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Charlie is stood at the sink in their little kitchen, hands submerged in a sea of lemon scented bubbles, watching the first snow of the year begin to fall through the kitchen window in front of him. Their little yellow radio is perched on the windowsill, and he can vaguely make out the Beatles song playing through crackling static and running water. He hums along absentmindedly, watching the snow begin to settle and the window pane rattle gently in the frame, buffered by the wind.
It’s a Sunday that has begun like any other Sunday. It’s late November, freezing cold but bright and crisp, the optimism of Christmas peeking around the corner. The sun had come up that morning spilling brilliant pinks and golds against the sky. Nick had woken first to take their dog, Daisy, for a walk, Charlie snoozing for an extra half hour before getting up to deal with the washing up from the night before.
Simple, habitual, safe.
Mornings like this are his favourite, unhurried by the demands of the day for just a little while, basking in the cosy domesticity of life with his boyfriend of 15 years. Sunday mornings with Nick have evolved as they’ve grown up, hungover black coffees are now cups of milky tea, peeling off last night’s clothes and scrubbing off glitter are dressing gowns and feet warmed by the kitchen radiator.
It’s a life of soft edges and sleepy kisses, and Charlie wouldn’t change it for anything.
He’s washing up the last mug and rinsing the sink of bubbles when he hears keys jangle in the lock; he smiles to himself, making his way into the hallway to greet Nick, gone for all of 45 minutes and missed wholeheartedly for 44 of them.
Much to the bemusement of their friends, they’ve never quite shaken the clinginess that’s woven so intrinsically into their relationship. Somehow they both silently acknowledged it didn’t bother them years ago.
Nick and Daisy burst through the front door, all waggy tails and pink cheeks, a flurry of snow following them in as Nick struggles to shut the door against the wind.
He rubs his hands together wincing, ‘Jesus wept its fucking freezing out there.’
‘Good morning to you too’, Charlie says smiling, reaching out to pull his boyfriend into a hug, snuggling into the crevice between his shoulder and his neck and breathing in the spice of his cologne.
They stand there for a moment, until Charlie clocks something is off. Nick is roasting hot, to the point Charlie can register the difference in temperature through Nick’s thick coat and scarf. Strange, he’s just spent the best part of the last three quarters of an hour being blown about in a blizzard. Holding on to him is not dissimilar to how he’d imagine being microwaved to feel. It isn’t overly pleasant.
‘You’re fucking boiling’ he says into Nick’s shoulder, voice muffled against the fabric of the scarf wound around his neck. Charlie pulls out of the hug gently and plants both hands on his boyfriends shoulders, scooting back slightly to hold him at arm’s length.
They stand stationary for a second, Charlie squinting at Nick’s bemused face as his morning brain attempts to decode why his boyfriend might be averaging 3000 degrees centigrade at the arse end of a particularly chilly November.
‘Seriously Nick, are you feeling alright? Why are you boiling.’
He’ll be the first to admit his line of questioning is repetitive at best and annoying at worst, but it’s the best his awake-less-than-an-hour brain can cook up at this present moment.
Nick wriggles out of Charlie’s grasp, jamming his keys into his mouth and bending to unclip Daisy’s lead. ‘I’m not boiling, you’re just cold’, he replies, words muffled around his keys.
He straightens up, slinging both lead and keys into the bowl on the side before pulling off his coat and scarf, and hanging them on the peg by the door.
‘I had to drag the dog home, I forgot how much she hates getting her feet wet and I was not about to carry her a mile home, I think she forgets how heavy she is and let’s be real neither of are getting any younger.’
Charlie smiles but is not distracted. ‘Stop avoiding the question, why are you so warm?’
Nick seems to pay him no attention, ducking back down to untie his shoelaces and conveniently break eye contact. ‘It’s almost like she wants me to do my back in lugging her around over snow and ice and –‘
Charlie leans against the wall and rolls his eyes, they’re doing it like this then. ‘Nick. Babe. Earth to Nicholas.’
‘- slippy roads. I mean really it’s like that dog is out to get me, she -’
He’s cut off by Charlie bending down, grasping his hand and squeezing gently. ‘Darling, you ignoring my question is not making me worry any less.’
