Chapter Text
“Garçons, we did it!” Nicholas beams, lifting the trophy and planting a massive kiss on it that he knows instantly he'll pay for later from his boyfriend but it's worth it. If anything the thought of being ripped to filth makes Nicholas kiss it again before handing it to his deputy captain. He does so love being mercilessly teased by Charles Spring.
It had been a long second year leading to this moment, but the Leeds Gryphons smashed their league and as the cherry on top just claimed victory at the annual varsity match against their archrivals Beckett Sport in the annual showdown. It was the highlight of the rugby calendar and hugely popular among both university students and general rugby fans alike, drawing large crowds and great attendance. Or, according to Charles, “blah blah sports bros smash-smash pointy ball.”
In his first year Nicholas had skipped the event, shying away from the attention it would bring. In his first year though he hadn't been captain. In his first year his team hadn't been his home like it was now. This year though, he really wanted to take part. He looks up at the roaring crowd and finds Charles, the love of his life, clapping enthusiastically in dark jeans and a tie-dye hoodie proudly displaying the colours of the lesbian pride flag. He must be having a Darcy day today. That's nice.
“Alright lads,” a voice pipes up from the side of the pitch. “Get in line for me, captain in the middle with the trophy.”
Nicholas looks to the sound to see a man with a large lens pointed their way. His initial reaction is to freeze, quickly followed by a deep urge to bolt, his trauma response to cameras and their flashes being very much flight based. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, remembering the centering exercises Charles taught him. “In for catra, out for catra.” The memory makes Nicholas smile despite his anxiety, and he stands tall and heads over to stand with his team as requested.
Nicholas had known there was a strong possibility of a team photograph being taken in the event they won the match today. He was ready. He had talked it through with a few people; his mother, his boyfriend and his coach, who was more than a little surprised to learn his star player's mini secret. Together they helped him to come to the conclusion that he’s proud to be part of the team and that he’s earned his place in this picture, regardless of the consequences. He's had two good years of anonymity and that can't last forever. He can't allow the threat of losing that to hold him back and prohibit him from living this experience to the full.
So Nicholas poses, then showers and changes and goes out for beers with the team he pre-emptively came clean to about his family and title the week before. It had gone reasonably well, the lads surprised but generally accepting and supportive, with only a few teasing curtseys as he wobbled out of the changing room on shaky legs after his grand announcement. After a few rounds of rowdy celebration he heads home to Charles, who, after animatedly insisting Nicholas and his trophy take the bed in their one-bedroom flat seeing as they're “so in love, look you're insta official and everything,” wraps him tightly in his arms for the night.
After the photos hit several city publications the following day, both in print and online, it takes the French news outlets just a few days to catch wind of a rugby captain Nelson-Fournier residing in Leeds – their mysteriously missing prince. He isn't in rehab or hospitalised or any of the rumours that have developed in his absence. He has been studying abroad, lying low and building a relationship with his people's future favourite prince.
“Prince Nicholas!”, “Your royal highness!”, “Nicholas, who's your friend?” an array of photographers call, cameras raised as he and Charles leave their flat for their lectures on the following Monday.
Charles, of course – after having received a crash course in media training from his boyfriend and his future mother-in-law via facetime the day before, pressing the importance of not engaging outside of arranged interviews or press-conferences – stops and turns to face them, hand clasped tightly in Nicholas'. “I'm Charles Spring, his highness’ hot, British boyfriend. The prince is safe and well and happy, and if you could leave us alone that can continue, thanks,” he announces, nodding once to the crowd and tugging Nicholas to follow as he leads them briskly away down the street.
“You are going to be in so much trouble with the palace!” Nicholas tells him, wide-eyed with wonder as he and Charles increase their pace to a jog when they turn the corner. “That is not how that is done!”
“Maybe not before,” Charles tells him with a wicked grin, “but with no disrespect to mama Nelson, I'm here now and we're going to try something new.”
Just like that, Nicholas is back in the headlines, though he has little time to dwell on that whilst finishing his degree, playing rugby and teaching Charles about French culture, how to socialise with politicians, how not to fidget in tailored clothing and that cutlery has an order that really should be followed at charitable galas. Nicholas had thought he'd hate being back in the spotlight after years of quiet joy, but he finds it isn't too bad when he has a black cat boyfriend to hiss at the press and then curl himself around him at night. It makes it bearable. And kind of fun.