“Hi, lads, my name’s Brit and I’ll be looking after you tonight. You ready to order?”
“Hiii, Brit,” the table chorused back in unison, all wide, bright smiles and sparkling eyes, like they’d rehearsed it on the way in.
One of them, a sharp-dressed bloke in his thirties with a strong accent Nick couldn’t identity, didn’t miss a beat. “You can start by giving us your number, how does that sound?”
Nick laughed it off easy, used to the flirtation by now. “Sorry, love, I don’t think my boyfriend would be too chuffed about that,” he said, tilting his head with a playful wink.
In reality, he’d rattled off his number a couple of times early on, only when the punter looked proper loaded, rolling up in one of those sleek luxury convertibles or flashing an expensive-looking watch that screamed old money. He never answered their texts, obviously, and felt not a jot guilty about the fat tips they always left behind.
“Ugh, of course he’s already taken,” the first one groaned, clutching his chest theatrically.
Another leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Hey, we’re not jealous. He can watch if he wants.”
A third chimed in, showing a gorgeous smile. “You can keep breaking my heart all day long, Brit, as long as you do it in that accent.”
Nick chuckled. “You lot are terrible. Right, who’s having the thighs, then?”
The table erupted in laughter again, the banter flowing as easy as the drinks, and Nick took up their order, quick as you like, tapping it into his tablet with the efficiency of someone who’d done it dozens of times a day.
“Right, gents,” he said, pen hovering. “The one on the left’s having the Rooster Burger—double patty, extra cheese, bacon on top. Middle bloke wants the Spicy Cock wings with blue cheese dip, and you, mate,” he nodded at the watch-flasher, “you’re going for the Loaded Fries and a Caesar salad on the side, yeah?”
They confirmed with nods and more cheeky grins, and Nick fired it off to the kitchen in seconds.
He still couldn’t quite believe a place like Roosters was real, but here he was, coming up on a year working the floor. The LGBT spot (though they had much more male customers than anything else, despite the occasional hen parties and fag-hags) had been an internet sensation since the day it opened, but the success had less to do with the food (though the burgers were genuinely cracking, the best Nick had ever tasted, juicy and perfectly seasoned) and far more to do with the waiters. Or, as the management cheekily called them, the Cocks: a bunch of muscular, sculpted lads serving the client while wearing nothing more than a tiny, tiny red trunks and matching red trainers. It was daft, over-the-top, and completely shameless, but the punters lapped it up, queues round the block most nights, tips fat enough to make the whole thing worth every raised eyebrow back home.
The idea for Nick to work at Roosters had come from Harp, obviously, as only he could come up with such a mental scheme. He’d played it cheeky at first, casual as you like over a pint one night after Nick mentioned needing to find a job. When Nick and Charlie rocked up to scout it out one afternoon, Nick had gone absolutely speechless the moment they stepped through the door, gobsmacked watching the near-naked lads strutting about, red trunks barely covering anything, red trainers squeaking on the floor, all of them flirting and joking with the customers like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tsunami, real name Kai Nakamura, Hawaiian-Japanese with that surfer build and long hair tied up in a bun, had zeroed in on them straight away, flirting shamelessly the entire time they sat there nursing sodas, hips rolling dramatically every time he passed their table. By the time they left, both Nick and Charlie were sporting very obvious hard-ons, shifting awkwardly in their jeans and trying not to laugh.
Nick had dismissed the idea on the spot: there was no way in hell he’d parade about with his body on display for strangers. But surprisingly, it had been Charlie who talked him round. His boyfriend hadn’t stopped laughing once the whole time they were there, proper belly laughs, eyes watering, that bright, unguarded joy Nick would move mountains to see again. And, well… there wasn’t much in the world Nick wouldn’t do to keep Charlie laughing like that.
Two days of weeks later, Nick had filled out the application, aced the “uniform try-on” (mortifying but quick), and started his first shift. Nearly a year on, he couldn’t imagine not doing it: the banter with the other Cocks, the ridiculous tips, the way he felt confident and in control the whole time. It was daft, yeah, but it was his daft, and it kept that smile on Charlie’s face every time Nick came home knackered but buzzing, recounting the night’s madness.
He wasn’t even ashamed about his bulge anymore. The first weeks working at Roosters had been absolute hell, every shift felt like walking onto a stage with a spotlight aimed squarely at his crotch. Twenty-two centimetres of thick cock, plus a pair of full, heavy balls, all barely contained by that tiny red thong. It was nothing short of obscene. Nick had been dead certain every eye in the restaurant was zeroed in on it, and to be honest, they probably were. He’d spent those early nights blushing crimson, shifting awkwardly, praying no one noticed how the fabric stretched or how things shifted when he moved too quick. Now, though, he barely registered the weight of it swinging between his legs as he strode from table to table. When a customer took a few extra seconds to answer his question, eyes dipped way lower than polite, Nick just smirked easily, knowing full well the tip would be generous.
The place had done wonders for his confidence. He’d never been particularly shy, not after half his life spent starkers in locker rooms after rugby practice with the lads taking the piss and moving on, but he was still getting used to this new, properly jacked body the California sun and tireless training had carved out of him. And knowing he was hot enough to support himself (and help Charlie) in one of the most expensive cities in the world just by strutting about in next to nothing… yeah, Nick was proud as a bloody rooster of that.
They were having an easy night. Not quiet by any stretch, Roosters never truly was, but nothing like the absolute mayhem the weekends always brought. Nick hadn’t had rugby practice that evening, so he’d spent a calm few hours in the library with Charlie and Luna, the three of them heads-down revising for upcoming finals. He’d come to work completely rested, full of energy, and it showed. He drifted between tables with an easy smile, topping up drinks, asking if everyone was alright, laying the British accent on a bit thicker because he knew it made punters melt and the tips fatten.
