I'm Alive

by WillieTheNerd

Summary:

Nick Nelson has built a good life: Charlie, two kids, and a quiet home in Leeds. But with sleepless nights, scattered thoughts, and medication that doesn’t always keep him steady, “fine” starts to feel harder to hold onto.

or

A 'Next To Normal' Heartstopper AU

Notes:

I have become obsessed with Next To Normal, and I'm always obsessed with Heartstopper, so I thought why the hell not!
This is a pre that deep story (if you know anything about next to normal, 😅 yeah it's deep) but please try and keep spoilers out of the comments for those that haven't watched it, as I'm trying to keep it as spoiler free as possible!

Be mindful of the tags please and thank you!

This fic isn't going to be the usual Nick and Charlie we know and love, they are going to be struggling and having real life difficulties that make their relationship fractured, be mindful of this while reading as it's not all sunshine and rainbows.

I'm also going to be adding scenes that aren't included in the Next To Normal musical (because I can and I want to!) but yeah, here's a new fic! (updates will be whenever my brain isn't killing me and being rude to me!)

Now, let the journey begin!

Chapter 1

Nick Nelson always thought he knew what pain was.

At three years old, it was simple. The worst thing he could imagine was losing his toy elephant, Elphie—the one with the frayed ear and the soft patch where he’d rubbed the fabric raw from clutching it every night. He brought it with him to the zoo, bouncing with excitement to show the real elephants what he had. But when they reached the enclosure, Nick’s little hands betrayed him. In all his eagerness, he leaned too far over the rail and dropped Elphie straight into the exhibit. He remembers the toy vanishing into the dust below, swallowed up by a world too big for him to climb into. The elephants didn’t notice. The zookeeper couldn’t help. His mum tried to soothe him, cradling him on her lap, but the sight of his father’s scowl, the barked stop crying, Nicholas, it’s just a toy, only made his sobs sharper. That was the first time Nick learned that losing something you love can feel like the end of the world.

At five, pain looked different. His dad leaving wasn’t loud, wasn’t slammed doors or broken plates. It was silence. A suitcase by the door. A car pulling out of the driveway before sunrise. His mum’s face pale and tired, her arms stretched too thin between work and bills. Nick sat on the couch beside his brother, staring out the window for hours at a time, waiting for headlights that never came back. He didn’t understand why. He only knew that waiting could ache worse than bruises, and that sometimes the people you trusted most could vanish without explanation.

At thirteen, he thought he’d found the edge of pain again. A brutal rugby tackle left his arm bent at a sickening angle, bone pressing against skin where it shouldn’t. He remembered the scream tearing from his throat before the shock set in. He remembered the blur of faces around him, his coach shouting for help, his mum dropping to her knees at his side. She kept repeating you’re okay, just breathe, I’m here, steady as a metronome, holding him together until the hospital lights and the anaesthetic finally carried him away.

At eighteen, though—God. Nothing had ever prepared him for that kind of pain. The break with Charlie wasn’t physical, but it might as well have been. It hollowed him out from the inside, like someone had reached into his chest and ripped him apart at the seams. He’d thought heartbreak was just a word, something reserved for pop songs and films. He’d thought it would sting, maybe bruise. But this was different. This was the kind of pain that clung to him in the quiet, that made every meal taste like ash, every night stretch out too long.

Now, at almost forty years old, Nick Nelson has a strange relationship with pain.

He isn’t sure if he even believes in it anymore—or at least, not in the same way he did when he was three, or five, or eighteen. How could he call his life painful when he wakes every morning beside the man he loves, when Charlie’s laughter still fills the kitchen after all these years?

How could he call it pain when they’ve built a family together, one they never imagined at sixteen, sitting under trees and scribbling homework in between kisses?

He has Wylan, their almost-eighteen-year-old son, sharp and stubborn, with Nick’s jawline and Charlie's nerdiness. He has Aurelia, sixteen, soft-spoken and brilliant, already sketching her dreams of the world beyond Leeds in the margins of her school notebooks and piano playing.

A life so full it spills over.

A family home in a quiet street, far from the noise of London, where the only sounds at night are the wind against the windows and the hum of the radiator kicking in.

So then why does he catch himself wondering?

Why does he sit on the edge of the bed some nights, watching Charlie breathe in the half-light, and feel that same old whisper curl up from his chest—the one that asks, Is everything really fine?

Why does he find himself staring at the kitchen table, the one where Wylan used to stack blocks and Aurelia used to do spelling quizzes, and feel the weight of an absence he can’t quite name?

Everything is fine. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he tells Charlie. That’s what he tells the kids.

Everything is fine.

Right?

Right?

If everything is fine, then why is Nick sitting on the couch at three-thirty in the morning, staring at the front door like it holds the answer?

He waits. He prays. His mind keeps inventing ways his son might never come home.

Maybe a stage light fell on him during rehearsal. Maybe he was out with friends, high, and hit his head. Maybe he trusted someone—girl, boy, didn’t matter—and they turned on him. Maybe it was something darker. Something Nick doesn’t want to name.

The thoughts pile higher, sharper, until he can hardly breathe.

Then—

The lock clicks.

The door creaks open.

Wylan steps inside. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messy, that easy grin plastered across his face like he hasn’t been gone for hours. Like this is all perfectly ordinary.

“What are you doing up?” he says, letting the bag fall by the door with a careless thud. His tone is light, unbothered, like the hour means nothing.

Nick drags a hand down his face, exhaustion written deep into the lines of his skin. He looks at his son, standing there smug and steady, and his chest aches with both relief and anger.

“It’s the seventh night this week I’ve been up ‘til morning,” Nick mutters, voice frayed, uneven.

Wylan’s grin only widens. He claps his hands once, sharp, mocking. “Oh, great!”

“This isn’t funny,” Nick says quietly, throat tight. “I was… I was thinking of all the ways you could’ve died.”

Wylan hums, as if weighing the thought, then slides down onto the carpet beside the couch. He leans back on his hands, grin spreading wide, wickedly playful. “And tonight’s winner is…?” He tilts his head, waiting.

Nick’s throat tightens. The words scrape out.
“A freak tornado. No warning. Just… gone.”

Wylan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s something that happens in the UK.”

“Don’t,” Nick snaps, sharper than he means to. His voice cracks, desperate, trembling. He points at him like the motion could hold him there, keep him safe. “You’ll get it one day—when you’re a parent. You promised you’d come home early, and then you vanish—and I’m sat here thinking about protests, car accidents, wars, God knows what else—” His breath stutters. “And—”

“And nothing,” Wylan cuts in, rolling his eyes. “I’m almost eighteen, Pops. You’ve got to let go eventually.”

Nick reaches out, mussing his son’s hair before he can stop himself, pressing a kiss against his forehead. Wylan softens, just for a moment, leaning into it like he used to when he was small. Then he stands up, bends down, and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s cheek.

The warmth of it breaks something in Nick’s chest.

“You’re not smoking pot, right?” Nick blurts, the words rushing out raw, jagged.

Wylan pauses. His grin flickers, fading for a second. Then he shrugs, easy, careless. “Not at the moment.”

Nick’s head jerks up. “At the moment? What does that mean?!” His voice pitches high, wild with panic. He gestures toward the backpack by the door, heart hammering. “Wylan, don’t make me go through that bag. Is that why you were out so late?”

Wylan opens his mouth, ready to bite back, but a voice drifts down from upstairs. Groggy. Concerned.

“Nick? Is that you?”

Charlie.

Nick’s whole chest seizes. He turns to Wylan, clutching his shoulders, kissing the crown of his head like he’s afraid it might vanish. His whisper comes out sharp, pleading.

“Go. Go—before he comes down. You know how he gets when you’re out late.”

Wylan smirks faintly, already edging into the shadows of the hallway. His voice dips, softer, uncertain. “Why does he hate me?”

Nick’s heart lurches. “He doesn’t hate you,” he insists, fierce and immediate. Then his tone hardens, cracking under the weight of worry. “But you are a twat, sneaking in at this hour.”

Wylan’s grin slides back into place, wicked and boyish. “You can’t call me a twat, Pops.”

“Shhh.” Nick presses a finger to his lips, eyes darting to the staircase. “Go, before he sees you. And bed, I mean it. Don’t stay up playing games again, or I’ll take that PlayStation away.”

Wylan rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, yeah.” He scoops up his backpack and pads down the hall, his footsteps muffled into the carpet.

The master bedroom door creaks open.

“Nick?” Charlie’s voice drifts into the dark, rough with sleep. “Everything okay? I thought I heard voices.”

Nick whirls around, forcing a smile even as his pulse hammers in his ears. Wylan’s figure slips into the corridor, his bedroom door shutting softly behind him, just like any teenager’s would.

“Oh—yeah,” Nick says too quickly. He leans back against the couch, trying for casual. “Everything’s fine. Just me, getting some water.”

