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Nick smiles, tipping his head to the side so his sandy fringe falls across his forehead.
“I had a really nice time.”
The awning light catches in his eyes, sparkling amber, and warmth spreads through Charlie's chest.
It's a bit of a trite sentiment, considering how delightfully offbeat their conversation has been all night (talking about everything from quokkas to bed and breakfasts to dance competition shows), but he's not wrong. This is one of the nicest first dates Charlie's been on in ages.
He smiles back, forcing himself to meet Nick’s gaze instead of lingering on his full lips.
“I did too.”
“I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before,” Nick says, still grinning. “You’re a proper little nerd, aren’t you?”
The way he says it sounds nothing like the boys in secondary school.
“I guess,” Charlie mumbles.
“Like…” Nick pushes his hair back into the swoop that Charlie’s been watching it fall out of for nearly four hours now. “I think at one point we talked about the cretaceous and… menstrual cups in the same breath?”
Charlie shrugs. “Well… both periods.”
“See!” Nick barks a laugh and his face does something breathtakingly endearing – crinkling and brightening and softening all at once. “You’re so clever, and so strange!”
Charlie can feel his cheeks heating up.
“In a good way, I mean,” Nick hurries to clarify. “In the best way. I feel like I’d literally never get bored of talking to you.”
“I know, me neither,” Charlie says quietly, almost under his breath, willing himself not to step forward and meet Nick in the middle.
Slow. They said they’d take things slow.
Nick has been lovely enough to walk Charlie back to his flat, like the proper gentleman he is, instead of both going their separate ways after the pub (or maybe it's just that neither of them could stop nattering on long enough to actually say goodnight). But now he’s here, stood across from Charlie on his stoop, highlighted by the stark yellow glare from the bare bulb overhead, in a pair of light-wash jeans that Charlie suspects may have been sewn onto him, and Charlie is massively regretting his request that they not rush.
Sure, after the way things ended with Dean this is exactly what Charlie needs: no commitment, no pressure, no expectation of a hookup or a second date (though admittedly, he’s very much hoping for a second date). It was just such a lovely night – actually about two hours more of it than they’d originally planned – and he’s not ready for it to be over yet.
Still marveling at their nonlinear (practically non-Newtonian) conversation, Nick muses, “I feel like we could be talking about Joan of Arc one moment–”
“—and vegan ice cream the next,” Charlie finishes, blushing even more when delight blooms on Nick’s face.
“You’re so cool,” Nick says earnestly; not a come-on, not a line, just pure wonder.
He steps closer, and Charlie’s breath catches.
“Seriously, you are,” Nick insists when Charlie shakes his head, not quite up to such a glowing compliment. “You’re so smart and creative and genuinely hilarious. And you play the drums? C’mon, that’s the coolest thing I can think of.”
“I think you’re really cool too,” Charlie mumbles like a tongue-tied teenager.
Nick is fit and principled and kind to animals. He’s close with his mum and his best friends are lesbians. He’s got a big, mushy heart (over dessert he confessed to always taking spiders outside, even though he’s deathly afraid of them) but he doesn’t take any shit (he volunteers as security at London Pride every year, so everyone can celebrate safely). Charlie mentioned ahead of time that food can be an issue, and Nick was perfect about it — he didn’t push or make Charlie feel bad when he could barely finish his pasta, and even offered to swap dishes.
Cool doesn’t begin to cover it. Charlie’s more than a little smitten.
“I know we’re supposed to wait,” Nick says. “Like, I don’t want to come across as too eager or anything when we’ve agreed to go slow, but I’d really like to see you again.”
Charlie beams up at him, a bit dazed. How is this man real?
“Would you… like to see me again too?” Nick asks shyly.
“Yes,” Charlie blurts out. “Obviously!”
Nick stares at him for a few breathless seconds, then bursts out laughing. “Why are we like this?”
We. Charlie gets caught on that itty-bitty syllable, imagining all the doors it might open, the places it might lead.