Between orders he messed about with the other lads: Sunny was behind the bar tonight, ginger hair catching the lights as he pulled pints with a cheeky wink for every customer who leaned in too far; Rocket and Jet were competing to see who could balance more plates on one arm, both of them flexing shamelessly while trash-talking each other and Big Z was charming a table of hens with that deep, rumbling laugh of his, towering over them at 1,96m and making them blush with every grin. Cap had the honor of being on mascot duty this week, stuck inside the giant, daft red foam rooster head as “Rusty the Rooster,” greeting new arrivals at the door with exaggerated wing flaps and ridiculous squawking noises that had the queue in absolute stitches.
Nick paused for a quick photo with a group of giggling tourists, throwing an arm round one of their shoulders while they crowded in close, phones flashing away, pics that would be on the Roosters Instagram by morning, no doubt. The group was dead respectful, none of that grabby nonsense some punters tried. They asked nicely first, all polite smiles and “Mind if we…?” before splaying their hands over his chest and abs for the shot, fingers tracing the muscle with wide-eyed admiration but never crossing the line.
A couple of tables over, a few lads from the Sharks squad were in, snickering the whole time and lobbing innuendos his way every chance they got. “Hey, Brit, you sure that trunk’s regulation size?” Whittaker called, grinning over his burger. “Careful, mate,” Nick had shot back with a wink, “or I’ll have Rusty come peck you lot into shape.” The table erupted, double entendres flying thick and fast, “Yeah, give us the full cock experience!”, while Nick just rolled his eyes, laughing as he sauntered off to the next order, the easy rhythm of the night carrying him along like it always did.
Then, all of a sudden, the speakers scattered through the joint, that had been pumping out sticky pop songs all night, blared two long, loud “cock-a-doodle-doo! cock-a-doodle-doo!” one after the other. The whole place erupted in cheers and shouts of pure jubilee, a wave of noise crashing over everything. Nick, who’d been on his way to a couple at a corner table that had been drooling over him all shift, stopped dead in his tracks. He hopped straight up onto the nearest empty bench, quick as you like. Every other Cock did the same, scrambling onto tables and benches across the floor like it was choreographed. And it was.
It was the signal: someone had paid a 100% tip on their bill, and the whole restaurant got the thanks. It happened more often than one would think, especially on good nights. The main lights flicked off in an instant, plunging the room into darkness for a heartbeat before the red spotlights perched all over the ceiling kicked in, bathing everything in a sultry crimson glow. The pop music came back, slower now, sexier, deep bass and breathy vocals that pulsed through the air. Nick started moving, giving his best attempt at a sexy dance: slow rolls of his hips, hands sliding down his chest and over his abs, flexing his pecs just enough to make the sparse golden hair catch the red light. He turned, arching his back a little to show off the curve of his arse in that tiny trunk, then dropped low, thighs spreading as he rose again in one smooth motion, arms up and curls falling into his eyes.
He’d learned soon enough that the only way to make this whole thing work was to lean right into the absurdity of it all. Sexy, yes, there was no denying that, but also completely daft, just innocent fun at the end of the day. Nobody was taking it too seriously, least of all the lads up on the benches with him, and once Nick had embraced that, the nerves vanished. He owned it, smirking out at the crowd, letting the rhythm take him, every move deliberate and teasing, playing it up because why the bloody hell not?
Everyone went mental. Phones were out in a flash, filming the whole thing, red light glinting off screens as people pressed closer, shouting and cheering the Cocks on. Tsunami ground against the edge of a table like he was born for it, dramatic hip circles drawing screams; Rocket and Jet pressed together back-to-back, grinding in sync with wicked grins; Sunny gave a very lucky old lady in the front row a playful lap dance, hands on her chair arms as she cackled and fanned herself with a twenty-dollar bill. Big Z strutted the length of a long table, flexing muscular arms while the hens tucked notes into his thong.
The Sharks lads were the most chaotic of the lot, some of them even clambering up onto benches to join in the routine, mimicking the moves with piss-taking exaggeration and earning roars of laughter. Nick didn’t miss how most of the bills getting stuffed into his own trunks came from his teammates’ hands, Whittaker slipping in a fifty with a wink, Torres folding a twenty and tucking it slow just to take the mick. The red lights pulsed, the music throbbed, and for those few minutes the whole place belonged to them and their electric joy.
When the track faded out and the house lights came back up, the Cocks hopped down to thunderous applause, chests heaving, skin gleaming with fresh sweat, tips bulging in their thongs as they went back to serving like nothing had happened. Nick caught his breath, laughing under it, and headed straight for the drooling couple’s table, now looking properly stunned, with an extra swing in his step.
Rooster: home of the Cocks.
Nick’s shift wrapped up not long after the Roosters’ Time. It was still early, barely eight p.m., and the place would be heaving till closing, but his section was done. He and Charlie had agreed to grab dinner once they were both free; Charlie’s job was far more respectable, shelving books at that little independent bookstore in town that specialised in LGBT titles. He loved it, surrounded by stories, quiet chats with customers, the smell of paper, but it didn’t come close to the cash Nick pulled in on a good night.
Nick slipped into the back locker room, peeling off the red thong with a relieved sigh and tugging on proper clothes: loose basketball shorts that hung low on his hips, a baggy tank top that left his massive arms on full display, and a backwards cap shoved over his messy blond curls. He went commando underneath, same as always these days, the California heat and the habit from Roosters shifts had made anything else feel like too much bother. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and smirked: tanned, jacked, easy stride. Proper Californian boy now, through and through.