His gaze snags on Charlie at the bottom of the stairs—bare-chested, hair rumpled from sleep, boxers hanging loose on his hips. Nick feels a different heat rise in his face, sudden and sharp. He grins, soft but hungry.

“God, Char… you look so good.”

Charlie blinks, suspicion dulled by exhaustion. “Thanks?” he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep, though the affection in Nick’s tone softens him.

Nick reaches out, fingertips brushing his waist before settling into a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t we go back upstairs? Make the most of being awake.”

Charlie lets out a startled laugh, eyebrows lifting. Concern lingers behind it, though—he tilts his head, studying Nick.

“Yeah? Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“I promise, baby.” Nick cups his cheek, thumb tracing the warm skin there. His smile stretches wider than it should, almost desperate, but steady in the dim light. “My throat was just dry.”

Charlie’s frown eases. He leans into the touch, tired but willing to believe him. “Alright, darling,” he says quietly. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Nick whispers. He leans in, brushing a kiss against his lips, letting it linger. “Go on, I’ll turn the lights off down here and meet you in bed.”

Charlie nods, still blinking through the haze of waking. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

Nick kisses him again, longer this time, before giving him a gentle smack on the ass as he turns toward the stairs. Charlie chuckles, shaking his head, and pads off toward their room.

The house falls quiet again. Nick stands in the half-light of the living room, staring at the cushions creased by his own weight, at the empty doorway where his son had stood only minutes ago. His throat tightens. The silence presses in, louder than before.

He has a good life. No reason to go searching for pain where there shouldn’t be any. That’s what he tells himself as he moves to shut off the lights.

But before he reaches the switch, Aurelia barrels in, backpack slung over one shoulder, arms stacked with books and loose papers. Her reddish hair is twisted into a messy bun, freckles bright against her tired skin.

“Aurelia?” Nick blinks, startled. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, oh yeah, it’s great!” she says too quickly, dropping her things onto the coffee table. “I’ve just got three calculus assignments, geography, and an essay on American Establishments and Their Collapse—but I’m great! So great!”

Nick hums softly, stepping forward to press a kiss against her forehead. “You shouldn’t be up at this hour finishing schoolwork, sweetie. Maybe try asking your teachers for more time.”

She sighs, uncapping her pen. “Sorry, Dad, not all teachers are as nice as you. I’ve tried.”

Nick studies her for a beat, catching the shadows under her eyes, the weariness in her smile. He kisses her forehead again, gentler this time. “Just… try to take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Mhmm.” Aurelia hums without looking up, already scribbling something across a page. She waves him off with her pencil, shooing him away.

Nick laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he backs away. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it.”

And then it hits him again—oh yeah. Charlie. Sex.

Nick slips quietly up the stairs, easing into the bedroom. Charlie is already sitting up, propped against the headboard, hair rumpled from sleep and eyes soft in the lamplight. Nick’s chest squeezes at the sight—sexy and sweet all at once, the kind of sight that makes him ache with want.

A low growl escapes before he can swallow it down. He crawls across the mattress and straddles Charlie’s lap, kissing him desperately.

Charlie kisses back, steady and warm. For three whole seconds, Nick lets himself sink into it. But then Charlie breaks away just enough to whisper, his breath brushing Nick’s mouth.

“Nick… are you really okay? You’ve been up in the middle of the night for a week straight now. Nothing’s going on, right? Aurelia—she isn’t—”

Nick cuts him off with another kiss, firm and insistent. “She’s fine,” he promises quickly, almost too quickly. “She’s stressed with school, yeah. But she isn’t doing anything bad. I promise.”

Charlie hums, unconvinced, his thumb brushing Nick’s hip. “And you? Are you okay?”

Nick freezes for a moment, the question landing like a stone in his chest. His throat tightens as he looks at Charlie—the man who always knows how to calm him, the man who always worries about their daughter first. Always Aurelia.

A pang shoots through him, sharp and unexplainable. He doesn’t understand why it stings so much, doesn’t understand why it matters, but it does. It gnaws at him.

“Why don’t you ever worry for Wylan the way you do Aurelia?” The words slip out quieter than he means, but edged all the same.

Charlie blinks, caught off guard. For a moment, his face is raw with something Nick can’t read—remorse, hurt, maybe even fear. His hands shift, nudging Nick gently off his lap. He swallows hard.

“Nick… what do you mean? You know that he is—”

But Nick doesn’t want to hear it. His chest is already too tight, his head buzzing. He doesn’t want Charlie’s explanations or that note of concern that sometimes sneaks into his voice. He came here for warmth, for escape, not to be dissected. He doesn't know why he ever even asked.

So he silences him with another kiss, deeper this time, swallowing the words before they can form. His whisper is ragged, urgent against Charlie’s lips.

“Never mind that.”

“Nick—” Charlie breathes against his mouth.

Nick pulls back just far enough to sigh, eyes locked on him. His voice comes out sharp, frayed at the edges.

“Are we going to have sex or not? It’s four in the morning, and we’ve got to be up in an hour. So what’s it going to be—sex, or should I just hit the shower to keep myself awake while you keep trying to check on me, when I’m clearly fine?”

Charlie stares at him, silence stretching, something flickering in his expression. At last, his voice slips out in a whisper. “Fine. We can have sex. …Sorry for being a worried husband.”

Nick huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “And now you’re making me the jackass husband.”

“Nick, just—” Charlie starts, but the words tangle in his throat. Nick watches him wrestle with the thoughts behind his eyes, with the words he doesn’t want to say.

Before he can get them out, Nick kisses him again, harder this time, swallowing the hesitation, pressing urgency into the space between them. His voice drops low, ragged and pleading as he breathes against Charlie’s lips, “Just fuck me, yeah?”

Charlie exhales, eyes searching Nick’s face for a moment before he whispers, “Okay.”

The rest of the night dissolves into heat and distraction.

---

Nick stands in front of the mirror, raking his fingers through his hair until it lies neat enough, then smoothing the collar of his button-up. He breathes out, straightens once more, and starts down the stairs.

“Nick—” Charlie’s voice comes rushing after him. Barefoot, shirt hanging open, jeans only half-buttoned. He catches him at the landing, grinning, still flushed. “That was… good, Nick.”

Nick rolls his eyes.

Okay, so maybe their sex life hasn’t exactly been fireworks lately. They’ve been married nearly twenty years. The honeymoon phase has long packed its bags. Can you really blame them?

Nick just nods, gaze dropping to Charlie’s bare chest, the trail of hair disappearing into undone denim. He rolls his eyes again.

“Fuck,” Charlie mutters, glancing at the clock. “I’m going to be late.”

Nick moves toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath, “Great. That’ll remind you to take a whole ten minutes.”

Charlie blinks. “What?”

Nick clears his throat, plastering on a smile. “I said, what a great day it is!”

“Mmhmm, the raining September and cold weather is great.”

Nick rolls his eyes, turning to the counter to start the coffee. The machine hums, steady and soft, filling the silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charlie sink onto the couch to put on his shoes. A warning rises sharp in Nick’s throat—not there, don’t sit there—but he swallows it down. Too early. He doesn’t want another fight.

He exhales instead, long and weary, eyes fixed on the coffee pot.

Movement in the hallway catches his attention.

Wylan steps out of his bedroom, sweater hanging loose, toothbrush poking out of his mouth. His hair strands are a wild mess, toothpaste froth at the corners of his lips.

Nick’s chest aches. His voice drops low, barely above a whisper meant for no one else. “Morning, son.”

He reaches out, ruffling Wylan’s hair as he passes. Wylan grins, foam spilling, before leaning over the sink and spitting.

Nick lets out a breathy laugh, quiet enough that Charlie, bent over his laces, doesn’t look up. “Teenage boys,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

Charlie glances at Nick, something flickering across his face, before shaking his head and jogging toward the laundry room to grab a tie.

Wylan waves after him, grin bright. “Hi, Dad.”

Nothing. No response. Not even a glance.

The smile falters. He sighs, whispering low enough that only Nick can hear, “It only hurts when I’m here.”

Nick’s chest tightens. He sighs, reaching out to pat Wylan’s cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw like he can anchor him in place. His eyes flick toward the laundry room, sharp with a glare, before softening again at his son.

“You better get going. Big day ahead.”

He turns toward the fridge, pulling out the milk.

Wylan leans on the counter, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. “You have no idea what I do all day.”

Nick smirks faintly, pouring cereal into a bowl. “Jazz band before school. Classes. Key Club. Then rehearsal.”

Wylan points his toothbrush at him, grinning again. “Not bad.”

Nick chuckles, the sound slipping out without thinking. “Go on, get ready.”

“Okay, okay!” Wylan laughs, padding down the hallway.

Just as he disappears, Charlie comes rushing back through, tie in hand. Wylan presses himself against the wall to let him pass. “Dad,” he says brightly.

Ignored again.

Nick’s jaw clenches. He shoots Charlie a glare as he breezes past, then shakes his head and turns back to the counter, pouring milk into the bowl.

