Chapter Text
Kansas
Charlie never expected his life to take him to fucking Kansas.
Where the streets are flatter than pancakes, the winds are strong enough to make Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender look like a lightweight, and the skies shift from baby blue to absolute pitch-black asshole-dark with lightning striking out of nowhere.
But here he fucking is.
Ad astra per aspera, the Kansans say. To the stars through difficulties. A noble motto, sure. But if you asked Charlie? He’d translate it more like: “To hell through homophobia.” Because why has he just landed and already gotten eight—yes, eight—weird stares for the simple crime of existing with a Pride pin on his satchel?
He really, really hates them—and himself—for being in this situation.
If only publishing wasn’t his dream job. If only he’d chosen something sane. But no, his stupid dissertation topic had to be “Queer Athletes and the Media: Narratives of Outing, Identity, and Public Perception.” A mouthful, a headache, and apparently a one-way ticket to Kansas. Stupid New York University, crashing his plans with their “field research opportunity.”
He already misses his very trashy, very cramped, very beloved Queens studio. At least the smell of garbage in summer felt like home. Here? It smells like… shit. No, literally—shit. He’s ninety percent sure someone has parked a horse as their personal ride home, because holy hell, the stench is everywhere.
This is what he gets, isn’t it? For deciding that English landscaping wasn’t enough, that American publishing was the path to a “fancy career,” that hopping on a plane and chasing a thesis across the Midwest would get him a foot in the door. Instead, all it’s gotten him so far is flat streets, side-eyes, and the overwhelming sense that he’s made the worst mistake of his life.
Tao had warned him even!
“Charlie, America isn’t really… safe right now for… people like you. (The gays. Thanks, Tao.) And all your friends are here. Maybe an online option is better. Or, you know, literally any London school?”
And Charlie had smiled, smug and hopeful, and said: “But Tao, New York could be where my soulmate is. Besides, I’ll only be there two years before moving back—with a master’s degree under my name and ‘American experience’ under my belt!”
Tao had huffed, exasperated, tossing his hands in the air. “Charlie, the soulmate mark doesn’t count down based on miles. It counts down until you meet them. They could be at a London school for all you know.”
But Charlie only laughed. “Tao, please, just support me on this. It’s New York! It’s the best opportunity I’ve got.”
Now here he is. Not in New York. Not in London. But fucking Kansas. Dragging his suitcase across the airport that smells like horse shit and regret, thinking that Tao was probably right.
(That conversation with Tao was four months ago.)
Since then, Charlie’s interviewed openly gay, trans, queer, aromantic, and bi athletes scattered across the U.S. For the most part, he’s loved it. From Maine, where he stayed in a creaky beach house with windows that rattled in the wind, to Colorado, holed up in a log cabin with snow pressing against the glass—it’s been… nice. Lonely, yes, but meaningful.
And the stories he’s collected—those have been brilliant. Narratives about how queerness collides with sport, how stereotypes box athletes in, how stepping out of that mold risks everything. Fame. Sponsorships. Safety. Belonging. Each interview another reminder that queer people in athletics don’t just play the game—they have to survive it.
But now? Now he’s in Kansas.
Forced to attend a bull riding competition. (What the fuck even is that?) Why? Well, his latest assignment: interview Nicholas Nelson, who—based on a five-minute Google image search—looks like the straightest man alive. Honestly, Charlie wouldn’t be surprised if Nelson lied about his sexuality just for the publicity.
Because what could be queerer, apparently, than cowboy hats, spurs, and straddling a bull?
(Maybe that's rude to say and judge, but seriously?)
Charlie doesn’t even know anything about bull riding. No, literally. When he told Isaac he was boarding a flight from LA to Kansas to interview a famous bull rider, Isaac had just laughed and said, “Good luck.”
(What the hell is Charlie meant to do with good luck?!)
He sighs, dragging his suitcase behind him through the terminal, eyes scanning for his name. His frown deepens when he spots a blonde-and-pink-haired woman bouncing on her heels, holding a glittery poster board that screams CHARLES SPRING. She’s decked out in a pink cowgirl hat, brown boots, white blouse, and a denim skirt.
(What the hell did he just get himself into?)
He trudges toward her, his gaze flicking down to his wrist. 2 days, 3 hours, 49 minutes, and 12 seconds. That’s how long until he meets his soulmate. Which, according to his mental math, means he’ll still be in Kansas when it happens.
(Good God. Why couldn’t it be a hot English rugby player? Or some Marvel-obsessed book nerd? Literally anything would be better than a cowboy Western MAGA man.)
The girl beams when he finally reaches her. “Hi! Are you Charles Spring?”
He blinks. “Uh… just Charlie works.”
“Hi! I’m Imogen! So nice to meet you, Charlie!” she gushes, all energy and bright eyes. “I’m not sure if anyone told you yet, but I’m the assistant manager for Nicholas Nelson. Since you’re planning to interview him at the PBR—”
(What the hell is PBR?)