He slung his bag over one shoulder and headed out, waving quick goodbyes to the lads still on shift, Sunny flashing a ginger grin from the bar, Tsunami giving him a lazy salute, Rocket and Jet already prepping for the late rush. As he reached the door, another coworker, Liam, the Cock they called Hawk, was just clocking in, still in civvies but already stripping down to change. Liam clapped him on the back with a genuine smile, congratulating him on the Sharks making finals and asking a bit about the try. Nick downplayed it with a laugh, chatting for a minute more before finally pushing out the door into the cooling evening air, the thump of music fading behind him as he texted Charlie what he wanted for dinner that night.
In Nick’s opinion, that was the best part about living in Los Angeles: the variety of everything. Back home in Whitstable, they’d had one decent Italian restaurant and one Japanese place that was barely passable if you were desperate for sushi. Los Angeles had them all: proper Korean barbecue joints in Koreatown where the banchan kept coming till you were stuffed, little Ethiopian spots in Little Ethiopia with spongy injera and fiery stews you ate with your hands, hole-in-the-wall Oaxacan places serving tlayudas the size of hubcaps, bustling Thai markets with boat noodles that made your eyes water from the spice, and even a Salvadoran pupusería near campus that did the best revueltas Nick had ever tasted.
Nick and Charlie were still trying them all, picking a new place whenever they had a bit of extra cash scraped together — usually from Nick’s Roosters tips — and turning it into their own little adventure, rating the food, arguing over spice levels, and always ending up holding hands across the table like a pair of proper saps. So far, for Nick, the best one was a tiny Peruvian cevichería tucked away in a strip mall off Olympic Boulevard. Every time they went, he ordered the same thing, fresh sea bass in lime and chilli that hit like summer in your mouth, grinning like an idiot as soon as the plate landed, and Charlie always teased him for being predictable, even though he stole half the fish anyway.
Tonight, though, Charlie had texted that he was craving the spicy miso ramen from that little Japanese spot in Sawtelle andNick dutifully changed course, marching toward it with a grin on his face, the evening air cool against his still-warm skin from the Roosters lights.
Sometimes, Nick couldn’t believe he and Charlie had actually done it and left England, their families, Elle and Tao and Isaac, to cross the pond and make a new life for them at Westbridge University. Growing up, whenever Nick thought about uni, he pictured somewhere small and ordinary like Canterbury Christ Church, cheap and close to home, the same place his brother David had gone, where he could pop back to see his mum every weekend without much fuss. The furthest he’d ever let himself imagine was heading up to London Metropolitan on a bold day, or maybe even Middlesex Uni if he was feeling properly adventurous, but still in the same country, same currency, same accents everywhere. Nothing like uprooting everything for a different continent, where everyone talked like they’d stepped out of The OC, the portion sizes were mental, and even the money looked weird with all those presidents staring back at you instead of the King.
Charlie, however, had always dreamed bigger. He wanted to see the world, meet people from every background and culture imaginable, and where better to do that than America, the proper melting pot of the planet? When Charlie had told Nick he’d applied for a spot at Westbridge, Nick never thought anything would actually come of it. It seemed like one of those far-off, lovely ideas you talk about but never quite reach. So he’d encouraged him, showered him with “why nots” and “you’d be brilliant” and all the rest, even applied himself more to humour Charlie than anything else, filling out the forms one rainy afternoon and then forgetting all about it.
Nick would never forget the chilling, terrifying dread that had slammed into him that afternoon. They’d had a perfect day at the beach, sun on their skin, sand between their toes, Charlie laughing as Nick chased him into the waves, and Nick was driving him home, hand resting on Charlie’s thigh, still tasting salt on his lips. They pulled up outside the Spring house, and there was Jane waiting at the door with the widest grin Nick had ever seen on her, clutching a thick white envelope emblazoned with the double-unicorn crest of Westbridge University.
Dear Mr Charles Spring, the letter had begun, it is with the greatest enthusiasm that I write to congratulate you on your admission to the Class of 2026…
Nick thought he did a cracking job of masking his fear. Charlie was jumping about like a kid on Christmas morning, shouting and laughing, beside himself with pure joy, and Nick did all the proper things a supportive boyfriend should: pulled him into tight hugs, planted kisses on his curls, bounced along with him in the driveway, telling him over and over how much he deserved it, how brilliant he was, how Nick had never doubted him for a second.
But then he caught Tori’s eyes across the room, carefully fixed on him, cool and knowing, with something terribly like pity in them, and Nick felt his stomach drop straight through the floor. He wanted to bolt back to the beach and let the sea swallow him whole.
His mind was already racing ahead, spinning plans like a frantic hamster on a wheel: flight schedules, how many shifts he’d need at the supermarket to save up, how much those transatlantic tickets would cost. Too much, way too bloody much, but there wasn’t another option. No world existed where he and Charlie didn’t make it work, even with an entire ocean between them. They would. They had to.
When Nick’s acceptance letter arrived in the post just two days later, Charlie was certain it was the fix to all their problems, the universe handing them a lifeline on a silver platter. Nick hated to burst his bubble. Even if Westbridge wanted him, he simply didn’t have the money. Sure, his mum Sarah had scrimped and saved for his uni fund ever since he was little, but she’d never in a million years imagined bankrolling a degree in America, where everything, tuition, housing, even a bloody sandwich, cost triple what it did back home. That’s when reality properly settled on Charlie. He cried for almost an entire week, quiet, gut-wrenching tears that broke Nick’s heart clean in two every time he saw them. Nick spent twice that long convincing Charlie not to chuck his dream in the bin, holding him through the nights, whispering promises into his curls, telling him over and over that he deserved this, that Westbridge was his future, that they’d find a way. Nick wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince — Charlie or himself — but he said it anyway, voice steady even when his chest felt like it was caving in.