Charlie jogs back into the kitchen, tie half-done, and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s shoulder as he passes. His voice is low, fond.

“Any interesting lessons for school today?”

Nick grimaces at the kiss—just barely, but enough to feel it in his chest. He opens his mouth, ready to answer—

A blur of footsteps interrupts him.

Aurelia barrels down the stairs, her hair still caught up in that messy bun, backpack bumping against her hip. “Um—” she says, breathless. “I just got the date for my recital. I was wondering if you’d be free to go?”

Charlie lights up instantly. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Nick nods quickly, forcing his smile wider. “Yeah, sweetie, we’ll put it on the calendar.”

Aurelia hesitates, her nose wrinkling as she glances toward the kitchen wall. “But… the calendar hasn’t been changed in years.”

Nick follows her gaze.

The old calendar still hangs there, edges curled, a photograph of tulips faded from sun. The page is stuck on April. April of three years ago.

Nick exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Whoops.”

“It’s fine, Pops,” Aurelia says, sliding into a chair. Her smile wavers. “Just don’t forget this time. Please.”

“We promise, Rey,” Charlie says immediately, warm and certain. “We’ll be there.”

She nods, reaching for the bowl on the counter—the one Nick had set out. His hand twitches toward it, ready to pull it back. That was meant for Wylan. Wylan likes all the chocolate pieces, while Aurelia prefers the marshmallows.

But before he can move, Charlie grabs the other bowl, the one that was meant for Aurelia. He digs in with hurried spoonfuls.

Nick freezes, lips parting, a protest caught in his throat.

Charlie looks up mid-bite, guilty. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, darling—was this one for you?”

Nick shakes his head quickly. “No, it was—” His eyes flick toward the hallway. Charlie’s gaze sharpens, too perceptive, reading him too closely. Nick can’t stand it. He shuts down. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Charlie hums, unconvinced, and turns back to Aurelia. “Sweetie, you look tired.”

“I was up early finishing homework,” she mutters, pulling her hair tighter into its bun.

“Rey…” Charlie says, voice dipped in concern.

“I know, I know.” She throws up a hand, frustration spilling out. “I’m sorry I’m not the perfect daughter, okay? I’ll do better.” Her words hang sharp in the air before she bolts upstairs, muttering about her backpack.

Nick stares after her, chest aching. “She’s doing her best,” he says quietly, but there’s an edge there, sharper than he intended.

Charlie’s head snaps up. “Oh, now you care?” His voice cracks with something rawer than anger. “You’re so… confusing, Nick!”

The words slice through him. Nick presses a hand to his face, dragging it down as his voice rises, fraying. “Well, I’m sorry—it’s not my fault I’ve got eighteen different things on my mind at all—”

He stops. The rest chokes in his throat.

Because just then, Wylan comes barreling down the hallway, red backpack bouncing against his shoulder, grin wide and bright.

Nick exhales, all the fight bleeding out of him in an instant. He doesn’t want to argue in front of the kids. Not again.

His voice is smaller when he turns back to Charlie, eyes tired, almost breaking. “I’m sorry I’ve been… off lately.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Charlie says quietly, setting his empty bowl down.

Nick forces a smile, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek. “I’m fine. Promise.”

He turns away before Charlie can search his eyes again, moving to the cupboards, pulling out bread. The rhythm of making sandwiches steadies him—spread, layer, slice. He lines them up neatly and takes the knife, cutting them into rectangles.

Behind him, Charlie rises to grab his coat from the hook.

Wylan drifts in at Nick’s side, easy as anything. He leans over and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s cheek, grinning like he always does. Nick hums under his breath, warmth pricking at his chest.

Then Wylan plucks up Charlie’s keys from the counter, dangling them loosely so they clink together. “Hey, Dad,” he says, smile wicked, holding them out.

Charlie doesn’t look towards him. His gaze is fixed instead on Nick—the set of his shoulders, the knife in his hand glinting as it slices through soft bread.

Wylan sighs, rolling his eyes. He tosses the keys behind him carelessly, letting them clatter across the ground.

Nick has to bite back a laugh, lips twitching as he hides a snort at his son’s antics. He shakes his head, forcing his focus back down to the sandwiches.

From upstairs, Aurelia’s footsteps drum against the stairs, growing louder as she comes rushing back down.

One, two, three, four, five. Sandwiches. One for me, one for Charlie, two for Wylan, one for Aurelia.

Eight lettuces. Five tomatoes. Bread. Lettuce. Tomato. Meat—

He frowns. The meat’s gone.

His gaze drops. It’s on the floor.

When did he…?

Why is the meat on the ground? And—why are the sandwiches on the ground too?

They weren't there a second ago.

Right?

His hands are empty. His knees ache. Was he making them on the floor?

“Nick!” Charlie’s voice cuts sharp through the fog. “Nick!”

Nick jerks his head up, blinking, lost. Everything tilts—the kitchen too bright, too loud, his children’s eyes on him. Aurelia’s face is tight with worry. Wylan’s is pale, frightened.

Wylan steps forward, reaching for him.

“I was just—” Nick stammers, words cracking. He gestures at the scattered bread, the fallen lettuce. “I’m just making sandwiches!”

Wylan freezes mid-step, fear flickering across his face.

Charlie drops down in front of him, cupping Nick’s face in his hands, grounding him. His eyes stay locked on Nick’s, steady, but his voice lifts, calling over his shoulder. “It’s fine. Just… go. I’ll take care of it.”

“Dad—” Aurelia’s voice trembles.

“It’s fine,” Charlie repeats firmly, not looking back. “Go on. You’ll be late for the bus.”

“Dad.” Wylan again, voice breaking.

“I said go,” Charlie says, sharper now. “I’ve got it handled.”

Nick stares past Charlie’s shoulder, watching as Aurelia turns reluctantly toward the door. Wylan lingers, eyes wide, before finally stepping back.

And then they’re gone.

Leaving Nick on the kitchen floor, Charlie’s hands warm against his cheeks, the silence pressing in. “I’m sorry,” Nick whispers, voice cracking.

Charlie strokes his cheek with his thumb, soft as a breath. “It’s okay.”

Nick swallows hard, eyes darting to the counter, then back to Charlie. “I… I was making them on the counter, wasn’t I?”

Charlie’s lips press into a thin line. He exhales, forehead nearly touching Nick’s. His voice dips low, steady. “I think I lost you there for a bit, darling. You… you weren’t here.”

Nick’s breath hitches, chest rising and falling too fast.

Charlie glances at the food scattered across the floor—the bread, the lettuce, the pale slices of meat. His voice is quiet, pained.

“Are the meds not working again?”

Nick shakes his head fiercely, tears starting to spill. “I don’t want more meds.”

“I know, babe,” Charlie says gently, pulling him closer. “I know. But they’re keeping you up, and now you’ve just had an episode.” He nods toward the mess on the floor.

Nick’s eyes follow the motion, widening as if he’s seeing it for the first time. A choked sound tears from his throat, raw and ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he cries out, voice breaking.

Charlie catches him, gathering him in with strong arms, rocking him gently on the kitchen floor. “Shh. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. I’ve got you.”

Charlie’s hands stay firm against his cheeks, steadying him, grounding him. “Let’s just…” He swallows, brushing his thumb along Nick’s jaw. “Let’s just go talk to Doctor Geoff. We’ll figure this out, yeah?”

Nick’s chest trembles with a shaky breath. He nods, just barely, and hums low in his throat. The sound is small, broken, but it’s all he has to give.

"I'm fine."

Nick closes his eyes, wishing he could believe it, wishing he could be enough for them. For Charlie. For Aurelia. For Wylan.

“I’m fine,” he whispers to no one in particular, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Charlie only holds him tighter.

And in the half-light of the morning, with September rain tapping against the windows and a house that suddenly feels too quiet, Nick realizes that sometimes the worst pain isn’t loud—it’s the kind that hides inside ordinary days, waiting to be named.

What is wrong with him?

Chapter 2

Summary:

TW: Nick and Charlie Arguing, Talks of Charlie's Eating Disorder, Talks of Nick's Body Image Issues, Medical Assistance (May Not Be 100% Factual), Talks of Episodes and Hallucinations, Bipolar Disorder Tendencies

Nick takes six pills a day. Six different bottles lined up on the nightstand, labels half-faded from use.

Lithobid to keep him from flying too high.
Lamictal to keep him from sinking too low.
Seroquel to slow the racing thoughts enough for sleep.
Zyprexa to blunt the edges of mania.
Prozac to drag him out of the darker mornings.
Ativan for the panic, the sudden grip of dread that sneaks in anyway.

Six medications. Six promises of balance.

And yet—he still feels anxious. His chest still tightens for no reason. Stress claws at him in the quiet hours of the night, nausea rolling through his stomach until food looks like poison. He has no appetite, hasn’t in weeks.

And still—he’s gaining weight.

It isn’t fair.