“—I’m here to help make your short stay in Kansas a bit more meaningful!”
Charlie just nods, too exhausted to argue. Six-hour layover in Denver, followed by… this.
“I was thinking,” Imogen says brightly, adjusting her pink hat, “I could drive you out to the ranch house Airbnb you’ll be staying at, and then maybe give you a tour of the rodeo grounds?”
Charlie hums, dragging his suitcase another foot with a dull thunk. “Is that something we could… maybe do tomorrow instead?”
Her face falls for half a second before she recovers, still smiling but a little sheepish. “Oh, uh—unfortunately, probably not. We’ve got a lot of travelers coming in tomorrow for the tournament, and, well, Nicholas and the other riders will be doing warm-ups and training for the big day. It’s… hectic.”
Charlie exhales, shoulders slumping. “Okay, no, that’s fine. Whatever works.”
Imogen brightens again, steering him toward the parking lot. “You’re a lot nicer than some interviewers I’ve dealt with.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “What, does Nicholas have a lot of interviews or something?”
She giggles, lowering her voice as if sharing a scandal. “I mean… he is kind of the heartthrob of Kansas. So, yeah.”
Charlie mumbles under his breath, scanning the rows of cars, before coming to a sudden stop at a Jeep. “Great.”
Imogen reaches for his suitcase, but Charlie swats her hand away gently and hauls it into the back of her dusty Jeep himself. She looks a little surprised, but he just mutters, “I’ve got it, thanks.”
The drive out of the city feels like entering a different planet. The streets thin into endless flat highways, golden fields stretching so far they could swallow London whole. The windows rattle with the wind, hot air sweeping through cracks in the doors. Charlie slouches in the passenger seat, clutching his satchel like a lifeline.
Imogen, of course, fills the silence.
“So, Nicholas has been on an absolute roll this season,” she gushes, one hand gripping the wheel, the other painting pictures in the air. “He placed second at the Cheyenne Frontier Days last month, and you should’ve seen the crowd when he hit that full eight seconds. Then in Fort Worth, he—oh my god—you would’ve thought he was a rock star. People were screaming his name.”
Charlie hums, nodding politely, eyes fixed on the blur of cornfields outside his window.
“And don’t even get me started on how he’s ranked nationally right now,” she continues, cheeks flushing pink. “Everyone’s saying he could break into the top three by the end of the year if he keeps this up. He’s kind of, like… the pride of Kansas, you know? Our cowboy hero.”
Charlie presses his forehead against the glass, watching dust whirl in the side mirror. “Mm,” he says. Another nod.
Imogen doesn’t seem to notice the flatness in his voice. She just keeps going, rattling off stats and victories, anecdotes about the way Nick signs autographs for kids after every ride, how he’s “so humble in person, like seriously, you’ll see.”
Charlie hums again, half-asleep already, thinking not for the first time: Good God, what have I gotten myself into?
Kansas
Nick doesn’t like bull riding.
Well—scratch that. He does like bull riding. The thrill, the jolt of adrenaline, the split-second when the whole world is nothing but dust, muscle, and the fight to stay upright. It’s nice. Familiar.
But he also hates it.
Because his brother is his manager. And his brother seems to wake up every morning with one goal in mind: make Nick’s life a living hell.
It’s not Nick’s fault his rugby career got cut short. Senior year of high school, one bad tackle, one torn knee, and that dream evaporated before it ever began. Rugby had been the plan, the path, the ticket out of Kansas. Without it, what was left?
Bull riding, apparently. The next best thing.
And the truth is, he’s good at it. Because bull riding, when you strip away the theatrics, is about the same things rugby was: balance, thigh strength, hand eye coordination, and reading your opponent. Only here, the “opponent” is two thousand pounds of muscle and fury. And Nick likes to think he understands animals pretty well.
(Thank you very much.)
So yeah. He likes it. He hates it. He needs it.
And honestly, the only thing Nick really hates about bull riding is that it keeps him here.
In the country.
He loves the blue skies, the open dirt roads, the sunsets that bleed orange over the fields. Don’t get him wrong—Kansas is in his blood. But he wants more.
He wants to see New York and sit in a dark theater watching a Broadway show. He wants to get drunk in Soho and laugh with strangers. He wants to climb the Eiffel Tower and kiss someone reckless at the top, wind tangling their hair. He wants to travel, to explore, to prove there’s more to his life than eight seconds on a bull.
But the job keeps him tethered.
And in the off-season? He’s not free then, either. He’s in physical therapy, babying the knee that cost him rugby, or else he’s shuttled to brand deals, interviews, and photoshoots he doesn’t want to do. Smile for the cameras, Nick. Look cowboy enough, but not too cowboy. Be the bi poster boy, but don’t scare off sponsors.
It doesn’t help that his brother is always up his ass about something. The latest circus trick? An interview special featuring queer athletes around the world. A “promotion of diversity in sports,” his assistant manager Imogen, had called it.