“I like that we are,” he offers, just to try the word out for himself.
“Would it be alright if I—? I don’t want to overstep, but—” Nick holds out his hand and Charlie rushes to take it, going all shivery with warmth when their fingers fit together perfectly.
To hell with slow. He wants everything with Nick right this second.
They stand together for a beat, just holding hands and trading shy glances, neither of them ready to let go yet.
“Thank you,” Nick says finally, smiling at him soft and fond.
It’s all Charlie can do not to imagine waking up to that smile.
“For… what?”
“For messaging me, I guess.” Nick’s gaze dips below Charlie’s eye line and a faint blush rises on his cheeks. “The apps are hell, but I’m glad I stuck it out long enough to find you. Or, for you to find me. You know what I mean.”
“I do, yeah.” Charlie squeezes his hand. He’s been on just enough dates since Dean left to know he doesn’t want to go on any more. Well, except with Nick. He’d like to go on quite a lot more with Nick.
Nick returns the gentle squeeze, then swings their arms back and forth, like he means to take off skipping.
“What’s that for?” Charlie laughs.
“Dunno. I just don’t want to leave yet,” Nick admits.
“I don’t want you to leave either.”
“But we’ll see each other again soon,” Nick says, like he’s trying to reassure himself. Then, quieter, “This was just the nicest date I’ve been on in… well, ever, I think.”
“Ever?”
Someday Charlie will learn not to antagonize potential boyfriends, but today is apparently not that day.
“Shut up.” Nick rubs the nape of his neck with his free hand, blushing even harder.
Oh good, he’s adorable when he gets flustered. That’s not Charlie’s kryptonite or anything.
Against his better judgement, he takes the last step forward, closing the gap between them. Fuck it, life is short.
“I can think of a good way to shut me up,” he dares Nick, staring defiantly up at him.
Nick’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “W-what?”
Charlie bites his lip, not at all subtly.
Nick's tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “We said—”
“Oh my god, please just kiss me,” Charlie breathes, tugging at Nick’s hand.
And if Charlie'd had any doubts up to this point — which, actually, come to realise, he hasn’t at all — the date went better than he could have imagined, and Nick might be his actual dream guy — but if there had been any shred of doubt left, it’s gone the moment their lips touch.
Nick lifts his hand to cup Charlie’s cheek, searching his face for one lingering moment before he leans in, and then, god, his mouth is warm and soft and hesitant, and heat floods through Charlie just from that. He’s burning up with it, the maddeningly gentle brush of Nick’s lips, the unbearable tenderness in the way he’s cradling his face; but then the need he can feel beneath it, in the way Nick’s breath catches and the perfect, little gut-punch whimper he lets out when Charlie leans into him.
In his 26 years on this earth, Charlie has kissed… actually quite a lot of blokes, but he’s never been kissed like this before. It deepens automatically, before either of them can stop themselves, their hips pressed together, hands tangling into hair and grabbing at shoulders, lips parting, gasping and sighing in sync.
Charlie’s so lost in wanting, tasting, clinging, that he barely even notices Nick’s got him up against the door until Nick pulls back and runs a hand through his hair, giving Charlie a head-to-toe once-over.
“We should stop.”
Godddddddamnit.
“We should,” Charlie agrees ruefully, “okay yeah,” but his finger hooks through Nick’s belt loop all on its own, holding him in place.
“Charlie,” Nick laughs.
“Just one more,” Charlie bargains, already leaning in.
It's even better the second time, better than all the other kisses of his life combined. The soft press of Nick's lips sears through him, so intense that Charlie can barely keep his knees from buckling; so hot that he wonders if he might actually spontaneously combust. He's on fire, heat swirling in his belly and pooling between his legs and he can't help rocking into Nick's hip–
“Okay, fuck–” Nick gasps, pulling back. “Hang on.”
A whine slips from Charlie’s throat, but he nods, trying to douse the flames enough to get his wits about him.
