Years blurred. A-levels became university applications. The rugby pitch gave way to a teaching assistant job at a primary school. Charlie’s drum kit moved from his parents’ garage into the spare bedroom of their tiny, one-bedroom flat with the leaky radiator and the neighbours who argued at 3 AM.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Nick’s temple. Nick and Charlie
It read: Charlie,
One evening, they were lying on the sofa. Nick was dozing, his head in Charlie’s lap, his golden hair now streaked with a few premature greys from stress and laughter. Charlie was reading, his free hand absently stroking Nick’s hair. Years blurred
It started on a drizzly Tuesday in Form. Nick, the Year 11 golden retriever of Truham Grammar School, with his broad shoulders and sun-touched hair, sat down at the desk next to Charlie’s. Charlie, the quiet, curly-haired Year 10 boy who had been outed a year prior and was still learning to take up less space, froze. Charlie’s drum kit moved from his parents’ garage
“It’s fine,” Charlie said that night, curled on his bed, phone pressed to his ear. “I get it. You’re not ready.”
When they broke apart, Nick rested his forehead against Charlie’s. The world rushed back in—whispers, a wolf whistle, the bell ringing.