Charlie should go, of course he should. They could make long-distance work. It would be hard, the hardest thing they’d ever done, and they’d miss each other terribly, aching every single day. But in the end, five years from now, when Charlie graduated and came home to Nick, arms open and degree in hand, it would all have been worth it. They’d be stronger for it. They had to believe that. Nick clung to it like a lifeline, even as the dread gnawed quietly at the edges of every smile he gave Charlie.
Then, Aunt Estelle had died.
To be frank, Nick didn’t even know he had an Aunt Estelle. He barely knew his dad, Stéphane, let alone some 92-year-old French second aunt who’d never set foot in England. Nick thought it was a prank when her lawyer, a stiff French bloke named Laurent Dubois with the worst accent Nick had ever heard in his life, turned up unannounced at the house one afternoon. The man had travelled all the way to Britain to deliver the news in person, standing on the doorstep in a crisp suit, clutching a leather briefcase and looking every bit the serious Parisian notaire. He explained, in careful but heavily accented English, that Nick’s great-aunt Estelle had sadly passed away and had named Nick as the sole heir to her estate. Nick had stood there dumbfounded, waiting for the punchline that never came, because that sort of thing simply didn’t happen, distant relatives you’d never heard of didn’t just die and leave you everything, handing you the answer to your problems on a silver platter.
But it wasn’t a prank, and it did happen.
Aunt Estelle had left Nick her house, a big, comfortable two-storey stone cottage in a quiet village outside Avignon, surrounded by lavender fields and olive groves, and the vast property it sat on, not to mention a couple of sensible investments and savings accounts she’d built up over a lifetime of careful living. She’d also tucked in a handwritten letter in French, scrawled in her own shaky but elegant hand, addressed directly to Nick. The lawyer offered to translated it aloud at first, but Nick, wanting to feel closer to this mysterious great-aunt he’d never known, had insisted on reading it himself to his mum and Charlie later that evening.
My dear Nick,
I suppose the strangest part of writing this letter is knowing that we have never met. I’ve known that all your life, and yet I have followed you from afar for longer than you might imagine. From France, quietly, carefully, I have watched the shape of you take form, through fragments, through stories passed along, through the small ways people reveal who they are even when they don’t mean to.
I want you to know how proud I am of you. Proud not for any single achievement, but for the courage it takes to become the man you wished to be, regardless of how loudly or stubbornly the world insists otherwise. That kind of bravery does not announce itself. It is built slowly, choice by choice, often in solitude. I recognise it because I have known its absence as intimately as others know its presence.
There are lives we live, and lives we imagine. You chose not to let yours remain only imagined. For that, you have my deepest admiration.
I hope you will forgive the distance between us. It was never indifference. Some silences are born of fear rather than lack of feeling, and I carried mine for far too long. Watching you, though, has been a quiet joy, the proof that the things I never dared can still exist in the world, lived fully and without apology.
I am writing, too, for a more practical reason. I have decided to leave everything I have to you. It is not a grand fortune, but it is the sum of my life’s work, and I would like to believe it might make yours a little easier, a little lighter. Consider it not a burden, but a gesture. An attempt, however late, to take your side.
Live well, Nick. Live honestly. And know that somewhere across the Channel, there has always been someone cheering for you, even if she did so in silence.
With all my affection,
Aunt Estelle
When everything was sold off. Nick received the absurd amount of £380,000 after taxes and fees. It was enough to pay his Westbridge tuition in full for all four years, with a little left over for emergencies, but not nearly enough to live like a king in one of the priciest cities on earth. He’d still need to work to cover, food, books, and the occasional night out with Charlie, but the crushing weight of those international fees was gone.
That was all Nick ended up walking down Abbot Kinney Boulevard that night, because of a great-aunt he’d never met who, for reasons Nick would never understand, had decided he was worth believing in.
Abbot Kinney was alive even at this hour, trendy cafés and boutiques spilling soft light onto the pavement, murals splashed across brick walls, palm trees swaying gently overhead like they were in on the city’s secrets. The buildings were a mix of old Venice charm and new money gloss: converted warehouses with exposed beams next to sleek glass-fronted shops, string lights draped between them like the party had spilled out from Roosters and never quite ended. People drifted along in little groups, laughing couples sharing gelato, friends piling out of bars with that easy California looseness, a skateboarder rattling past with music thumping from his phone. Cars crawled by in a lazy parade: shiny Teslas and beat-up Vans alike, convertibles with tops down even in the cool night air, bass from someone’s stereo rumbling low through the street. The breeze carried that unmistakable tang of the sea,salt and kelp and something wild from the Pacific just a few blocks west, mixing with the smells drifting from late-night taco trucks and the faint sweetness of jasmine blooming along someone’s fence. It was a beautiful night in Los Angeles, as most nights were, warm enough for shorts but cool enough to feel alive, stars managing to peek through the city glow.
And as Nick made his way toward Sawtelle, hands in his pockets, backwards cap shading his eyes, there was no other place in the world he’d rather be right now. Not Whitstable, not Canterbury, not anywhere. Just here, heading to meet Charlie, the city humming around him, the future wide open for the first time.