When Charlie was sick, when food disappeared from his plate for days at a time, it showed. He grew thinner, frailer. People could see it in his body before they ever noticed it in his eyes. But Nick? Nick skips meals, leaves toast to go cold, ignores the dinners Charlie plates for him—and yet his face rounds out, his trousers dig at the waist.

It feels cruel, the way his body betrays him. His husband wasted away when he stopped eating, but Nick just swells, softening in the mirror, his pain invisible except for the side effects carved across his skin.

Nick sighs in the passenger seat, thumb hovering over the phone before finally locking it. The text is sent: Can’t come in today. Family emergency. The words look small on the screen, not nearly enough to explain.

Outside, September rain streaks down the windshield.

At the stoplight, Charlie glances over. His voice is quiet. “You feeling okay, darling?”

Nick hums, eyes still on his lap. “I’m tired of taking medicine.”

“I know, baby.” Charlie’s hands tighten on the wheel. “But people with bipolar disorder—”

“I know, I know.” Nick cuts him off, sharper than he means. His throat burns, words too big in his chest. “They should get on medication to live a happier, more stable, less scary life. I know that.” His jaw tightens. He finally turns, staring at Charlie like he’s daring him to argue. “But I’m not a maniac, Charlie.”

Charlie flinches, eyes darting back to the road as the light shifts to green. “I never said you were.”

Nick shakes his head, voice dropping, heavy and raw. “You make me feel like I am.”

Silence stretches. Rain patters harder against the windshield.

Charlie swallows, whispering, “How?”

Nick lets out a shaky laugh that doesn’t sound like one. “Like this morning. The sex was shit.” His voice cracks on the word.

Charlie’s mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite. “We’ve been told the medicine can decline sex drives.”

“I couldn’t even get it up, Charlie!” The words explode out of him, too loud in the quiet car. His face burns. His fists clench against his knees. “Not even for you. Not even when you were right there, looking at me, wanting me. I couldn’t. And do you know what that feels like? Do you know how humiliating that is?”

Charlie glances at him quickly, eyes soft, before the road pulls him forward again. “And that’s fine, Nick. I didn’t marry you for the sex.”

Nick lets out a bitter laugh, pressing his forehead to the window. “Maybe not. But sex is important, Charlie. It’s important to feel wanted, to want back. And I just—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning low. “I feel… bleh. Like my body isn’t mine anymore. Like the meds have stripped everything from me—my appetite, my sleep, my sex drive—and left me this… shell. And I don’t know who I am if I’m not all those things.”

The car is quiet except for the wipers cutting through the rain. Charlie’s hand drifts from the wheel finding Nick’s. His thumb brushes over Nick’s knuckles.

“Then we’ll talk to Geoff,” Charlie says softly, eyes still on the road. “Find something new.”

Nick’s stomach lurches. The thought alone makes him want to gag. He knows what that means—his body betraying him all over again. The first few weeks of any new prescription always shred him apart: the sickness, the weakness, the agitation, the sharp irritability that makes him a stranger in his own skin.

That’s what he gets, though, for sixteen years on medicine. Sixteen years of trial and error, pills and side effects, promises that never last.

“It’s not going to help,” Nick mutters, voice low but weighted with certainty.

“You don’t know that,” Charlie whispers back.

Nick’s chest tightens. His voice cracks, rising. “I do, though! I do! Because it’s been so many years, Charlie, and nothing works. Nothing ever stays.”

Charlie glances at him at the next stop, his expression pained but steady and lets go. “It works for a while. This last batch worked for what—two months before an episode? That’s good, honey. That’s really good.”

Nick lets out a humorless hum, bitter and hollow. His hands curl against his thighs, restless. “You’re still making me feel like a maniac.”

Charlie’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. His voice is quieter this time, almost breaking. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

Nick shakes his head, his breath coming faster, harsher. “Not what you’re trying to do? Charlie, that’s all you ever do! You sit there and you watch me, like I’m about to explode, like I’m some sort of bomb ticking down, and then you tell me it’s the meds, it’s the cycles, it’s the episodes—”

“Nick—”

“No! Don’t ‘Nick’ me!” His voice cracks, echoing too loud in the small car. His hands slam against his knees, trembling with the force of it. “I am trying, Charlie! Sixteen years of pills, side effects, therapy sessions, and still—I’m the crazy husband, I’m the broken one, I’m the—”

“Stop.” Charlie’s voice is firm.

Nick laughs—sharp, ugly, unsteady. “See? Even now! You talk to me like I’m dangerous. Like you have to whisper or I’ll lose it.” His chest heaves. His hands clench, then unclench, restless. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. Because when you didn’t eat, when you were sick—people could see it. They could see you wasting away. But me?” He jabs a finger at his chest, eyes burning. “I don’t eat and I get fat. I don’t sleep and I get told to take more pills. I fall apart in silence, Charlie, and nobody even notices until I’m already on the floor.”

The car goes quiet except for Nick’s ragged breathing, the wipers dragging across rain-streaked glass.

Charlie grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles pale, his jaw set. Finally, he whispers, “I notice.”

Nick slumps back into the seat, tears stinging his eyes, the fury leaving him hollow and trembling. He presses his forehead to the cold window, ashamed, exhausted, but still buzzing like he’s on fire inside.

Then, suddenly, Nick laughs. Not bitter this time, but quick, bubbling, almost giddy. He sits up straighter, tapping his knee with jittery hands.

“You know what we should do?” His words tumble out too fast. “We should just—fuck it—we should drive to the coast right now. Skip work, skip school, skip everything. Just us, fish and chips on the pier, cold wind in our faces—God, doesn’t that sound incredible?”

Charlie blinks, caught off guard. “Nick—”

“Aurelia, she could bring her sketchbook, she’d draw the whole thing—oh, we could make a day of it, maybe a week, maybe just—” He gestures wildly at the rain-streaked window, voice climbing higher, words rushing faster. “What are we even doing here, driving in circles, fighting about pills, when we could be living? Really living?”

Charlie keeps his eyes on the road, his grip firm on the wheel. “Darling, slow down—”

Nick turns to him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “Don’t you see? This is what I mean! I’m not broken, I’m not sick—I just need this, I need more, I need to feel alive again.” He’s grinning now, tapping the dashboard like the car itself could lift off with him. “You remember when we were twenty, when we ran through the rain just to catch the last train into London? God, we should do that again—why don’t we do that anymore?”

“Nick,” Charlie says again, quieter, steadier, but Nick’s already leaning forward, humming with energy, his leg bouncing so hard it rattles the seat.

“We could do it today—right now—we could turn around, grab the kids, drive until the road runs out, and maybe then—maybe then—I’d finally feel like myself again.”

“Nick, we can’t just grab Aurelia from school,” Charlie says, keeping his tone careful, eyes flicking toward him as the car idles at a red light.

Nick waves him off, too quick, too bright. “Then we’ll just grab Wylan. Easy. He’d love the coast” His grin widens, restless, his fingers drumming against his knee. “We could just… pick him up and go. Just the three of us. Aurelia wouldn't mind.”

Charlie’s throat works. His voice comes out quiet, strained. “I’m sure he would, Nick.” A pause, long enough to hurt. “But we’ve got to go see Geoff, remember?”

For a beat, Nick doesn’t answer. His smile falters, his leg stops bouncing. He stares at the rain streaking the glass, as though the world outside might hand him back the certainty he just lost.

“Oh.” The sound is small, fragile. “Right. Geoff.”

The light turns green. The car moves on.

Nick slumps against the window, the adrenaline bleeding out of him in one long sigh. He can almost see it—the coast, the gulls wheeling overhead, Wylan’s laughter spilling over the tide. His lips twitch as if he’s still smiling, but his eyes burn.

Charlie glances at him again, just for a second. The hollowness in Nick’s expression makes his chest ache. He swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to the road.

“Baby… you know I love you, right?”

Nick turns his head, brow furrowed, but the answer is immediate. “Of course I know that.”

Charlie hums, fingers flexing against the wheel. “And you know I don’t like having to take you to see Geoff, right?”

Nick leans back into the seat, humming low. “Mmhmm. Just ‘cause of my stupid head.”

“Hey, hey.” Charlie flicks him a look, sharp but gentle all at once. “No being rude to my husband.”

The words crack something in Nick. His lips twitch, a smile creeping in despite himself. “Cheeky.”

---

The office is warm, the air faintly scented with coffee and paper. Nick drops into the chair across from Geoff’s desk, arms folded tight, jaw set. Charlie stands a moment behind him, then settles into the chair beside him, reaching to knead Nick’s tense shoulders with careful thumbs.

“Good morning, Nick. Charlie,” Geoff says with an easy nod.

Nick huffs, not meeting his eyes. “Geoff, you know it’s not a good morning if I’m here.”

Geoff sighs softly, folding his hands over a notebook. “Alright, alright. Fair.” His tone stays light, even. “Do you want to tell me what’s been going on? What’s brought you here?”