Nick is right. They’ve agreed to go slow, and Charlie did mean that – he does mean that. More importantly, they’re still out front of his building where any random passerby could get an eyeful of them feeling each other up.
“Sorry,” he sighs, dropping Nick’s hand.
Nick shakes his head and scoops Charlie’s hand up again. “No sorries. It’s not as if I didn’t want to–” He ducks his head, chuckling to himself. “Like, so much.”
“Oh don’t say that,” Charlie groans. “You’re not making this any easier.”
A light flicks on in the building across the way and Charlie looks up, watching as a silhouette moves across the illuminated window, stopping just at the framed edge. He imagines the cutout stranger staring down at them, wondering what sort of conversation they might be having.
“I’m guessing you wanted to go slow for a reason, yeah?” Nick asks, gently brushing his thumb over Charlie’s hand.
Charlie sighs. “Yeah.”
“Probably a pretty good reason if you made a point to tell me ahead of time?”
Charlie nods, peeking up at him.
“So, even though all I want to do is snog you senseless on this stoop–”
“...and then come upstairs and–”
“Oh my god you’re such a menace!” Nick says, swatting at him. “Stop making it so hard for me to be supportive!”
“Oh, I’m making it hard, am I?” Charlie asks innocently.
“Charlie!”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Charlie takes a deep breath, willing himself back to calm. “I do appreciate it, honestly. I want to take my time with you.”
Nick bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a little whine.
Charlie grins, taking his turn to swat at the big sweet idiot of a man instead. “Oh who’s a menace now?” he teases. “You know that’s not what I meant!”
“No, right, sorry, I just–”
Charlie lets his hand come to rest on Nick’s arm, brushing his thumb over the pale skin. “I know. Me too.”
“So.” Nick straightens up, trying for the millionth time to fix his staticky hair. “I’ll text you when I get home?”
“Probably for the best,” Charlie agrees.
“Okay, yeah. Goodnight then,” Nick says.
Charlie drops his hand from Nick’s arm. “Goodnight.”
But even once they’ve both said it and managed to let go of each other, Nick stays put, looking everywhere but Charlie’s face.
“You’re… not leaving,” Charlie points out.
“I’m working up to it.”
Charlie giggles, louder than he means to. “Do you need me to push you?”
“No, I just–” Nick's hand ghosts over Charlie's, their pinky fingers brushing.
He doesn't have to explain; this is different from every other first date Charlie's been on. It's like it doesn't make sense for Nick to leave. Somehow Charlie already expects to find him in his kitchen tomorrow morning, fixing tea.
He probably gets the most adorable bedhead–
“You could come up?” Charlie suggests, trying not to sound overeager or too serious, even though if Nick says yes he’s not joking.
“Right yeah, very slow.”
“We don't have to–”
“If we're this bad out here what do you think we'll be like once we have privacy?” Nick argues.
He’s right, unfortunately. Charlie’s brain is working at half speed, most of his blood directed to other areas of his body, and what brainpower he does have is currently allocated to imagining what’s under those perfectly tight trousers.
“Fair,” he admits with a shrug. “We could just watch telly?
“Oh nice try, Spring. I know a Netflix and chill bid when I hear one,” Nick says, though he’s still very noticeably not leaving.
“Okay.” Charlie sighs, letting the delicious tension dissipate into the crisp night air. There will be other dates. This one doesn’t have to last until tomorrow. “You’re right. Let me know when you get home safe?”
Nick’s tongue makes another sweep of his peach-pink lips. “Well. Maybe if we watched telly and we were doing something really boring and mundane? Kept our hands busy?”
Charlie whines, using every bit of willpower not to imagine what Nick would rather be doing with his hands. From the corner of his eye, the window-watcher slips out of view.
“Sure, good plan.” He huffs a laugh, his voice a bit thin. “You can help me tidy my flat, or replace my watch battery (he doesn’t wear a watch), or fold laundry with me.”