Nick had just crossed the bridge that spanned the little lagoon on the edge of campus, the one everyone called Westbridge Bridge and had named the uni, even though the sign had long since faded, hands carrying two steaming bags of delicious spicy miso ramen from the Sawtelle spot, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He shifted the bags to one hand, fished it out, and grinned at Charlie’s text glowing on the screen: already at our place xx
It wasn’t that secret, not really, just a narrow stretch of public beach tucked behind the dunes a ten-minute walk from Seaview Hall, where the campus grounds gave way to wild grasses and a weathered wooden staircase down to the sand. Most students stuck to the bigger, busier stretches farther north, so this little cove stayed quiet, especially at night: pale sand glowing under the moon, dark waves rolling in with a steady hush, the faint silhouette of the Channel Islands on the horizon when the sky was clear. They’d stumbled on it during freshers’ week, Charlie dragging Nick down the path on a whim, and it had become theirs, blankets spread out on cool evenings, fairy lights in a jar when they felt fancy, just the two of them watching the tide come in, city lights twinkling far behind them like another world. They’d even had sex there a couple of risky, exhilarating times, pressed against the dunes over a blanket, hearts racing at every distant footstep or car headlight sweeping the road above, the thrill of almost getting caught only making it hotter.
Nick quickened his pace, the smell of chilli oil and broth wafting up from the bags, and soon enough he could see Charlie waiting there, still in his work uniform, soft polo and jeans from the bookstore, name tag crooked as always, curled up on their old picnic blanket, knees drawn to his chest, staring out at the water like he always did when he needed a moment to breathe. The moon silvered the waves, turning the little cove into something almost magical, and Nick felt his heart bloom in his chest, that familiar ache of love so big it hurt in the best way.
He didn’t think it was possible to love someone that much, more than anything else, more than his own life itself, but he did. Every coming day Nick loved Charlie more than he had the day before, and he was dead certain he’d love him even more tomorrow. It wasn’t some grand, dramatic thing; it was quiet and steady and overwhelming all at once, like the tide rolling in behind Charlie’s silhouette.
He crunched across the sand, careful not to startle him, and dropped down onto the blanket beside him, setting the ramen bags between them like an offering. Charlie turned his head, that soft smile spreading slow across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners under the moonlight.
“Took you long enough,” Charlie teased, leaning in to bump their shoulders together.
“Had to fight off a horde of barbarians at Sawtelle,” Nick shot back, grinning as he pulled Charlie closer, arm round his waist. “But I brought spoils.”
Charlie peeked into the bags, eyes lighting up at the smell. “You’re forgiven, Brit.”
They unpacked the ramen side by side, steam curling up into the cool night air, chopsticks clacking as they dug in, knees knocking under the blanket. Charlie, like usual, was responsible for the drinks: he’d brought a couple of chilled cans of that Japanese chu-hai he loved, lemon flavour, fizzy and just boozy enough to take the edge off without knocking you out. He cracked one open for himself first, then handed the second to Nick with a little flourish.
“How was work today? Lots of Roosters’ time?” Charlie asked, taking a sip, eyes twinkling over the rim of the can.
“A couple, yeah. People were generous tonight,” Nick said, slurping a mouthful of noodles before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Hawk congratulated me about the Sharks going to finals. Can you believe that? He doesn’t even go here. Mental that the news reached him.”
“Yeah, you’re going proper famous, Nicky,” Charlie teased, nudging him with an elbow, that cheeky grin spreading wide.
Nick laughed out loud, head tipping back, the sound echoing softly over the waves.
“Shut up, you. What about you? How was work today?” he asked.
“Yeah, it was fine. Elena reached a new level of crazy today, though” Charlie said, rolling his eyes as he twirled a noodle round his chopsticks.
Nick raised an eyebrow, leaning in. “Go on then, what’d she do this time?”
Charlie snorted, taking a sip of his chu-hai before launching in. “So this bloke comes in, right, proper posh, suit and tie, looking for some rare first-edition poetry book. Elena overhears him mention he’s a collector, and instead of just fetching the book like a normal human, she decides to ‘curate an experience.’ Next thing I know, she’s dimmed all the lights, lit about twenty of those scented candles we keep in the back, and started reading aloud from the book in this dramatic whisper-voice while slowly circling the poor man like he’s in some avant-garde theatre performance. He looked terrified, Nick. Proper deer-in-headlights. I had to practically drag her away before she started interpretive dance or something.”
Nick burst out laughing, nearly choking on his ramen. “You’re joking.”
“I wish. He bought the book in the end, probably just to escape, but he left looking like he’d survived a séance. Elena was dead chuffed with herself, going on about ‘elevating the literary encounter.’” Charlie shook his head, grinning despite himself. “She’s off her rocker, but the shop would be so bloody boring without her.”
Nick wiped his mouth, still chuckling. “Mental. You lot are gonna end up on some viral TikTok one day, mark my words.” He nudged Charlie’s knee with his own under the blanket. “Least it keeps you entertained while I’m off strutting in my trunks.”
“I wish I could work in my trunks,” Charlie said wistfully, tugging at the collar of his jumper like it was strangling him. “It’s getting so hot in here and it’s not even summer yet. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
Nick, who’d adapted to the California heat like a duck to water, barely breaking a sweat even after a full shift, just laughed, low and fond. “Can you imagine Barty in his trunks?” he said, a little wickedly, waggling his eyebrows at Charlie.
“Oh, yeah, well, that would be a good way of getting new customers,” Charlie agreed, deadpan for half a second before the image hit them both at once.
They only resisted for a heartbeat before bursting into laughter, the thought of the bookstore’s eighty-year-old manager, prim cardigans, half-moon specs, and all, strutting about in nothing but a tiny red thong too bloody funny to resist. Charlie doubled over, nearly spilling his ramen, while Nick threw his head back, the sound carrying out over the quiet waves, bright under the moonlight.
When the giggles finally tapered off, Charlie leaned heavier into Nick’s side, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. “God, we’re awful,” he said, still grinning.
