Chapter Text
“Nick. Are you crying?”
That had been his first indicator that he no longer wanted to spend time with Harry and his laddish, dude, bro friends. It wasn’t like he was crying for no reason. Maybe he was a little more sensitive than most, but that movie had been fucking beautiful. There was no need for his so-called "friends” to be laughing because a little bit of water spilled from his eye.
Sure, he and Harry had grown up together, shared childhood secrets, hobbies, talents and friends, but as they grew older, Nick just knew they were becoming different people.
He wasn’t sure how they were so different now. They’d practically had the same upbringing, had the same surroundings, yet Harry seemed to have a completely different set of morals, and Nick just wasn’t sure where they’d come from.
Primary school had seen them inseparable. Secondary school held its tensions, but they were still brothers, and even if brothers fought, they made up again, even if it meant a featherlight punch to the nose.
Now at university, they were more distant than ever. They shared a student house with a couple of the other rugby lads, but their schedules barely aligned. Harry’s interests were usually in some random girl’s room, and Nick often found himself leaving for class when Harry was coming home to sleep.
It saddened him to think that their years of camaraderie seemed to mean very little as they drifted apart. For fear of more ridicule, he held back another tear at the thought that one day they may not even be friends at all.
🍂
“Oh my God, guys, look at that!” Nick turned to where Harry was pointing, demonstrating the second indicator that Harry and co. were just not the type of people he wanted as his friends. “We don’t need a couple of fags at our rugby matches. I bet they’re only here for the perve.”
Whilst the rest of the team laughed, Nick internally fumed. His stomach twisted as his fists clenched by his side. If he wasn’t careful, he might even crack a tooth. He thought about berating Harry, shouting at him to not use that word, to stop making such judgements, to just leave people alone. But the boys in question had already rolled their eyes and walked away, shoving each other, used to Harry’s jibes.
Nick shut his eyes and breathed deep, inhaling until he felt his lungs might burst. He held it, counting to five, before slowly blowing the air back out into the wind. When he opened his eyes, he caught Harry staring at him, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk splashed across his fucking smug face.
“S’alright, Nick. I’ll keep you safe. Those poofters won’t get anywhere near you. Can’t stop them from ogling you in those tiny shorts though, mate. Built like a brick shit house, those thighs.” He clapped Nick on the back and ran off to get ready for the scrum.
He was growing exceedingly tired of Harry’s bullying. He would pick on anyone who he didn’t think fit his idea of ‘cool’, and the rest of their friends would just laugh along with it, probably too scared to say anything, lest they be the one he’d bully next.
“Fuck you, Harry.” He mumbled it under his breath, the words lost to the shouts from the coach, the cheers from the crowd, and the obnoxious fleshsack of ego shouting directions to the team as if he was the captain.
It’s not that Nick was scared to stand up to Harry; he just couldn’t find his words in time, often only confident enough to use his voice once the incident was over. He hated it. He knew he was just as bad as everyone else who laughed, in fact, he was worse. He was a passive observer who allowed Harry’s insidious behaviour to continue.
The idea of not being friends with Harry at all was suddenly all the more appealing.
🍂
It was all over the day Nick stumbled out of the pub door, a little worse for wear after maybe one or two too many beers. He wasn’t drunk, maybe a little tipsy, bordering on the edge of drunk. That kind of tipsy where he knew the entire contents of his stomach were about to end up on the pavement, but not drunk like he was going to forget everything that had happened that night.
There was no way he would ever forget that night.
It was while he was watching his dinner, and several drinks, try to make its way down the drain, that he heard a sound that would forever be written into the memory card of his brain. A sound he had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. A sound he heard a second time before his brain was able to identify what it was, a sound that would haunt him until the day he died.
He might have been drunk, but he was pretty fucking sober all of a sudden.
His brain immediately forgot the alcohol traipsing through his veins, his previously stumbling legs now fully functional as he rounded the corner, just in time to see Harry pressed up against their teammate. Dylan was pinned to the wall on the receiving end of something Nick wished he could erase from his memory.
After a tackle that would have made Coach Singh proud, a statement to police and trip to the hospital to make sure Dylan wouldn’t be left to process on his own, Nick felt heavy with the weight of the evening’s events, but a fuck ton lighter with his friendship with Harry off his shoulders and out of his life forever. What he lost with his childhood playmate, he gained hundredfold as he was welcomed into Dylan’s queer circle, proudly displaying his allyship at any given opportunity.
He didn’t really lose anything that night, instead he gained a whole new circle where he felt more like himself than he ever had before. A group of friends who accepted him and allowed him to display his emotions and softer traits he’d had to hide in the toxic masculinity of his rugby life.