Nick beams, bright and eager. “I quite like laundry, actually.”
Dream guy.
And there he is, stood right on Charlie’s stoop.
“You’re… serious,” Charlie says cautiously.
“I… seem to be,” Nick answers, as if he’s equally surprised.
“You don’t actually want to fold my laundry.”
“For another half hour with you? Absolutely I do.”
“Nick.”
“I can go,” Nick says, searching Charlie’s expression. “I don’t mean to… I know I’m basically inviting myself up–”
“No, stay.” Charlie catches Nick’s hand again, their fingers just curling around each other. “Come… fold my laundry, or dust the bookshelves or–”
Nick puffs his chest out. “You should see me with a vacuum.”
Charlie can’t help laughing as he fumbles for his keys and taps the fob to the keypad. “Sadly for you, I have an automated one. His name is Roomberto.”
“Oh, well I wouldn’t dream of threatening his job security,” Nick says very seriously as he follows Charlie in the door and up the narrow stairs. As they walk slowly, stealing glances at each other, Charlie imagines a different night, at a different pace, where they chase each other up, giggling and teasing and building anticipation for what’s to come.
On the second landing, Nick asks, “Do you actually have laundry?” His voice is quiet, and a bit uncertain, like reality has been creeping up on him step by step.
“I actually do,” Charlie tosses back over his shoulder. “My flat is kind of a wreck, come to think of it. I wasn't expecting–”
And he's about to do what he always does, spiralling straight to the worst case scenario – Was this a terrible idea? What if the sight of dusty shelves and an untidied kitchen sends Nick packing? What if he thinks Charlie's lucky clover-print boxers are stupid? – when Nick catches up to him, bumping shoulders without knocking him off balance. “That's perfect. Totally unsexy.”
It's enough that by the time they're at his door, with Nick stood to the side, his hands shoved into his pockets, and Charlie shakily trying to fit the key in the lock, the nervousness spinning in his brain has softened into something vaguely fond.
Okay, this is absurd and they're just mutually agreeing to do it anyway. They can talk about narwhals and NATO and actually fold Charlie's laundry and that's genuinely all Nick wants from him.
“Sorry to tell you, Roomberto’s falling down on the job,” Nick teases, stepping through the door and directly onto a dust bunny.
It's gentle though, laughing with Charlie not at him.
“Shit. I forgot to reset him after the power went out last night.” Charlie leaves Nick in the entry hall to search out the little vacuum that could, but just as abruptly changes course when he catches sight of the kitchen. Hurries over to the sink, trying to pile plates and glasses into it before his unexpected guest sees them. His flat’s honestly not that bad, just a day or two worth of lived in, but he likes to pick up if he's expecting company.
“Hey, I've got no room to talk.” Nick shrugs, looking all around him as he crosses the small space. “I don't employ any robots at all. What do I know about management styles?”
“It's a very complicated working relationship,” Charlie bandies back, turning to the sink again, ready to set a new speed record for dish washing. “We have the RSE instead of the HSE–”
“I think the H is for ‘Health,’ not ‘Human,’” Nick points out helpfully, his voice closer behind Charlie now.
“Right, well there are still lots of robot rights issues to consider–”
“You don't have to do that,” Nick says, resting his hand on Charlie's shoulder.
Charlie turns to look at him and Nick nods down at the sink. “Just leave it. I'm not bothered.”
“I just… I didn't expect–”
“Cleaner than my flat anyway,” Nick says with a shrug.
Charlie eyes him, lifting his sudsy hands out of the sink basin. “Well I suppose I'm glad we ended up here, then?”
“Definitely. And I don't have a pet robot–”
“–employee,” Charlie corrects him.
Nick grabs the dish towel from the hook and wraps Charlie's hands up in it, smiling cheekily at him. “Employee, then. And anyway, I finished all my laundry yesterday. We'd be in real trouble at my place.”