“The worst,” Nick agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his curls. “But you love me anyway.”
Charlie tilted his head up, eyes soft in the moonlight. “Yeah. I really do.”
They stayed like that even after the food was gone, empty ramen containers pushed aside, chopsticks abandoned in the sand. Nick had kicked off his Nikes and sprawled out across the blanket, head resting in Charlie’s lap, letting those familiar fingers card through his golden strands, tugging gently now and then in that absent, soothing way Charlie always did when he was content.
They talked for ages, voices low against the hush of the waves, laughter bubbling up every few minutes. Nick recounted the latest Sharks locker-room antics, how Torres had tried to prank Grimmy with a fake spider in his boot and ended up shrieking louder than anyone when it turned out to be real; how Whittaker had attempted a TikTok dance in the showers and slipped, taking half the team down with him in a pile of soap and swearing. Charlie snorted at the mental image, eyes crinkling as his fingers kept moving through Nick’s hair. Then the conversation drifted across the pond: Elle had sent a group photo from her latest fashion show in Paris, looking fierce in a design she’d made herself; Tao had landed a small part in an indie film shooting in Manchester and kept sending dramatic selfies from set, pretending to be a tortured artiste. They laughed over the memory of Isaac’s latest book haul, the poor lad complaining his flat was turning into a library because he couldn’t stop buying queer theory texts.
The chu-hai cans emptied one by one, Charlie sipping steadily while Nick stuck to water, content to lie there and listen, the night wrapping round them soft and warm, the sea whispering its endless lullaby as Charlie’s fingers never stopped playing with his hair. At some point, Nick wasn’t sure when, exactly, he realised something was off about Charlie. He knew his boyfriend better than he knew himself, could read all his tells like a language only he spoke. If Nick had to bet, he’d say Charlie was gathering courage to say something. He could tell by the way Charlie licked his lips nervously every few minutes, or how he’d open his mouth as if the words were right there on the tip of his tongue, only to close it again a second later, swallowing them back down.
Nick didn’t press, didn’t ask what was going on. He didn’t know what it could be that had Charlie so indecisive, Charlie trusted him with his eyes closed, wholeheartedly, always had. But whatever it was weighing on him tonight, Nick would let him work it out in his own time. He’d be right here when Charlie finally decided to be honest about it. He always would.
Nick forgot about it for a bit, the quiet tension in Charlie fading to the back of his mind as they slipped into easier chat. He launched into a quick story he’d overheard while queueing up for their ramen on Sawtelle earlier, a proper daft one about two blokes arguing over whose dog had the better “aesthetic” for Instagram, complete with one pulling out a full mood board on his phone to prove his pug was more “cottagecore.” Then Charlie got going on his project, the one that had been eating half his life for weeks now. He talked for nearly half an hour straight, voice lighting up the way it always did when he was passionate about words. It was this massive interdisciplinary capstone thing, spanning three of his classes and worth a whopping seventy percent of his final grade: putting together an original anthology of queer short stories and poems from writers all over the world, with his own creative piece woven in, plus a big analytical introduction tying it all together with historical and cultural context. He’d been buried in research, drafting, editing, and revising non-stop, eyes bright as he rambled about the authors he’d discovered and the themes he was chasing. Nick just listened, head still in Charlie’s lap, letting the excitement wash over him. Charlie’s passion was infectious, and even if half the literary theory went over Nick’s head, he loved watching him light up like this, gesturing with his chopsticks, curls bouncing as he talked faster and faster.
After that, when it felt like they’d talked about every subject under the sun, they got quiet for a while. The watch on Nick’s wrist told him it was pushing eleven, and the long day was finally starting to catch up with him. He actually closed his eyes, perfectly aware they’d need to drag themselves back to Seaview Hall soon, but too lazy to move just yet.
The peace that settled over him was absolute, nothing but the steady hush of waves rolling in and out, and the soft rhythm of Charlie’s breathing above him, Nick’s favourite sound in the whole world. The night air was cool on his skin, the blanket warm beneath him, Charlie’s fingers still threading slow, gentle patterns through his hair, massaging his scalp in that hypnotic way that always made Nick’s eyelids heavy. He was drifting, right on the edge of sleep, every worry and noise from the day melting away, when Charlie finally spoke.
“Luna told me this mad story today after you left,”
His voice was quiet, as if he was reluctant to break the silence that had settled over them, a little hesitant, like he’d been turning the words over in his mouth for ages.
“About this bloke she knows from the research group she is” he kept going, fingers still threading slow through Nick’s curls. “He hooked up with this guy at a party. Proper passionate night, thought it was the start of something. Then a week later he sees him out with some other bloke, holding hands, looking all loved-up. He loses it, proper scene in the middle of this café, shouting ‘How could you lie to me like that?’ Everyone staring, total chaos.”
Nick laughed softly, eyes still closed, picturing it. “Mental. What happened?”
“The bloke, calm as you like, just says, ‘We’re open. I told you that before we slept together. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’” Charlie paused, letting the words hang in the salty air.
Nick let out a low whistle, the sound mixing with the waves. “Bloody hell.”
“Yup,” Charlie agreed. “Turns out the guy had been completely upfront, but I guess he hadn’t really listened. Luna said the bloke went bright red, apologised, and basically fled. Now the whole group’s gossiping about it.”
Nick chuckles, shaking his head. “Serves him right for making a scene”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “Made me think, though… how some people make that stuff work. Being honest from the start, setting boundaries… it’s not always a disaster, is it?”
Nick just shrugged, eyes still half-closed, the waves doing their steady thing in the background. “Yeah, I suppose. Lots of gay blokes make it work.”