Nick’s queer friends allowed him space, enjoyed his company and introduced him to a realm of new experiences. He was grateful to have been gifted such amazing people out of seemingly nowhere and was a fierce protector of those who were very quickly becoming family.
Harry had hated everything outside his idea of ‘cool’; his new friends celebrated diversity and never expected him to conform to any one thing or another. For the first time in his life, he felt like he could finally breathe.
Every queer friend group needed an ally, and Nick wore the badge proudly.
🍂🍂🍂
The music was loud, the lights were bright, and Nick hated this part of nights out. He loved his friends and the freedom of dance and booze, but the continuous assault on his senses from the flashing and deep bass was a reliable consistency when it came to the increased speed in which his social battery drained.
He could always lose himself on the dancefloor, floating between his friends, using the endorphins to block out the overstimulation for song after song. It was when he paused for a drinks or loo break that it would once again feel overwhelming.
His least favourite part, though, was the constant stream of men and women who assumed, because he was alone at the bar, it meant he was available and waiting. Gay men who were out, proud and flamboyant, or the ones who were newly discovering their sexuality and looking to explore. Women who were hiding in the so-called security of a queer bar to avoid the arseholes who would see ‘no’ as permission to try harder, not realising that they were suddenly the very arseholes they hid from.
Nick wasn’t looking. He frequented the pubs and clubs to spend time with his friends and be the one to bail them out of uncomfortable situations. On occasion, he would hit it off with some shy and pleasant girl and would spend the evening partying just like the rest of them, but his focus would remain on his friends, making sure he was ready to step in at any moment.
Sometimes they needed him for only a few minutes, sometimes not at all, other times he would drag them out the front door and maybe carry them home. But every time resulted in him falling into bed alone, wondering about the girl he’d just met and what may have happened if he’d prioritised his own feelings for just one night.
Nick thanked the barman as he collected his drink from the bar, noticing the they/them pin underneath the nametag, flashing an awkward smile and marvelling in the sparkling green eyes staring back at him. He wondered in his head, not for the first time, what the enby version of barman was, and whether he was a bad ally for not knowing and automatically assuming every person behind the bar was a barman? He sighed, sipped his drink and turned his back to the bar, leaning against it and surveying the dancefloor.
Finally, he spotted Tara and Darcy, right where he’d left them, in the middle of the crowd, exactly where they loved to be. He relaxed. They were still there, together, no one bothering them as they danced under the strobing lights, completely unaware of anyone else but each other. He smiled as he watched them. Two of his dearest friends whom he’d come to know as a result of one of the worst nights he’d ever experienced.
He hated thinking about that night as one of his worst, because of course, it was a fucking vile night for Dylan. But Dylan had assured him of the silver linings, and even though it was something he would forever live with, he was always healing. Leaving the rugby team had been easy; they’d had each other.
Of course it was sad, and Nick often lamented his Wednesday nights off the pitch, but he knew he couldn’t live with himself knowing just what kind of people were on that team and what they were willing to do. He’d had no idea Dylan was queer, but it hadn’t meant he was any less of a player, rather, he was an excellent winger, their best, and the fact that Harry had sought to isolate him, humiliate him, and worse, because of who he was, Nick was not going to spend one more minute on a team where their wannabe captain promoted gross homophobia. He might not be captain, but Harry was influential, so Nick had to be louder. And his exit from the team had been loud. Dylan following him had been unexpected, but so, so welcome.
He couldn’t help but laugh as he watched the display in front of him and the rest of the club. Darcy was becoming more handsy with every drink, Tara relaxing yet still in control, keeping Darcy’s enthusiasm contained.
Darcy pulled the empty glass from Tara’s hands, depositing it on the floor along with her own, before lacing her fingers in with Tara’s. Their dancing turned to jumping and Nick prepared himself just in case there was a repeat of last month’s early departure after some wild ‘dancing’ caused a proper, full on, gay pile up in the middle of the dance floor. Laughter and carefree attitudes aside, the embarrassment that flared up inside Darcy had seen the whole crew exiting the club several hours earlier than planned, the night turning into something more intimate back at the accommodation he now shared with the girls, with an exorbitant amount of takeaway kebabs purchased for the walk home, Taylor Swift belting loud enough for their neighbours to complain, and zero hangovers the morning after.
Nick couldn’t believe this was his life now. In just eight short months, he’d gone from Rugby King, team captain, unfortunate poster boy for toxic masculinity, to soft and gentle, let-every-emotion-display-freely, Rainbow Mafia Guardian. And he couldn’t be happier.