Nick finally meets his eyes, face arranged in a slightly guilty expression, teeth worrying his bottom lip.
It’s then that Charlie sees it, telltale signs of illness that Nick has never been able to hide in all instances of sickness Charlie has witnessed over the last 15 years. Shadowed eyes, ruddy cheeks, freckles standing out like pin pricks over pale skin. He’s poorly, but he hasn’t said anything, like he never ever says anything until Charlie discovers him covertly dosing up on ibuprofen or sleeping on the sofa in the middle of the day.
‘Nick for fucks sake.’ He’s annoyed, he registers with surprise. They have nothing planned for the day, Nick has no reason to hide this, his consistent aversion to being taken care of is grating, they’ve been doing this years and it still stings every time he has to fill in the gaps.
‘I don’t understand why we have to do this every single time.’ He stands and runs his fingers through his curls, a stress tick, he realises only after he’s done it. ‘How many times do I have to tell you you’re allowed to have a sick day? Why will you never let me take care of you?’
It's been a bone of contention for most of their relationship. Somehow Nick is always taking care of Charlie, handling him gently like he’s made of porcelain, receptive to every hairline fracture, every gust of wind. He rarely lets him return the favour.
Old habits die hard.
Nick’s appearance shifts, Charlie has hit a nerve. ‘I know I’m allowed to have a sick day I’m not a child.’
Charlie snaps back; ‘making a good case for that one are we?’
Nick’s frowning now, fingertips tapping together rapidly, something Charlie recognises as anxiety. ‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean’
‘We both know what it’s supposed to mean Nick.’
He turns, walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Lemon and ginger tea. One of them will be treating this mystery illness and it clearly will not be his boyfriend.
Nick follows him into the room and leans against the doorframe, watching Charlie fill the kettle and rummage around for teabags. ‘I think we should probably discuss this?’
‘Oh that’s novel’ Charlie snaps back, slamming a mug on the counter and dropping in a herbal tea bag.
He braces both hands on the counter, speaking to the marble counter top instead of to his boyfriend. ‘Nick Nelson discuss something? My god something really must be up’
Nick flinches as if stung, ‘that’s not fair’
The kettle boils and Charlie pours steaming water over the tea bag. ‘Oh for fucks sake don’t give me that Nick. What’s not fair is me having to force you to tell me when somethings bothering you. Let’s face it what isn’t fair is you taking the dog out when you’re clearly not very well but look where we are.’
Nick takes a step forward. ‘I wanted to take Daisy, I would have said something if I’d felt too ill to do it I-’
Charlie cuts him off, rage flurrying in his chest like a wild beast. ‘Nick it’s fucking snowing! I should have taken her!’
He’s getting worked up now, he can feel pink spots of rage glowing on his cheeks. ‘I don’t understand what could possibly be so terrible about telling me you’re not feeling great. This doesn’t have to be the end of the world. This is normal fucking part of life.’
He fishes the teabag out and spoons honey into the mug, thrusting it into Nick’s hands, who is stood frozen to the spot, face bewildered and pinched like a kicked puppy.
For some reason, today, this infuriates him.
Without thought, he continues, aiming in for the soft spot that he knows will hurt. ‘You know sometimes this is fucking exhausting. You are always. Always. The martyr. It’s always me that has to be the broken one, always me. You never let me help you. You always have to be perfect.’
His voice is cracking now and tears are spilling down his cheeks. He scrubs at his face fiercely, furious at his body for betraying him like this.
‘Do you understand that? Do you know what it feels like when you keep things from me? It makes me feel like you don’t trust me enough, like you don’t love me’
Nick takes a step back, reeling like he’s been punched, setting the mug down on the side so he can twist his fingers together, like he always does when he’s stressed.
When he replies his voice comes out in a stammer barely louder than a whisper, ‘do you really think that?’
Charlie pauses, forces himself to take a breath. ‘I just want to look after you’, he looks up at Nick with imploring eyes, ‘please’.
Then it’s quiet. They stand there just looking at each other. Tension palpable and bitter in the air surrounding them.
Nick breaks the quiet first. ‘I’m sorry’, he whispers, voice thready and uneven with restrained tears.