A beat. The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably, just the sea and the distant hum of campus somewhere far off.
“You ever thought about that?” Charlie asked, quiet as anything.
Nick’s eyes snapped open so fast he was briefly afraid his retinas had detached. He pushed himself up from Charlie’s lap, sitting straight and staring dead into his boyfriend’s eyes like he’d just been told the earth was flat.
“What you on about?” he asked, voice flat with confusion.
“What you think?” Charlie said, a bit defiantly, chin lifting just a fraction. “Open relationships, Nick. You ever thought about that?”
“With you?” Nick asked, horrified.
“Yeah, of course. You dating someone else?”
“Charlie!” Nick exclaimed, voice going comically high, proper squeak territory. He felt his face heat up, ears burning.
“What!” Charlie said, matching Nick’s pitch in playful mockery, laughing at the pure outrage on his boyfriend’s face. The sound was bright and genuine against the dark waves, cutting through the night like it belonged there.
“No! Of course not! Are you mad?” Nick answered, still horrified, voice climbing higher than he’d ever let it go in public.
“Oh, relax,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes fondly. “I’m just asking my boyfriend a question like the mature adults we are.” He reached out, tugging gently at Nick’s arm, trying to pull him back down into his lap, but Nick resisted, sitting rigid on the blanket like he’d been electrocuted.
“Well, don’t just ask, okay?” Nick said, arms crossed tight over his chest. “No, I never thought of any of that shit. I don’t want anyone else.”
And then, as the most obvious possibility finally crossed his mind, his eyes widened impossibly further, the horror deepening. “Do you want an open relationship, Char?”
“No, of course I don’t,” Charlie answered, patient as anything, voice steady and calm. He tugged again, softer this time, fingers curling around Nick’s wrist. “Get back here, you prat.”
Nick stayed put for a second longer, staring at Charlie like he’d grown a second head and Charlie just looked back at him, soft and open, no anger, no impatience, just that quiet, loving certainty that always managed to melt Nick’s defences eventually. Slowly, Nick let himself be pulled back down, settling against Charlie’s torso this time, between his legs, though his heart was still hammering like he’d just run a full match. Charlie wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close, chin resting on the top of Nick’s head.
“I don’t want anyone else either,” Charlie murmured, lips brushing Nick’s curls. “I’m just… thinking out loud, yeah? About us. About how we’ve grown. About what we might want in the future.” He paused, fingers resuming their gentle path through Nick’s hair. “You know what our parents said that day they did the Intervention, right?”
Nick tensed just a fraction. The Intervention, as Charlie had dubbed it, was that awkward, endless afternoon back in England when Sarah Nelson and the Springs (Tori included) had sat them down for the “serious talk.” By then, Nick and Charlie had been making plans for California in every conversation: sharing a dorm on campus, maybe even renting a little flat somewhere near Westbridge, always together, always in each other’s pockets. Their parents had put their foot down hard. They’d made it perfectly clear that moving in together straight away wasn’t a good idea: too soon, too isolating, too much risk of losing all the experiences they’d regret missing later. “You’re eighteen,” Sarah had said gently, “not married.” The Springs had nodded along, and they’d all agreed: separate rooms, separate lives, at least for first year.
Nick had thought they were mental at the time, but he’d pretended to go along with it. It wasn’t like they had a choice anyway, Westbridge required all freshmen to live on campus, and the odds of getting assigned the same room were basically nil. In the end, Nick had ended up with Tyler, while Charlie was sorted with Adams. Nick was dead sure that when they began second year and could finally request dormmates, they’d be living together… except that never happened. And, very begrudgingly, Nick had to admit the old folks had been right. It was a good idea, after all, that he and Charlie had their own spaces.
For when they needed to do something without the other distracting them, or when they needed time to cool off after a fight (which, rare as they were, still happened), or even when they just didn’t want to see each other’s mug for a while. That happened too, sometimes Charlie needed a full day alone with his books and headphones, sometimes Nick wanted to crash after a brutal practice without feeling guilty for being knackered and grumpy. Separate rooms meant no resentment, no forced smiles when one of them was in a mood. It gave them breathing space, and strangely, it made the time they did spend together feel even better, more chosen, more precious.
Nick had grumbled about it at first, of course, properly sulked for a week when the assignments came through, but he’d come round. He loved coming home to Charlie at the end of the day, loved the way it felt deliberate now, like choosing to step into their little world instead of never leaving it.
“I don’t think they meant we should be fucking around through campus,” Nick grunted, still proper displeased with the topic. Bloody open relationship. Was Charlie mad?
“Hmm, who knows? Maybe they think we should see other people before settling.” Charlie answered
He sounded light and teasing, and Nick could hear the shift in his voice, the way it lifted, playful now, like he’d decided to turn the whole thing into a joke. Knowing Charlie wasn’t taking it deadly serious calmed Nick a bit, enough that he could lean into the banter too.
He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest like he was defending his honour. “Well, they’re wrong. I don’t want to ‘see’ anyone else. I don’t need any ‘experience’” he made the air quotes with his fingers, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ll have you know I’ve never even looked at another bloke in all the time we’ve been together. Never wandered. My eyes belong to you only”
“Oh, you’re so full of shit, Nick Nelson,” Charlie said, pinching his side lightly, grinning wide enough that Nick could feel it against his shoulder. “You think I’ve never seen you drooling over Jet’s arse in those bloody trunks?”
Nick’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage, but the laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. “Oi! That was one time! And it was an accident! Those things ride up, alright? Not my fault the lad’s got the best arse of the Cocks.”
Charlie dissolved into giggles, pressing his face into Nick’s neck, shoulders shaking.