It's a confusingly sweet moment: Nick holding both of Charlie's hands through the flannel as they smile at each other like idiots about chores and an automated vacuum. That's really been the tone of the whole night though, truth be told. Wonderfully weird, perplexingly sincere.
“Right. I ought to get the laundry,” Charlie says, but he doesn't move a muscle.
Nick's gaze darts down to Charlie's lips, then quickly back up. “Yeah. That's… why I'm here, after all.”
Charlie just nods, lost in Nick's lovely hazel eyes.
Nick bites his lip again, cruelly, and when he speaks his voice is lower, smoothed out like silk. “I know. I really wish we could.”
“Oh, um–” Charlie's cheeks flare with heat and he quickly breaks eye contact.
“Okay, you go get the laundry.” Nick suggests, giving Charlie's hands a clumsy squeeze. “And I'll get Roomberto settled on his dock?”
It's as absurd as everything else has been tonight, and just as sweet.
Charlie blinks up at him. “What?”
“Oh, my mum has one. They're temperamental little creatures,” Nick says, reluctantly letting go of Charlie's hands.
“Um… sure? Thanks? You know that the–”
“Top button re-connects him to the Wi-Fi, yeah,” Nick confirms, then turns to scout out the intrepid little vacuum wherever he happened to run out of battery.
Charlie stares after him for a minute, still awed by the whole situation, then starts down the hall to retrieve the rumpled laundry he piled on his bed earlier, hoping that by the time he got home it would have folded itself.
Though, with Nick helping, maybe it won't be so bad.
Just as he goes out of the room, Charlie catches a glimpse of Nick lovingly patting Roomberto on the top of his hard plastic shell before reconnecting him to his dock.
Maybe a lot of things will be a bit less bad with Nick here.
As Charlie pads down the long runner rug, he can't help imagining how this would normally go – stumbling down the hallway mid-kiss, learning each other's bodies touch by touch, deciding with a shift of hips or a gasp of breath which of them should get prepped, or both, or neither.
But it's worth waiting to have something with Nick that lasts longer than a night.
When Charlie gets to his room, it's just how he left it: lights off, bed unmade, and his laundry still stubbornly unfolded atop it.
He retrieves the bin from his desk and starts heaping his clothes back into it, frowning at the mess. Everything is wrinkly now, albeit pleasantly lavender scented, and Charlie’s stomach twists.
“Was this… a bad idea?” he calls to the living room. “I can't honestly expect you to–”
“–Do your clothes have bloodstains on them?” Nick calls back. “Stop making it weird.”
This is all objectively weird, but Charlie's grateful for the push. And now he's invested in proving he's not an axe murderer, so that's something.
“Hydrogen peroxide does wonders,” he quips, peeking around the overflowing laundry basket as he shuffles back into the main room with it.
Nick jumps up from the sofa and lifts the whole lot of it out of Charlie's arms. “Jesus, how many clothes do you have?” he grunts, pretending to sag under the bin’s weight.
Charlie rolls his eyes, steering him around the coffee table with a hand on his shoulder. “You literally invited yourself up. You don't get to complain.”
“Well if I can't complain–” Nick dumps the clothes out onto the sofa with a dramatic flourish, letting the flimsy plastic bin fall where it may. Then he turns towards the door, bluffing like he’s about to walk out of it.
“Fine, okay. Stubborn,” Charlie grouses, catching his arm.
Nick beams at Charlie and lets himself be caught.
They settle on opposite sides of the sofa with the laundry between them – probably for the best – then stare at each other a bit more. It's awkward, but in a sort of cosy way; Charlie finds he doesn't actually mind at all.
“So,” Nick says.
“So.”
Nick picks at the sleeve of one of Charlie's jumpers that's sticking out from the pile.
“What do you prefer? In terms of folding.”
Charlie squints at him. “I thought you said you were good at laundry.”
“I said I like it, not that I’m particularly good at it.” Nick shrugs. “Besides, it's not as if there's only one way to fold things, yeah?”