Nick shifts, uncomfortable, glancing sideways. Charlie catches his eye and gives him a small, steady nod, his hand squeezing his shoulder in quiet encouragement.

Nick swallows, his throat tight. “…Where do I even start?”

Geoff leans back slightly in his chair, hands folded loosely on the desk. His voice is calm, measured. “Start with whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Nick exhales through his nose. “The new meds I’m on… they make me fat.”

His eyes flick sideways, landing on Charlie. He catches him—just for a second—looking him up and down, biting his lip before glancing away. The burn of it hits Nick like a slap. His throat works, words rushing out faster.

“Ten pounds in two months,” he snaps, answering a question that hasn’t even been asked yet. “That’s more than a pound a week. You tell me that’s normal.”

Geoff hums softly, pen scratching against the notepad. “It is normal for medication to affect weight. Some increase appetite, some decrease it. Your body is adjusting.”

Nick huffs, eyes narrowing at the floor. “Adjusting. Right.” His leg bounces uncontrollably, the heel of his sneaker tapping against the tile. “Adjusting means I’m awake at two, three, four in the morning. Adjusting means I can’t sleep. And I don’t even know if that’s the meds, or if it’s just me—me being worried twenty-four-seven.”

Geoff tilts his head, voice still even. “What is it you’re worried about, Nick? What’s keeping you up?”

Nick’s hands curl into fists in his lap. His voice comes quieter now, breaking on the edges. “Being a parent. I worry something’s going to happen, and I won’t be able to protect them.”

Geoff stills, eyes flicking between Nick and Charlie. “Them?”

The word lands like a stone in the room.

Nick’s chest rises and falls too quickly, his mouth opening, shutting again. His gaze darts toward the window, anywhere but the man across from him.

Beside him, Charlie sighs heavily, his hand settling on Nick’s arm, thumb pressing into his sleeve like an anchor. His voice is quiet, weighted with both love and exhaustion. “My husband’s been having episodes again.”

Nick flinches at the phrasing, shame burning hot in his cheeks. His head drops into his hands, fingers clawing at his hair. “Don’t say it like that.” His voice cracks. “Like I’m broken.”

Charlie squeezes his arm tighter, leaning in close. “I didn’t say broken,” he whispers. “I said episodes.”

Nick shakes his head, words muffled by his palms. “Feels the same.” He's dragging his hands down his face. “Making sandwiches on the floor isn’t an episode,” he mutters, his voice rough. “I just… got confused.”

Geoff raises his brows, pen pausing over his notepad. “Confused between the counter and the floor?”

Nick’s head snaps up, heat flooding his cheeks. “Thanks, Charlie. You’re making me sound fucking crazy!”

Charlie leans forward in his chair, hands out like he’s trying to keep Nick from unraveling. “I’m not trying to make you sound anything. I’m just letting Geoff know what’s wrong.”

“Wrong. You hear yourself? Like I’m a broken toy you’ve dragged in here for repairs.”

The tension cuts sharp through the air. Geoff sighs softly, closing the notebook halfway. His tone is calm, deliberate. “Charlie, why don’t you wait in the car for a few minutes? That way I can talk to Nick alone.”

Charlie stills, shoulders slumping. He looks between the two of them, the fight still tight in his chest, but he lets out a long breath. “Okay. Okay.”

He rises from the chair, leaning down to press a kiss against Nick’s forehead, lingering there for a beat longer than usual. “I’ll be right outside, darling.”

Nick doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him. His chest feels hollow, a strange mix of anger and shame twisting together until he can’t tell which one hurts more.

He's too clingy.

The door clicks shut behind Charlie, leaving Nick in the silence of Geoff’s office, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

Geoff folds his hands over his lap, his voice calm, steady. “Now, Nick. Why don’t you tell me what you feel like is going on?”

“I’m fine! I’m just gaining weight, and I can’t feel my toes half the time, and the medicine makes me not want to have sex. And now Charlie thinks I’m having these hallucinations or being delusional!” His voice cracks, sharp and frantic. “It’s not my fault I’m having hallucinations of making sandwiches on the counter when it’s the ground instead! That’s the medicine’s fault, not mine!”

Geoff nods slowly, letting Nick’s words hang in the air. “And that’s all the hallucinations you’ve had?”

Nick stares blankly at him, blinking fast. His chest rises and falls, too quick. What the hell would he be hallucinating? The thought runs circles in his head, but his mouth forms a single answer.

“Yeah, doctor. That’s it.”

Geoff studies him a moment longer, then sighs softly and sets down his pen. “Alright. Here’s what I’d like to try, Nick.” He slides his notepad closer, speaking slowly. “I’m going to prescribe Glucophage. It’s commonly used to help with weight gain that can come from your current medications.”

Nick stares at him, jaw tightening. Another pill.

“Then we’ll add Ambien for the insomnia,” Geoff continues, steady as ever. “It should help regulate your sleep so you’re not awake all night.”

Nick swallows, looking down at his restless hands. Another pill.

“And finally, I’d like to switch your current mood stabilizer to Latuda,” Geoff says gently. “It’s approved for bipolar depression, and it tends to come with fewer side effects than some of the others you’ve tried. We’ll start low and see how your body tolerates it.”

Nick takes the slip of paper Geoff tears from the pad. His fingers shake as he folds it in half without looking at the words. His chest feels heavy, crowded with nausea.

Three more bottles. Three more pills.

Nick stares at the folded slip in his hands, fingers trembling. The words claw their way out before he can stop them. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

Geoff shakes his head immediately, voice firm but gentle. “No one thinks you’re crazy, Nick.”

Nick’s eyes burn. He laughs, sharp and bitter.

“Charlie does.”

The door clicks open before Geoff can answer. Charlie steps back inside, coat draped over one arm. “I what?”

Nick’s head snaps up. His glare cuts sharp, wounded and furious all at once. He shoves the paper into Charlie’s hands, muttering, “We have more medicine to pick up.”

Charlie unfolds it slowly, eyes scanning the neat scrawl. His sigh fills the room, heavy with something Nick can’t name. He looks at him, softer than Nick expects. “Maybe this will help, baby?”

Nick lets out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Or maybe this will finally prove to you I’m not worth it.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.

Charlie moves before Geoff can. He crouches down in front of Nick’s chair, the prescription slip still in his hand. His other hand reaches out, tentative, brushing over Nick’s knee.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he whispers, voice cracking now too. “Not to me. Not to anyone. You’re worth everything.”

Geoff clears his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. “Have you both considered… uhh, marriage counseling?”

Nick and Charlie answer in unison, voices clipped. “We don’t need it.”

Geoff hums softly, jotting something down on his notepad. “Well, just—stress can sometimes trigger the medications not to work in the ways they’re supposed to. So if things get… tense, maybe consider it as an option.”

Nick’s eyes flash as he sits forward. “Geoff, you’re my therapist, not Charlie’s. And we’re fine.” He pushes up from the chair, grabbing Charlie’s hand. “Now, thank you, but we’re leaving.”

Geoff only nods. “Report back to me next week, yeah? That way I can see how the new prescriptions are doing.”

Nick mutters, “Yeah, yeah,” already on his feet. He tugs at Charlie’s hand, dragging him toward the door, jaw tight, heart thudding too fast.

Charlie glances back once, guilt and worry etched across his face, before the office door clicks shut behind them.

---

Charlie pulls the car into the drive, the rain still misting on the windshield, blurring the view of the house they’ve made a life in. He doesn’t cut the engine right away. His hand hovers on the gearshift, thumb tapping restlessly, as if he’s still deciding whether to let Nick out at all.

Nick feels the weight of it, the hesitation, and finally mutters, “You’ve got work. Go.”

Charlie sighs. “It doesn’t feel right, leaving you like this.” His voice is low, tight at the edges. “Geoff just handed you three new prescriptions, and I don’t know how you’re going to feel once they’re in your system. I should stay—”

“You can’t,” Nick cuts in. His tone is sharper than intended, but he doesn’t soften it. “You’ve got clients, Charlie. Deadlines. People who will lose their minds if you don’t answer their emails within five minutes.”

Charlie’s jaw tightens. He glances toward his briefcase in the backseat, stuffed with manuscripts, contracts, red pens. “I know,” he admits, almost to himself. “They’re already up my ass. Three publishing houses circling for edits, two agents calling nonstop. If I cancel today, it sets me back a week, maybe more.”

Nick stares out the window, voice flat. “So go.”

Charlie turns to him, his expression softening, guilt etched across his features. “I hate this. Leaving you when you need me. It feels like I’m choosing them over you.”

Nick’s lips twitch into something like a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s marriage, isn’t it? You don’t get to pick. You just juggle until you drop something.”

Charlie doesn’t laugh. He leans across the console instead, pressing a lingering kiss to Nick’s temple. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Call me if it gets bad, okay?”

Nick hums, noncommittal.

And then Charlie is gone.