At the peak of the dance track, the lights shone rainbow, and if anyone was in doubt they were in a gay club, they would be instantly assured as the crowd roared loudly, basking in the multicoloured glow.
He stood taller at the sight of Tara pulling Darcy to a halt, still holding her hands, but carefully looking around, speaking words only Darcy could hear. He looked at the people surrounding them, not finding anyone threatening their space, but before he could think too hard about it, Tara leaned in, meeting Darcy’s lips in the middle of the dancefloor.
The grin on his face softened and he felt his body sag slightly. His heart did that pinchy thing again; the thing that made him feel so fucking happy that he was where he was now, in a place where anyone was free to be who they were without risk of ridicule or bullying. Tara and Darcy could suck face as much as they wanted in the middle of a crowded building, and no one cared. No one fucking cared. And Nick was so fucking happy. And his heart hurt just a little. And he couldn’t understand why.
Feeling like his eyes were lingering a little too long on the sapphic spectacle in front of him, Nick shifted his gaze, trawling through the crowd, landing on rich, dark curls, bouncing and sticking to a sweat shimmered brow framing eyes so deep and blue he knew he would drown if he ever had the chance to swim in them.
It wasn’t the first time he’d stopped and stared at Charlie; he was a beautiful man, and Nick was beginning to wonder if he would look just as good with smoky black eyeliner, and maybe Charlie could teach him how to do it, or maybe just do it for him. Charlie always looked effortlessly cool, and Nick was certain a large percentage of that was due to how confidently he wore things like makeup and glitter and semi see through shirts and those teeny tiny shorts he liked to squeeze into. Charlie just oozed confidence and Nick often found himself captivated.
It was hard not to be captivated when watching Charlie dance. Nick felt as carefree as Charlie looked; eyes sparkling, body floating and smile pushing his cheeks into the most delightful dimples.
Even nights at home, watching movies with his new found family, Charlie was just so… cool. Of course, their whole friend group was cool, and Nick was learning so much about himself, and how ‘cool’ didn’t have to mean how many girls’ numbers he scored on a night out, but how being himself and opening up to people formed intimacy and trust. And that was pretty fucking cool.
But he still wasn’t, and none of them ever were, as effortlessly cool as Charlie. Nick had welled up at a particularly emotional part of the movie and tried to hide it, but he’d felt a soft squeeze, forcing him to turn his attention to the nimble fingers encasing his hand. He’d glanced up at Charlie, whose eyes were equally wet, as well as his cheeks, and Nick had just felt comfortable to let it all go. The two of them sobbed on the sofa together, and by the time the movie had ended, Nick felt like one of his heaviest burdens had been washed away with his tears.
Nick wished the same wish he had wished several dozen times since the very first time they’d met. I wish I was more like Charlie. I wish I could be as confident as him. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, contemplating what it would take to convince Charlie to spend the time teaching him.
He turned his attention to the voice next to him, a dainty brunette seemingly staring into his soul, awaiting an answer to whatever words she had spoken to him. He looked down to his arm where she was now resting her hand, and then back up to her face, his words stuck in his throat, his brain still holding onto images of the other brunette he was focussed on.
“Sorry. What?” His voice sounded foreign, but it must have sounded funny because the imposing, uninvited company was now giggling and her grip on his arm tightened slightly.
“I was asking if you’d like to buy me a drink.” She fluttered her eyelashes, and maybe on another night Nick might have been interested, but his brain was still stuck somewhere on the dancefloor.
She was full of confidence, just like Charlie, except, it didn’t look as good on her, it almost felt pretentious, and Nick couldn’t help it when he pulled his arm away almost too quickly, trying to mask the grimace on his face, stuttering out a “no, sorry”, mentally kicking himself.
He should have bought her a drink; she was pretty, and interested, but instead he turned his eye back to where the authentic confidence was shining brighter than any colours beaming from the ceiling, wincing at the sullen “fuck you” as she returned to her friends.
Lucky escape, he figured. It wasn’t like he’d paid her any attention for her to think that he would be interested. He was far too focused on Tara and Darcy, whose display was now becoming borderline inappropriate, and Charlie, whose hands were now behind his back as he danced, thumbs pulled in, long fingers folding over them, and stretching out again, a repetitive motion which meant…
Shit.
That was the signal. Time for Nick to step in.