Nick had said yes, because what else was he supposed to say? But that one decision almost lost him Ariat, his biggest sponsor.
(Fucking homophobes.)
So yeah, he likes bull riding. He likes it enough to stay on the circuit. But sometimes, when the arena dust settles, Nick can’t help but imagine himself somewhere else. Anywhere else.
It doesn’t help that his soulmate mark is ticking down.
2 days, 3 hours, 49 minutes, and 12 seconds.
Which unfortunately means… the tournament. And that throws a wrench in everything.
Because as much as Nick dreams of leaving—of Broadway lights and Eiffel Tower kisses—he knows himself too well. If his soulmate wanted to stay here, in Kansas, he would. He’d stay for them. He’d do anything for them. And he hasn’t even met them yet.
“Hey, I was talking—”
A sharp smack lands on the back of his head.
“Oi!” Nick hisses, rubbing the spot. “Watch it!”
David doesn’t even flinch. Clipboard in hand, his jaw set tight. “No, you watch it. You were zoning out while I was going over your opponent stats. Again.”
Nick sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. Go on then. Let’s hear it.”
(Asshat.)
David snaps the pages straight. “Harry Greene. Still number one. Average ride time this season? 7.2 seconds. Eight full rides out of the last ten. His control’s insane, Nick, and his recovery speed is even better. Don’t try to out-style him. You won’t win.”
Nick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Harry Greene, God’s gift to bull riding. I know. Thanks for the confidence in me by the way.”
David ignores him. “Benjamin Hope. You already know the stats—ranked second nationally, breathing down Greene’s neck. His grip doesn’t slip. If he draws a calmer bull, he’s riding the full eight. Sponsors love him because he looks the part. Don’t let that psych you out.”
Nick tilts his chair back, hat low. “Yeah, yeah, Ben Hope. He's a creep though, yeah?"
David slaps the clipboard against his palm, ignoring him again. “Sai Verma. Third place right now. Aggressive rider, plays risky. He’ll lean too far forward, but when it pays off, it really pays off. You’ll want to watch his dismounts—he comes close to crushing himself half the time. You stay steady, you can beat him clean.”
Nick hums, scratching his knee. “Or I stay steady and blow it in two seconds. That works too.”
David glares. “Nick, focus! Christian McBride. Twenty years old, youngest in the top five, hot streak lately. Four consecutive eight-second rides. He’s fearless, Nick. Dumb, but fearless. Reminds me of you before you started thinking too much.”
Nick smirks at that. “Guess I should take it as a compliment?”
“Or as a reminder you haven't had enough concussions by taking risks. Now, lastly Otis Smith,” David finishes, tone sharp. “You’ve beaten him before, but he’s improved. Stronger on balance now, less flailing. He’s been studying. Don’t assume he’ll make the same mistakes as last season.”
Nick exhales, tipping his hat farther down. “Yeah, yeah. Harry and Ben ahead of me, Sai a gamble, Christian a baby hotshot, and Otis finally got his training wheels off. I know.”
David leans forward, voice low and sharp. “Then act like it. Because if you slip up—if you get cocky or distracted—that’s your season. And your sponsors. And maybe your knee, too.”
Nick doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flick, just for a second, to the glowing numbers on his wrist. 2 days, 3 hours, 47 minutes, 38 seconds.
He swallows, muttering, “Kinda hard to focus when I’ve got a whole different countdown going on.”
David frowns. “What?”
“Nothing,” Nick says quickly. “Forget it.”
David pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing like he’s aged ten years in one afternoon. “Nick, I just need you focused, man. Media’s already buzzing with that stupid video you did—”
Nick’s jaw tightens. “It’s not stupid.”
“Yes, it was.” David’s voice cracks like a whip. “You’re a country lad from Kansas, Nick. Your father is a politician who publicly campaigns to revoke you lot! You are that man’s son. And then you go and make a glossy little video about being—what—some inspirational gay cowboy?”
“I’m bi, actually,” Nick mutters.
David slams his hands on the table. “Doesn’t matter! The media doesn’t care about nuance. They don’t want your TED Talk. They want an easy headline. And right now, you’re a contradiction they’re ready to eat alive. Your sponsors are panicking, your PR is in flames, and you’re one bad performance away from getting dropped. You’re on thin ice, Nick. Thin.”
Nick bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking again to his soulmate clock.
2 days, 3 hours, 43 minutes, 9 seconds.
David leans in, lowering his voice but not the edge. “So please—for once—just give me a clean, decent performance out there. Give them a reason to keep you on the payroll.”
Nick swallows hard, hat shadowing his eyes. He wants to say a dozen things—that he didn’t make the video for the media, that he doesn’t care what Ariat or Wrangler or anyone else thinks, that he’s allowed to exist as himself even if his father never will.
But all he says is, “Yeah. Fine.”
(Whatever. I'll win and impress my soulmate anyways.)