“Please, you stared so hard I thought your eyes were gonna fall out. I had to elbow you in the ribs to snap you out of it!”
Nick groaned, dramatic as anything, but he was grinning too now, the tension from earlier easing like fog lifting. “Alright, fine. Jet’s got a cracking arse. But it’s not like I wanted to do anything about it. It’s just… appreciation. Art appreciation.”
“Art appreciation,” Charlie echoed. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
“Yeah. Strictly artistic. I’m cultured, me,” Nick said, still laughing, but he sobered up a bit, the grin fading into something softer. “No, serious. To me, thinking Jet is fit is like thinking Connor Storrie is fit, you know? Never gonna happen. In a million years.”
Charlie just made a low, amused “Mm-hm.”” against Nick’s skin, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pressed another lazy kiss there.
They’d talked about it before, of course. Neither of them was naive enough to think the other would never be attracted to someone else, especially Nick, who spent half his days surrounded by fit lads in alarming states of undress, whether in the Sharks locker room or on shift with the Cocks. Once, back when they were still at school, Nick had endured nearly an hour of Charlie ranking his Truham Rugby teammates by degree of shagability, then hotness, while Nick pretended to be horrified (“They’re my mates, Char! I don’t see them that way!”) but couldn’t resist judging every single one of his choices (“Rhys Bennett is the most shagable? Are you fucking blind?”). It had been ridiculous, filthy, and oddly bonding,laughing until their sides hurt, Charlie sprawled across Nick’s lap on the sofa, ranking the lads like it was a proper scientific study. They’d ended up snogging like the teenagers they were, both of them hard and breathless, the conversation dissolving into something much more hands-on.
“What made you think of it, anyway?”
Charlie stayed silent for a second, the silence strangely charged, enough that it made Nick turn fully to face him. Charlie had this weird, guilty look on his face, like a kid caught nicking biscuits from the tin.
“What?” Nick pressed, brow furrowing.
“You’re not gonna like it,” Charlie answered, forehead creased.
Nick groaned, a loud, dramatic “urgh” as he flopped back against Charlie’s torso. He fucking knew it. “ And then you wonder how come I don’t like that bloke,” he muttered, voice muffled against Charlie’s skin. “Look at the shit he’s been putting in your head.”
“Beto isn’t putting anything in my head,” Charlie shot back, a bit defensive now. “We’re talking about it. Beto asked if we’d ever had that conversation, and then it got me thinking. That’s all.”
“Funny how you never thought about that stuff before you started hanging with him,” Nick said. They’d had this same row dozens of times now, but he couldn’t help adding, “Or going to parties when you’ve got to get up early the next day. Or smoking pot. Or drinking that bloody caipirinha.”
“Hey, caipirinha is delicious!” Charlie said, trying to lighten the mood, but when Nick didn’t take the bait, he kept going, voice softer. “Beto and I are just having fun, alright? No one’s gonna die because I smoked a joint or because I missed Advanced Postcolonial Theory and Narrative Structures. You don’t see me nagging you when you do crazy shit with the Sharks, do you?”
“Nagging,” Nick repeated, bitterly, but he said nothing else because, well, Charlie was right. Nick had done some proper crazy shit ever since he started hanging with the Sharks outside of practice. Those lads could be chaotic as anything. Late-night pub crawls that ended in someone’s garden at dawn, impromptu cliff-jumping dares at the beach (which he’d only done once and nearly shat himself), and that one time Torres convinced the whole team to streak across the quad after a win, arses bare and all, just because. He’d come home knackered, smelling like beer and bad decisions, and Charlie had never once given him grief about it. So yeah, Charlie had a point.
But because Nick really didn’t like Beto Montenegro, he added, just for good measure, “I don’t like that Beto, ok? Just for the record.”
“Oh, alrighy, I didn’t quite get that the first two million times you said it, but now I do. Thanks, Nick,” Charlie said, sarcastic, half-teasing and half-loving, and not even Nick could keep his face from splitting into a wide grin.
He laughed despite himself, the sound rough and reluctant, shoulders shaking as he dropped his head back against Charlie’s chest. “You’re a prat.”
They left not long after that, collecting their trash to discard in the nearest bin. Nick tugged his backwards cap back on, threw both his and Charlie’s rucksacks over one broad shoulder, bunched the picnic blanket under his arm, and took Charlie’s hand with the other. They began making their way back to Seaview Hall, the cool night air brushing their skin, the distant campus lights guiding them along the familiar path.
Charlie was babbling away about his finals project again, the massive interdisciplinary capstone that spanned three classes and was worth seventy percent of his grade, going on about how he still needed to finish the analytical introduction tying the global queer narratives together, how he was stressing over the word count for the historical context section, and how the public reading/presentation was going to be the scariest part because he’d have to stand up in front of the whole seminar and defend his own creative piece. His voice was animated, hands gesturing even though Nick was holding one, the excitement and anxiety tumbling out in equal measure.
Nick nodded along, squeezing Charlie’s hand every few steps, but he was only half listening: his mind drifting between the warmth of Charlie’s palm, the lingering taste of ramen on his tongue, and, despite knowing he’d never admitted it out loud, a certain Brazilian bloke he really, really didn’t like.
Alright, lads, and everyone else who’s been lurking in the back like a hen party at Roosters, thank you for reading! If this chapter had you swooning over boys eating ramen on a moonlit beach or side-eyeing Beto Montenegro with the same energy as Nick Nelson, please consider becoming a paid subscriber! It means more chapters, more Charlie-and-Nick chaos, and frankly, it means I can justify the amount of time I spend writing fictional gay lads instead of doing, you know, my actual job.
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