It wasn’t weird anymore. The first few times Nick had been the ‘boyfriend’ he’d been awkward, thinking everyone could tell he was faking. It had to be obvious Tara was a lesbian and Nick was putting on a show. Yes, of course, Dylan was gay, but Nick was straight as fuck and the bellend who was getting too close to his friend could surely tell Nick was only putting on a façade. It didn’t matter that Charlie had been flirting with some random dickhead, because he’d had enough and dickhead didn’t seem to be getting the message, so it didn’t matter that Nick wasn’t gay, of course he was going to fucking pretend if it meant the dickhead would leave him the fuck alone.
It wasn’t like he’d planned to be the stand-in boyfriend for all his friends; the first time had been a spontaneous decision in a moment of panic when he’d thought Tara might have been about to be kidnapped. It hadn’t been so dramatic, but she’d been thankful for his help.
The following week, whilst stopped for a midnight Maccies run, Tara had returned the favour when a drunk as fuck, emotionally unstable girl from a hen’s group was surprisingly strong and Nick was having trouble unwrapping her from around his torso. Tara had lost her shit at the “homewrecking bimbo that was encroaching on her man”. She’d sealed the deal by interlacing their fingers and planting a kiss on his lips. He’d been shocked, sure, but he was far too grateful to think about it being weird. And Darcy had been heard cheering in the background. And they’d never spoken of it again, just knowing it was an unwritten rule that they would do whatever it took to help a friend get away from any unwanted attention.
Nick’s third time as ‘boyfriend’ was initiated by Charlie when some dickwad wouldn’t quit following him. It had been a surprise to Nick when Charlie threw himself at him, wrapping his arms around him, telling everyone within five metres that Nick was his boyfriend. He was taken by surprise, but he hadn’t minded at all.
From then on, jokes had been made about ‘Nick, our saviour’, ‘Nick our protector’, and he discovered he was quite pleased to be able to provide a haven for his nearest and dearest who often didn’t have a safe space. In a queer place, they should feel safe, but even then, sometimes people were too pushy. After confirming a number of hand signals that could be spotted from several feet away, Nick found his purpose. None of his friends would ever be stuck in a situation they didn’t want to be in again. Not under his watch.
He pushed his way through the moving bodies, reaching Charlie quickly, slotting himself between him and the newest douchebag that couldn’t seem to understand that when Charlie said ‘no’, it meant no.
“Oh my God, Char, thank fuck I found you. I’ve been looking for you for ages.” He draped his arms over Charlie’s shoulders and hung off him with his head pressed into his neck, not too dissimilar from a sloth.
“Oi, mate.” Nick felt a tap on his shoulder. It was always the same. The fuckwad was always offended when he stepped in, and they no longer had control.
Nick turned his head to look over at said fuckwad, not bothering to remove himself from his Charlie sized resting place, and wordlessly raised an eyebrow. He heard Charlie chuckle as his arms wrapped around Nick and squeezed.
“Seriously? No need to be so fucking rude.” Fuckwad reached out in a futile attempt to take Charlie’s hand and pull him back towards him but retreated as Nick finally pulled himself up and stood tall as his most intimidating self.
“Oi! Mate. It was nice of Charlie to entertain you while I was looking for him, but I’d like to dance with my boyfriend now, if you don’t mind.” The word still sometimes felt funny on his tongue. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it sat there, tingling, and Nick thought he could almost taste it.
He watched the thoughts roll through Fuckwad’s head as if they were playing on a giant cinema screen. He didn’t want Nick there. He wanted to fight Nick. He knew he would never win in a fight against Nick. And finally, he decided that Charlie just wasn’t worth it.
Nick’s stomach twisted and his jaw clenched. It was that resignation in their eyes when they made the decision Charlie was not worth fighting for that made Nick mad. He was more than mad. He was irate.
“Fuck off then.” It was ruder than it should have been, but how fucking dare he think Charlie wasn't worth fighting for? Nick would fight anyone for Charlie. Every single fucking time.
Fuckwad’s surrender was instant. He hip and shouldered Nick on the way past, but walked away without looking back.
Nick turned to Charlie, instantly relaxing at his beaming smile and thankful eyes. Yep, he’d continue to do this as much as Charlie needed. Because Charlie was gentle and kind and caring, and even though he was confident, he wasn’t always confident enough to tell a bloke to piss off when they overstepped. So, Nick would step in as many times as necessary to make sure Charlie felt safe.
His thoughts held him hostage just a little too long, so before he could ask Charlie if he was okay, Charlie clapped him on the shoulder with a “Thanks, mate. I owe ya,” and made his way towards the bar.
Mate? It buzzed in his belly, stinging him from the inside. It wasn’t something he’d felt before, and he hated it.