“Isn't there?”
Nick tuts in the loveliest way. “Um, no? I’ve no idea what you put in a dresser versus hang up, and for the things you do fold, you might prefer a bifold or a trifold, or you could roll your clothes–”
“–I stand corrected,” Charlie interrupts, rolling his eyes as he lifts a shirt out of the chaotic pile. “Here.”
He demonstrates his folding method on the coffee table, with Nick watching closely. Charlie supposes it’s a trifold, though he’s never put a name to it before. He tucks the sleeves in, folds each side to overlap in the middle – like a formal letter, he thinks to himself – then folds the bottom hem up by thirds. Three by three, so satisfying.
Nick nods. “Easy enough. Same for jumpers?”
“Same for jumpers.”
Charlie leans over the arm of the sofa to set the shirt aside, stretching just far enough that the tee he’s wearing rides up, and immediately feels Nick’s eyes on him.
“...You’re staring,” he says without looking behind him.
“Well. You’re very attractive,” Nick mumbles. When Charlie turns back around, Nick’s cheeks are a bit pink, but he manages a convincing smile – not at all lecherous. “How about trousers, then?” he asks, sitting back against the cushions.
Charlie blinks at him. All he can think about is how desperately he wants to take Nick’s off.
Nick slowly enunciates, “How do you fold your trousers?”
Right. Charlie shakes himself out of the daze. His own trousers. Folding them, not ripping them off with his teeth.
He digs a pair of joggers out of the heap and lays them on the table.
“So you have access to a washing machine, but not a dryer?” Nick teases as Charlie tries to smooth out the set-in wrinkles.
“Oi!”
“I’m just saying, it tends to work better if you dry them with a bit of heat, or on a line, not in a subterranean cave.”
“No one’s keeping you here,” Charlie huffs, folding one pant leg over the other. He’ll be gutted when Nick leaves, but the sass is automatic.
“As if you haven’t been teasing me since the moment you set foot in the restaurant!” Nick points out, gently nudging Charlie’s shoulder with his own. “But you’re right, I’m not being held hostage. I want to stay. Help you with this laundry disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster.”
“Sort of is, though.”
“This from the man who told me he doesn’t know how to use an iron.”
Out of the corner of Charlie’s eye, Nick’s cheeks flush again.
“Whatever, just–” Nick leans forward. “Trousers. Show me what you prefer.”
“After our next date we can go to your flat and I’ll teach you to use basic household appliances,” Charlie snarks, folding the lengthwise.
“That’s rich coming from you. Poor Roomberto spent the night under your sofa.”
Nick grabs a pair of black skinny jeans and starts to fold them in the same pattern as the joggers.
Charlie reaches back for another shirt. “He likes it under there.”
“He told me he was scared.”
Charlie snorts a laugh. “You really shouldn’t be getting in the middle of someone else’s workplace dispute.”
“Maybe this is why we met,” Nick says sagely, picking out a jumper next. “The universe brought me here to aid in Roomberto’s plight.”
“You only like me for my robot vacuum, is that it?”
“I like you for a lot of reasons,” Nick says softly, not teasing anymore.
Charlie looks up at him, and Nick looks back, holding each other’s gaze for a few seconds, both mid-fold, until the tension gets the better of them and they look away at the same time.
“You’re actually quite good at that,” Charlie offers, nodding at the shirt and trousers Nick’s gotten through so far.
“I take instruction well,” Nick says proudly, and Charlie has to dig his fingernails into his thigh to keep from imagining other scenarios where that might come in handy.
This man sat politely on his sofa, folding his laundry, is going to be the death of him.
Not just because Charlie's going to have the wank of his life after Nick leaves. This isn't the same as anything else has been in all his life. Nick's not the same as anyone else. Maybe it's just the domesticity of sorting through clothes together, but he already feels a bit like home.