The house feels too quiet when he steps inside.

He drops his keys on the counter, shrugs out of his coat, and lowers himself onto the couch. The bottles clink in his pocket as he sits—the stupid little fuckers, rattling around like dice. Always there. Always waiting.

This is normal, he tells himself. I’m normal. I’m not a bad person for needing medication.

Charlie needed help too. Charlie needed inpatient at fifteen, again at twenty-two. Nick remembers those years, remembers the hollowed look in his husband’s eyes, remembers hospital visits and sterile rooms.

Nick hasn’t had to do that. Sixteen years of meds, yes—but not a locked ward, not trays of untouched food, not that. Just him and his pills.

It should feel like a win. A balance. Charlie has his meal prepping, his careful portioning, his systems. Nick has his prescriptions.

Everything is fine.

But is it?

His gaze drops to his hands, trembling lightly against his thighs. The thought sneaks in, sharp and ugly: maybe I shouldn’t have been the sperm donor.

Because what if Wylan ends up like him? What if Aurelia does? What if the weight of his brain—the chemicals, the broken wiring—lodges itself in them like a curse? A freak, just like me.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to banish the thought, but it clings.

No, he reminds himself. That wasn’t how it happened. He and Charlie talked about this, whispered it in bed when the kids were still just an idea. Charlie didn’t want to risk passing on his OCD. Didn’t want their children to inherit his rituals, his obsessions. So Nick stepped up. It was a choice they made together.

That's the way there family is. They step up for eachother.

The front door opening breaks through. Nick looks up sharply, heart lurching, and watches as Wylan steps inside like he’s done it a hundred times. His red backpack drops onto the floor with a careless thud, propped against the bottom stair.

Nick’s brows knit. “What the hell are you doing out of school, mister?”

Wylan shrugs, shuffling toward him. “I was just… worried. With what happened this morning.”

Nick’s chest caves in at that, shame prickling his skin. He rubs his hands down his thighs, sighing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” His voice softens, pleading almost. “But you shouldn’t be skipping school just to sit around worrying about your old pops. Especially since Aurelia might be wondering where you went at lunch. You’re still eating lunch together, yeah?”

“Yes, Pops,” Wylan says dutifully. Then, quieter, “But I promise you, she doesn’t need me.”

“No? And why’s that?”

Wylan plops onto the arm of the couch for a moment, then shrugs. “She’s talking to this guy. Benji I believe? I don’t know. Seems… romantic.”

Nick’s stomach flips. “Oh, great! And I haven’t noticed.”

Wylan smirks faintly. “It’s kinda new.”

Nick hums, leaning back against the couch, forcing a chuckle. “You still shouldn’t have skipped school, though. Your dad will be mad.”

Wylan moves closer, dropping onto the couch beside him, their shoulders almost touching. His voice dips lower, edged with something brittle. “Dad’s always mad at me.”

Nick shakes his head, voice soft but steady. “Your dad isn’t mad at you.”

Wylan’s gaze drops to his hands, his voice breaking a little as it slips out. “He doesn’t notice me. It’s like I don’t… exist. And it hurts. Thinking maybe he’ll see me, finally, and he never does.”

Nick exhales, long and heavy, his chest tightening. He reaches over, ruffling Wylan’s hair before letting his hand rest against the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him about it.”

Wylan’s head jerks up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Of course,” Nick says firmly, squeezing his neck gently. “Now, with you being home early, why don’t you at least help around the house? Clean your room, yeah?”

Wylan groans, flopping back against the couch dramatically. “Awwww, man! But I hate cleaning.”

Nick chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I’m on new meds and can’t drive, otherwise I’d be dropping you right back off at school.”

Wylan frowns at him, lips twitching into the start of a smile. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m way fun!” Nick fires back, grinning despite himself.

And for a moment, the weight in the room lightens—father and son bantering on the couch like nothing could touch them.

Notes:

Nick and Charlie do really love each other. I promise you they do. Even if they're arguing and bickering, there is love there. It's just hard for Nick, being on so many medications and experiencing things Charlie doesn't. It makes him feel a bit like a freak.... And Charlie is trying to understand Nick, but it's difficult when Nick doesn't open up fully.

Wylan and Nick 🥺 I love them (even if you unfortunately can tell there's a bit of favoritism there)

As for Aurelia, she's a lot closer to Charlie and going to be asking the important questions soon about whether or not Nick is truly okay.

It's a bit difficult writing a musical into a book because the songs don't always align with dialogue 😅 but I'm trying my best to make it still flow similar to the 'Next To Normal' Universe.

On Another Note: my writing schedule has been out of whack! Literally, I've gone from days of not wanting to write at all, to writing at night when I can't sleep 💤 So although tired, I'm getting some difficult fic chapters written and edited!

How are we liking this fic?

*mwah*
-Willie

Chapter 3

Summary:

TW: Nick and Charlie Arguing, Bipolar Disorder Tendencies, Bad Body Image

Charlie always knew something was wrong with Nick.

Well—wrong isn’t the word. There’s nothing “wrong” with him, not really. He’s just… not himself. And Charlie guesses he understands that. How could either of them still be themselves after the life they built so fast?

They married right out of school. Nineteen and twenty, too restless and too in love to imagine waiting any longer. The thought of long distance for more than a year had been unbearable, so they signed the papers, exchanged rings, and told themselves love would be enough to carry them.

Marriage made them feel older, braver, steadier. Adulthood looked so shiny and thrilling from the outside, and in the haze of that thrill, they thought the next logical step was a baby. Of course they did. That’s what you do—you get married, you have kids, you follow the schedule.

So they had Wylan.

Sweet little Wylan, with chubby cheeks and Nick’s nose and hair, a perfect bundle of everything they thought they wanted. And for a while, it almost worked. They laughed through the exhaustion, muddled through diapers and teething, held onto each other like they were still invincible.

But reality crept in, the naivety cracked, and the pain of being too young, too unsure, too unfinished caught up with them. They didn’t know how to hold it, didn’t know how to make the picture match the truth.

So they had Aurelia.

Another baby, another anchor, another chance to try again at being the happy family they promised themselves they’d be. And for moments, they were. Family portraits, birthday parties, laughter echoing through the house—they wore happiness like a costume that sometimes felt real.

But Charlie remembers when the edges started to fray. When Nick began losing himself. Nick stopped laughing as often, stopped sleeping. The weight of it all settled on him in ways Charlie couldn’t reach.

And Charlie… well, Charlie had already broken before that. He’d lost himself the year prior, so much so he’d been forced back into inpatient. And Nick carried that too—his own pain piled on top of Charlie’s, until neither of them could tell whose weight was whose anymore.

They were just kids trying to raise kids, drowning under the idea of adulthood they thought they were ready for.

In hindsight, it made sense.

They were grieving. They were trying again. They were processing what nobody should ever have to process, but none of that made it easier. None of it softened the way the loss hollowed them out, carving space between who they were and who they wanted to be.

Charlie learned to push the grief aside. He had to. There were still mouths to feed, lunches to pack, recitals to sit through. He told himself he had a family to look after, and that meant tucking his grief into the quiet corners, where it wouldn’t spill out onto the people who needed him most.

But Nick—Nick hasn’t taken it the same way.

He’s held onto that grief like it’s a child of its own. He’s rocked it, carried it, cradled it so tightly to his chest that sometimes Charlie wonders if Nick sees that grief as a baby. A living, breathing thing that demands his attention and refuses to be put down.

That’s why there are the meds.

To stop Nick’s outbursts.
To smooth the jagged edges of his moods.
To steady him in a world that tilts too easily.

To try—just try—to bring back the boy Charlie fell for. The boyish grin, the charming warmth, the husband who once made everything feel light.

Charlie is shaken from his thoughts by the sound of knuckles rapping on his office door. He pastes on a smile before turning. “Hi, boss.”

Isaac pokes his head in, warm and easy as always. “Hey, Charlie. Is it okay if we talk for a second?”

“Oh—yeah. Yeah, of course.” Charlie clicks out of the tab he’d been staring at—symptoms of the different medicines Nick is on—and shuts the screen completely. He motions Isaac in.

The door closes with a soft thud. Isaac takes the chair across from him, settling in.

Charlie loves Isaac. He really does. Isaac was the first person to look at him as more than a fumbling intern with too many questions and too little confidence. He made him feel like he belonged here. Ten years later, that feeling hasn’t gone away. Isaac may be his boss, but he’s also his friend.

“So,” Isaac begins, casual as ever, “how’s the family?”

It’s a question Charlie hears at least twice a week. He’s learned it’s Isaac’s way of asking how’s Nick without saying it outright, without implying anything that might feel like judgment. Because everyone knows. Everyone has picked up, over time, that Nick Nelson-Spring is… a bit of a loose cannon.

Charlie smooths his tie and clears his throat, forcing his smile to hold. “We’re… managing.”

Isaac tilts his head, humming low. “Mmm. Are you?”