At that, all the fight floods out of Charlie. He looks at his boyfriend stood before him, chastised like a child, eyes brimming with tears, looking so small and hurt and poorly.
His heart breaks. He hates himself for being too harsh, too quick to anger, too ready to poke at a bruise that hurts them both.
‘Fuck no I’m sorry.’ He steps forward and pulls Nick into his arms, a hot face pressed into a shoulder, both of them swaying gently like a pendulum. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry’, he whispers into his hair, planting soft kisses on his crown between words.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Nick’s words are muffled against Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Sorry I was being stupid, I know it isn’t fair.’
Charlie shushes him, squeezing his shoulders gently. ‘I think it’s probably me that should be apologising sweetheart.’
Nick pulls out the hug and meets his gaze, eyes watery. ‘No let me.’ He reaches out for Charlie’s hand, rubbing a hand over his knuckles.
‘I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you I’m feeling rough, but I promise it has nothing to do with me not trusting you, or knowing that you want to take care of me.’
He blinks and a single tear streaks down his cheek, leaving a faint trail on flushed skin. Charlie reaches up to brush it off his cheek. Nick continues shakily. ‘I think I still have some hangups from rugby, and maybe from other stuff. I hate being perceived as weak, or like I’m struggling. It makes me feel so shit about myself’
Charlie sighs, he knows this, but hearing Nick say it so plainly is rare. It’s jarring.
Nick has played rugby as long as Charlie has known him, graduating to the semi-professional leagues during uni, and playing competitively for years until a torn ACL had forced him to give it all up.
Charlie had always covertly worried about what damage the locker room culture was doing to Nick’s soft centre, but he’d had never expressed any discontent, and so Charlie had never pushed the issue. He instead had quietly observed the way Nick’s eyebrows knitted together and his voice deepened when he was in the locker room, the way that he never reached for Charlie’s hand in the presence of certain team mates, noted every grimace and raised eyebrow shot in his direction. Every instance of passive aggressive banter and slightly too hard slap between his boyfriend’s shoulders had needled in a barb of worry into his gut. Worry it seemed, that had been well placed.
Nick’s lip is wobbling now, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it just that can’t seem to get through the wall all of it put up in my head.’
‘Oh babe’, Charlie whispers, as Nick starts to cry in earnest now, pulling him into his arms and rubbing firm circles on his back. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know that.’
‘I can’t expect you to know something I didn’t tell you’
Charlie hums in agreement, turning his head to kiss Nick’s cheek in absence of a reply.
There is more they need to discuss, they’ll have to circle back to this particular can of worms, but it can wait for now. Charlie can feel Nick’s exhausted body slumping in his arms, finally having given up all pretence of being okay.
‘How about we start again.’ He suggests gently, squeezing Nick who remains limpeted to his torso.
He feels Nick smile where his face is pressed against his shoulder, ‘alright then.’
Nick pulls away then and meets his eyes. Charlie is surprised to see the shadow of a smirk pulling gently at the corner of his mouth, shining through tear stained cheeks and pink skin. ‘Now a good time to tell you I think I have tonsilitis?’
Despite it all Charlie laughs, rolling his eyes fondly. Fucking shameless.
‘Now’s probably a good time yeah.’ He plants the palm of his hand firmly on Nick’s forehead.
The heat is undeniable.
‘Yep, fucking hell Nick your face is so hot.’ He moves his palm to cup his cheek, stroking the dusting of stubble there with his thumb.
Nick has the decency to appear chastised, but is still smiling as he replies, ‘alright keep it in your pants’
Charlie smacks his arm gently, shaking his head in playful disbelief. ‘You’re impossible’
‘So I’ve been told’, Nick laughs softly. It’s good to see him laughing, Charlie thinks, despite the emotional whiplash its giving him.
‘Have you taken any paracetamol or anything?’ he asks, knowing what the answer will be before he’s even finished his sentence.
Nick shakes his head, ‘I was planning on taking some in a minute if that softens the blow?’
Charlie rolls his eyes fondly. Idiot.
‘Alright back to bed with you then, I’ll bring you up a Lemsip.’
Nick shoots him a grateful look and leaves the room, his progress up the stairs slow, Daisy hot on his heels.
Charlie turns back to the sad cup of lemon tea abandoned on the counter, dumping it down the sink and digging around in the medicine drawer for the battered box of Lemsip.