Just as Charlie is reaching the precipice of that very sentimental realization, Nick happens to pull Charlie's clover-print boxers from the pile. Luck of the draw. He holds them up, giving Charlie a look – half smirk, half knowing grin.
“Shut up,” Charlie deflects, even though Nick hasn't actually said anything.
Nick beams at him, fondly, like this isn't weird and mortifying, and somehow a little bit hot? “Mmmm no, I don't think I will.”
“They're my lucky pair,” Charlie explains, for no plausible reason.
“They’re cute,” Nick says, very sincerely. Then, dropping his voice again: “I bet they look even cuter on you.”
The simmering heat in Charlie’s gut melts into something molten.
“I… shut up,” he says again lamely.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll behave.” Nick laughs, holding Charlie’s pants out to him. “Show me how you like these folded?”
As they pass the fabric from hand to hand, their fingers brush, accidentally this time but with no less fanfare: desire ricochets up Charlie’s spine and Nick lets out a quiet gasp.
It’s new and startling and delicious.
“So,” Nick says shakily. “Does Roomberto have the option to unionize, or…?”
“Well it’s just him.” Charlie folds the boxers in half, then in half again, a tidy two by two.
Nick watches, then selects a different pair and copies Charlie’s technique flawlessly. Having covered all the necessary instructions, they go on like that for a while, bantering about robot workers’ rights, whether the filling or the shell of cannoli is the best part, entropy, cupcake recipes, and mismatched socks. They both start to lean into the touches, relishing the showers of sparks, the bright, faint gleam of what’s on the horizon. As much as Charlie wants more (and god does he want more) there's something so lovely about a quiet night in together, doing a boring chore and yapping about everything and nothing.
For the first time in a long time, he can imagine a version of home that feels easy like this: cooking together, trading off dish duty, splitting the laundry on Saturday mornings.
As the pile dwindles, Nick and Charlie move closer and closer together until finally they’re sat side by side, thighs pressed together, fighting over who gets to fold the last jumper.
“You said I’m good at it!” Nick argues, tugging at one royal-blue sleeve.
“You are, but they’re still my clothes!” Charlie laughs, holding onto the other sleeve even as he’s practically dragged across Nick’s lap. “Oi!”
Nick wrenches the jumper out of Charlie's grip, slams it down onto the coffee table and folds it in record time. “Victory!”
“... And then you’ll have to leave,” Charlie sighs, sitting up again and shaking his curls out of his face.
Nick looks over his shoulder, smiling sadly at him. “I will, yeah.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave either.” Nick sits back and gathers Charlie’s hands in his own. “But I’ll be back, yeah? Or you can come round mine next time.”
“Next time,” Charlie concedes, fighting the impulse to lay his head on Nick’s muscled shoulder.
“Are you free Monday night?”
What an absurd day to go out with someone. Besides, Charlie’s not sure which Monday he means. It’s currently on the later side of Friday.
“In three days?” he scoffs.
“Well I’m busy Saturday and Sunday,” Nick says earnestly.
“You really couldn’t wait a week to see me again?” Charlie teases.
“I could, but I’d rather not,” Nick says, like he’s totally unaware of the games they all play.
Charlie searches Nick’s face and finds nothing but sincerity. It is easier, with him here, in Charlie’s orbit, sat on his sofa, to just say what he means. “I’d like to see you as soon as you're free. And I'd like to do a lot more than kissing on Monday, if you want that too.”
“Ironing?”
“Nick.”
Nick trails his fingers over the back of Charlie's hand, frowning slightly. “That's still not very slow.”
“No, it’s not.” Charlie bites his lip, working out the mental maths. “Okay, ironing on Monday, then the following… Friday, maybe?”
Nick nods eagerly.
“Friday we can do whatever we like,” Charlie whispers.
That’s probably still too fast, but it's hard not to sink straight into the rest of his life with Nick when it all feels so natural.
Still beaming, Nick leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Charlie’s cheek.
“Perfect. It’s a date.”