Charlie’s smile falters. He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s just… stressed out. Which then makes me stressed out, and me being stressed out causes him to feel attacked and then—” he gestures vaguely, circling his hand in the air, “the spiral starts. And, well… you know how it goes.”

Charlie shakes his head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “It’s like we’re stuck in this loop we can’t get out of. One of us breaks, and then the other does, and then we’re just trying to keep Aurelia from noticing.”

Isaac studies him for a long moment before asking, “And how has he been with Wylan recently?”

Charlie stills. His throat tightens, and for a second, he can’t answer.

Finally, he shrugs, forcing the words out with a practiced ease. “We’re fine. He’s fine.”

Isaac nods, leaning forward slightly. His voice softens. “I’m not trying to interrogate you as your boss. I just… you’re my friend, Charlie. And so is Nick. We’ve known each other a long time, and I… I worry about you.”

Charlie forces a small smile, even as something in his chest tugs. “I’m okay, Isaac. Promise. And if I wasn’t, you’d be one of the first to know.”

Isaac studies him for a beat, then hums quietly, satisfied enough to let it drop. He rises from the chair, smoothing down his jacket, and gives Charlie’s shoulder a firm, friendly pat. “Alright. But if you ever need a day off, let me know. No questions asked.”

Charlie exhales, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Thanks, Isaac.”

Isaac offers him one last nod before slipping out, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Charlie sits for a moment longer, staring at the photo of Wylan on his desk. The newborn’s tiny hand clinging to his finger. His throat tightens again, and he grabs the picture frame throwing it into the trash. He swallows it down and forces himself back to work.

---

Eight Days Later

It’s been nearly a week since the new medicine, and Nick hates it. No—he loathes it. Every pill feels like another stone in his pocket, dragging him under. His skin crawls constantly, and sometimes the itch is so unbearable he wants to rub himself raw. He’s tried, in quiet moments when Charlie isn’t looking.

But Charlie notices other things. Lovely, innocent, perfect Charlie has picked up on the anger simmering in him like a storm. And in the way only Charlie can, he’s convinced himself that taking showers together will help. A bit of intimacy, a bit of closeness, something to make the weight between them feel lighter.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes Nick angrier. Being naked in front of Charlie right now—while his stomach spills soft, while his body feels foreign, heavy, wrong—is unbearable. It’s not enjoyable, it’s shame stretched across every inch of him.

But Charlie doesn’t seem to see it. Or maybe he sees it and loves him anyway, which almost makes it worse. Because Charlie keeps smiling at him under the steam, keeps pressing kisses to his stomach like it’s something to worship, keeps grabbing his love handles like they’re proof of life instead of proof of failure.

It all comes to a head on the eighth day.

Another appointment with Geoff. Another dose upped. Another slip of paper telling him he’s not stable enough, not good enough, not fixed enough. Nick shoves the bottles into the cabinet when they get home, the rattle of plastic louder than anything else in the kitchen and he ignores Wylan because he's not in the mood to parent today. By the time Charlie nudges him into the shower, steam curling in the small space, Nick’s skin already feels raw, too tight for his body.

Charlie presses close, lips warm against his wet skin, kissing down his chest, trailing lower. His hands cup Nick’s waist, fingers squeezing into the softness there.

And something inside Nick snaps.

“Don’t.” The word cracks like thunder.

Charlie blinks up, startled. “Don’t what, love?”

Nick shoves him back against the tile, water splattering between them. “Don’t touch me like that! Don’t kiss me like I’m something worth wanting. Look at me, Charlie!” His voice rises, breaking, edged with fury. “I’m fat. I’m bloated. I’m a fucking science experiment on nine different meds, and you’re acting like I’m—what—sexy?”

Charlie’s chest heaves, his palms lifting slightly as though in surrender. “Nick, I—”

“No!” Nick’s voice tears out of him, ragged. He slams a hand against his own stomach, the sound echoing off wet tile. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it feels like to look in the mirror and hate every inch of what you see. To know you’re soft and gross and all your husband does is smile and pretend it’s fine!”

“Nick—”

“Stop pretending!” Nick roars. His face twists, water and tears mingling down his cheeks. “Stop kissing me, stop grabbing me, stop acting like this is okay when it’s not! It makes me want to crawl out of my own skin, Charlie. Do you hear me? I fucking hate it. I fucking hate me.”

For a beat, the steam is the only sound. Then Charlie barks out a bitter laugh, sharp and stinging. “Oh, that’s just rich!”

Nick whirls on him.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like?” Charlie’s voice rises, cutting through the shower’s roar. “Jesus, Nick—do you not remember how much I hated myself? Do you not remember the hospital? The meal trays?”

Nick jabs a finger at his chest, spit flying with the force of it. “Inpatient is nothing compared to this! You got to go away, Charlie! You got help handed to you on a silver platter while I’m stuck swallowing pills that don’t even fucking work!”

Charlie’s eyes flash. “Don’t you dare say it was handed to me! I almost died, Nick! I almost didn’t come back to you at all!”

“You think I haven’t almost died?” Nick snaps, slamming a palm against the slick tile. “Sixteen years of chemicals rotting me from the inside out—do you know what that feels like? To wake up every day wondering who you’ll be once the pills kick in, or if you’ll even recognize yourself?”

Charlie’s breath comes fast, his hair plastered to his forehead, fury burning through the love in his eyes. “And do you know what it feels like to watch the person you love disappear right in front of you? To beg them to stay, to try, to fight—and all they do is push you away?”

Nick chokes on his own ragged laugh, eyes blazing. “Maybe you should’ve let me disappear, then! Maybe you’d be better off without me!”

Charlie flinches like he’s been struck. His jaw clenches, his chest heaving, but he doesn’t look away. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.” His voice shakes, but it’s deadly serious. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”

Nick presses his palms into the tile, trembling, fury collapsing into something hollow. And then—suddenly—it’s gone.

Nick blinks, his breathing ragged, his shoulders sagging like someone pulled the strings out of him. His face crumples, the fury dissolving into something softer, almost boyish. His lip trembles, and he lets out a small, broken laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, reaching out like a child desperate for comfort. “God, Charlie, I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean any of it.”

Charlie stares, stunned, water dripping down his face. The whiplash steals his breath.

Nick’s hands find Charlie’s arms, clinging. “You know I love you, right? You know I’d never leave you. I was just—I was angry, I was stupid.” His voice climbs, faster now, desperate. “We’re fine. We’re fine, aren’t we? Say we’re fine.”

“Nick…” Charlie breathes, caught between pulling away and gathering him close.

 “We’re going to laugh about this tomorrow. Right? Just—just another one of my episodes, right? That’s all. I’m fine. We’re fine.” He leans in suddenly, pressing frantic kisses along Charlie’s jaw, his mouth, his shoulders, as if smothering the anger under affection.

Charlie grips his wrists gently, steadying them. His voice is soft, pained. “Baby… slow down.”

But Nick just clings tighter, tears and water mingling as his mood races from rage to desperate love. “Don’t leave me. Please. Please don’t leave me. We’re fine, we’re fine, right? Just tell me we’re fine—”

Charlie grips his wrists, firmer now. “Nick. Stop.”

He pushes him back just enough that the spray from the showerhead hits Nick full in the face, forcing him to blink, sputtering as the hot water streams down.

Charlie’s chest rises and falls, steady but heavy. His voice comes low, tight. “I can’t keep having you constantly yelling at me, Nick. That’s not fair to me.”

Nick’s eyes go wide, startled, his hands falling to his sides.

“I’m your husband, yes,” Charlie continues, water running down his temples, “And I’ll go through all the rough times with you—I made a vow to that. I’ll stay. But you getting angry, tearing me down, and then trying to fix it with kisses?” He shakes his head, voice breaking just slightly. “That isn’t right.”

The words hang in the steam, heavier than any scream could be.

Nick swallows, throat raw, staring at him like he’s just been hit.

Charlie exhales, softer now but unwavering. “I love you, Nick. But love doesn’t mean I let you burn me down and then cover the ashes with affection.”

The fight drains out of him all at once, like air slipping from a balloon. No anger, no desperation, no frantic love — just… nothing.

Geoff had warned about this when he upped the dosage. And God, it feels heavy. Numbness always feels worse than rage. At least anger is alive. This is like being a ghost in his own skin.

“I’m sorry,” Nick whispers, his voice low, unsteady. He drags a hand down his face, water dripping off his chin. “Putting your inpatient experience out there and trying to compare it to me… that wasn’t fair. I know it wasn’t.”

Charlie watches him, expression softening, but he doesn’t move closer.

Nick shakes his head, words breaking apart. “I just… I don’t like not feeling like myself, Charlie. I don’t like looking in the mirror and not recognizing the man staring back. I don’t like swallowing pills that are supposed to make me better and ending up feeling… empty.”

His chest tightens, his eyes glassy. “I miss being happy. I miss… us, when it wasn’t all medicine bottles and side effects. I miss feeling like me.”

