hour and you’re ready to throw away your own life for him?”
Nick shakes his head, not to say no, but perhaps to rattle loose the confused thoughts in his head.
“I know it sounds wild, Darcy. I know. But it was like—” he rolls his hands around in frustration trying to formulate what exactly it was like. “It felt like so much more than that,” he finishes ineloquently, realising he’s spouting nonsense.
Darcy’s gaze is piercing, but she doesn’t tease him, just nods slowly.
“Do you think you’ll see him again?” she asks.
“I gave him my phone number. Well, I told it to him, I have no idea if he was able to memorise it. Don’t think I’d be able to if the situations were reversed.”
Suddenly, all of the adrenaline that has been keeping him on high alert drains out of his system like a glass tipped over, and he slumps over the small table.
“I think I need to go home,” he says, depressed.
Darcy nods.
“Go easy on yourself, Nick Knack. That was a hard session. Sometimes people are shit and life is shit. So take a moment if you need it, but don’t beat yourself up. You did nothing wrong.”
His love and affection for Darcy swells. Nick tries to smile at her, but it's probably closer to a grimace.
“Thanks, Darcy. I sometimes forget how wise you are when you’re not being a total pain in the arse.”
“I’m always wise, especially when I’m being a pain in the arse. Besides, I thought you liked that kind of thing, Nicky boy.” She winks at him.
“You’re such a perv." He shakes his head fondly. They both stand at the same time and he gives her a big hug. Darcy squeezes him back affectionately, and they walk in companionable silence to the entrance of the pub.
“I’m taking the tube home. You?” she asks.
“I’m gonna walk the whole way. Just need the fresh air I think.” Normally he would ride with Darcy to provide companionship for her on the Northern Line until he had to exit at Camden and she continued on to Tottenham Court Road. But tonight he couldn’t stand the thought of being confined in a tunnel or in a stuffy, underground train.
It’s a short walk to the Belsize Park station in which neither Darcy nor Nick bring up Ben or Charlie, instead keeping the conversation light. Darcy doesn’t even prod him that he’s obviously distracted. They hug again at the entrance to the Underground, say their goodbyes, and Nick begins the remainder of his walk home, recriminations, worries, fears, and images of haunted blue eyes filling his fractured thoughts. Later, in the shower, tears mingling with scalding hot water, he screams and screams into his fists.