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.
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. Nick and Charlie
“Um. Yeah. Fine,” Charlie squeaked, immediately cursing his own voice. Years blurred
For three weeks, it was a secret. A beautiful, terrifying secret. They passed notes disguised as homework. They held hands under the library table. Nick would whisper “my boyfriend” into Charlie’s ear in empty hallways, and Charlie’s entire body would turn to warm static. Charlie’s drum kit moved from his parents’ garage