Something tells him this particular bout of illness is going to need a bit more than some tea.
He uses the time it takes for the kettle to re-boil to gather himself, piece his emotions back together and calm his nervous system. He hates shouting at Nick, hates the way it makes guilt pound against his ribcage and his hands clam up.
He breaths in for five, holds for five, exhales for five, breaths in for five, holds for five, exhales for five until he feels calmer, balanced.
The water bubbles and the little red light on the kettle clicks off. Charlie snips the top off the Lemsip packet, tipping the powder into the mug and topping it with hot water and a generous spoonful of honey. Nick won’t drink it if it isn’t eye wateringly sweet.
As an afterthought he pops two slices of thick white bread into the toaster, smothering them with lurpack once they pop up, until they’re soggy and oozing gold onto the plate below. He cuts the crusts off, and cuts the slices into triangles.
Sick day comforts, he muses. Some things never change.
When he enters their bedroom, Lemsip, toast and a bottle of water balanced precariously on a tray, he finds Nick buried under their duvet, only his auburn hair visible in tufts.
He smiles, setting the tray down on the bedside table and perching on the edge of the bed.
‘Not asleep already are you?’ He says by way of greeting, reaching out to squeeze Nick’s shoulder through the duvet.
Nick’s head emerges out of the top of his nest, hair messy and eyes squinting. ‘Not quite’, he replies, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before continuing, ‘wasn’t far off though.’
Charlie hums sympathetically, picking the Lemsip up off of the tray and placing it into Nick’s waiting hands. Nick blows on it gingerly and takes a sip, wincing as he swallows.
‘Got some toast here as well if you fancy it?’ He reaches up to smooth Nick’s hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s drenched in butter so should be nice and soft on your sore throat.’
Nick appears to melt. ‘I actually don’t know what I did to deserve you, you bloody angel.’
Charlie laughs, rolling his eyes. ‘Every day I question why you have a reputation for melodrama.’ He picks the toast up from the tray, setting it down in Nick’s lap and moving to get into the bed next to him.
Nick immediately shifts to press his body against Charlie, pulling the duvet over both of their laps.
Daisy jumps up, curling up at the bottom of their bed, head resting on Nick’s feet.
‘If I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a bus, this would be my perfect Sunday morning activity.’ Nick muses taking a wary bite of toast, and continuing around his mouthful.
‘You, Daisy, bed, toast. Heaven.’
‘Oh so it’s a bus now is it?’ Charlie replies despairingly. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been out in snow while feeling like you’ve been hit by a bus.’
Nick flushes, but smiles, ‘a small bus, like a mini bus max’
Charlie laughs, ‘and that’s encouraging?’
‘Very much so’, Nick smiles around his toast, eyes gleaming. ‘could have been a lorry.’
‘I despair’
Nick’s progress through the toast is agonisingly slow, and is in the end abandoned half way through, the pain involved with eating clearly not worth the two triangles of soggy bread he has left on his plate.
He downs the quarter mug of lukewarm Lemsip he has left like a shot, and reaches to place the plate and mug on the floor next to him. He turns and snuggles into Charlie’s side, warm cheek smushed against a jumper clad chest.
Charlie moves his arm to put an arm around him, hand stroking his hair. Nick’s eyes flutter close and his breath begins to even out.
‘Do you mind if I watch telly if you’re going to sleep?’ Charlie asks, eyes already scanning the room for the remote. He locates it in the bedside draw next to him, thank god.
‘Course not’ Nick replies sleepily, ‘just don’t watch desperate housewives without me.’
‘I’d never’
‘I know’
Charlie laughs, snuggling down into the bed and navigating the tv menu to find an old series of Made in Chelsea he can binge. He assumes he won’t be moving much today.
Nick chuckles as the opening theme starts playing, eyes still closed he speaks against Charlie’s chest. ‘I could have bet any money you’d want watch this.’
‘Go to sleep’ Charlie replies, ‘you’re spoiling my ambience.’
‘Charming!’
Charlie gives him a squeeze, ‘you love it’
‘I do’, Nick murmurs, nearly in sleep now. ‘I love you’
‘I love you too sweetheart’