For a moment, Charlie just looks at him. His expression is unreadable, caught between ache and restraint. The water hisses around them, filling the silence.

Then Charlie hums softly, almost to himself. “I know…”

And that’s all.

He turns, sliding open the shower door, stepping out into the cool air without another word, without even leaning down for a kiss.

Nick watches him go, chest hollowing, the spray pounding harder against his skin. The sound of the bathroom door closing is louder than any slam.

---

Charlie sits slouched on the couch, the glow of the Marvel movie flickering across his face. Beside him, Aurelia is curled up with her phone, thumbs tapping endlessly at the screen. He sighs quietly. Always on that phone now. Probably some boy, or maybe a girl. Either way, someone who’s got her attention more than the film.

He forces himself to focus on the movie, half-hoping the noise and color will be enough to draw Nick out of the bedroom. It’s been fifteen minutes, though, and no sign of him. Charlie knows the pattern. The meds make him loopy, knock him flat. That tends to happen.

“Dad?” Aurelia’s voice breaks through.

Charlie hums, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

She hesitates, biting her lip. “Is Pops okay? I mean… like actually okay?”

Charlie turns his head, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

Aurelia shrugs, looking smaller than usual, her phone slipping down to her lap. “I know he’s on some sort of medication. Even with you guys trying to keep that from me, I know he isn’t… well.” Her voice lowers, almost trembling. “He’s not sick, right?”

Charlie softens, shaking his head. “No, he’s not sick. He just… his brain works a bit different than ours, and he takes medicine to cope.”

“I’m not dumb, Dad.” Her words rush out, sharper now. “I know that. I just…” She tugs at her sleeve. “He’s just… he’s not going to get taken away, right? To an inpatient facility or something. I mean—I was a baby when you went, but…”

Charlie sits up straighter, reaching for her hand, squeezing it tight. “No, no. I promise you, Nick is staying here.”

Aurelia nods, but her eyes stay on the darkened staircase, as if half-expecting her Pops to appear.

Charlie squeezes again, steady as stone. “We’re keeping him home, Rey. That’s where he belongs. With us.”

Aurelia hums, her brows knitting as she stares down at her hands. “Why can’t… why can’t you tell me then why he’s like this? I mean, I know why—or I know the reason—but…” Her voice trails, and when she looks back up her eyes are wet. “I mean, he’s been on medicine for sixteen years. Shouldn’t he have gotten better?”

Charlie sighs, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. The weight of the question presses on his chest, one he’s asked himself more times than he can count. “I wish I knew, Rey,” he admits softly. “He’s just… we haven’t found the right combination of medicine yet.”

Aurelia nods, her jaw trembling. “Will we ever?”

Charlie swallows hard, searching her face, wishing he could give her certainty. Instead, all he has is hope. He squeezes her hand tighter. “I hope so, sweetheart. I really do.”

“I don’t like hearing you and Pops argue. It’s been happening a lot recently… and I know the meds, and the time of year, and all, but…” She pulls back just enough to look at him, her voice tight. “You aren’t getting divorced, right?”

Charlie’s eyes widen. “What?! No! No, sweetheart, nothing like that!” He squeezes her hand, hurried, desperate for her to believe him. “I’m sorry we’ve been fighting and you’ve had to hear it. But I promise, we aren’t getting divorced. I love your Pops, and I would never have you go through that. Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got it under control.”

Aurelia nods, humming softly, though her eyes still carry that shadow of doubt.

Charlie clears his throat, trying to shake the heaviness from the room. “So… uhh…” His lips twitch into a small grin. “Is there someone that interests you? I’ve noticed you smiling at your phone a lot.”

“Uh! No way I’m having this conversation with you, Dad!” Aurelia scrambles upright, cheeks flushed.

“What?!” Charlie protests, grinning now, trying to tease her out of the mood. “I’d like to know!”

“Nope. Nope!” She’s already standing, clutching her phone to her chest as she backs toward the stairs. “Sorry! Homework!”

Charlie groans dramatically, slumping back against the couch. “Oh, come on!”

Aurelia laughs as she disappears up the stairs, leaving him shaking his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite everything weighing him down.

About an hour after the argument, Nick finally makes his way downstairs. The house smells faintly of onions and garlic, the sizzle of the stove filling the kitchen while another Marvel film plays quietly in the background.

Charlie is at the counter, stirring the pot with half his attention on the movie. When he looks up and sees Nick standing there, he smiles, warm and unguarded, like nothing has been broken between them.

Nick crosses the room without a word, slipping behind him and wrapping his arms firmly around Charlie’s waist. He presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering.

Charlie chuckles, tilting his head. “What’s this for?”

“Because I’m sorry,” Nick murmurs against his skin. His voice is thick, heavy with guilt. “I acted like a complete dick to you.”

Charlie hums, soft and forgiving. “It’s okay. I know the medicine can agitate you.”

Nick shakes his head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “It’s not okay though. I was rude, and I hurt your feelings.” He sighs, reaching over to slide the pot off the burner and twist the stove off. Then, before Charlie can react, Nick scoops him up by the waist and lifts him onto the island counter.

Charlie laughs, startled, his hands instantly finding their way into Nick’s damp hair. “I’m not mad, Nick. Well…” he admits with a small grin, brushing wet strands off Nick’s forehead, “maybe I was a little mad. But I know that wasn’t you talking.”

Nick leans between his knees, his shoulders slumping with the weight of it. “Still. I’m sorry.” His voice cracks as he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Charlie softens, cupping his face. “It’s okay.”

Nick searches his eyes, whispering, “Forgive me?”

Charlie’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Always.”

Nick hums at that, relieved, and presses a kiss to Charlie’s cheek, then another along the line of his jaw, then down to his neck. Charlie tilts his head slightly, letting him, his fingers still threading gently through Nick’s hair.

Charlie laughs softly, running his fingers through Nick’s damp curls. “I love you, Nick.”

“I love you,” Nick breathes back, his lips brushing against Charlie’s skin. “I’m sorry if I have a bad way of showing it.”

Charlie shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You don’t have a bad way of showing it. Every couple has arguments.” He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Nick’s temple. “And even if so, I know you love me.”

Nick kisses down his neck again, voice low, whispering, “Love you… Now, with the kids busy, why don’t we… you know?”

Charlie pulls back just enough to see the mischievous wiggle of Nick’s eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“I wanna have sex with you.”

It startles him—the clarity of it, the need in Nick’s voice. For the first time in what feels like forever, Charlie can tell his husband is truly aroused.

“Okay,” Charlie says, grinning as he slides off the counter. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

He grabs Nick’s hand, tugging him toward the stairs, and Nick follows eagerly, kissing at his neck as they climb. Charlie skips a step at a time, heart lighter than it’s been in days.

But even in that rush, his brain doesn’t let go of the way Nick said it: with the kids busy.

Charlie swallows hard, shaking the thought off as Nick’s mouth presses against his jaw. Tomorrow. He’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Tonight, he just lets himself be pulled back into Nick’s orbit.

Notes:

I'm sure those of you who haven't seen Next To Normal can now tell where this story is leading 😅
They're struggling a bit as a family right now, which I hate, but it's what has to happen 😞

Anyways, I've been writing all day and it's time for a nap and some hot cocoa on this raining day 💤

Hope you're liking this still!

*mwah*
-Willie

Chapter 4

Notes:

TW: Bad Mental Health, Throwing Away Prescribed Medication

In Geoff’s eyes, the medicine is working. Almost eight weeks in, the chart looks steadier. The anger isn’t spilling out in wild bursts. The sadness isn’t swallowing him whole. The confusion, the panic, the restless spirals—they’ve quieted.

On paper, Nick is improving.

But in Nick’s skin, it feels like something else entirely.

He’s numb. Immune. A body on autopilot. He doesn’t rage, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even flinch. He just exists—breathing, moving, functioning, but never feeling.

Sex doesn’t interest him again. The desire is gone, the spark flattened. He doesn’t hate his body anymore, but he doesn’t like it either—it’s just there, like everything else. He can't tell if the medicine is what makes him not want to have sex or the marriage. Which is its own thing he should worry about but can't.

Nick is a void.

It doesn’t help that his family seems to tell him nothing. Which—fine. Whatever. He can’t really handle much anyway, can he? That’s the unspoken truth in the house. Keep things from Nick, let Charlie manage, let Aurelia tiptoe, let Wylan slip in and out of the house, let everything keep moving without him.

It’s bad enough Charlie has to drive him everywhere now. Because apparently he’s too “mentally unstable” to be trusted behind the wheel. Which—again, fine. He wouldn’t normally care. Except for the fact that Charlie drops him off in front of the school like one of his students. Him, a grown man, climbing out of the passenger seat with the kids he teaches.

It’s humiliating.

The first time, he laughed it off, made some crack about being their classmate for the day. But now, eight weeks in, the joke has worn thin. His students barely look at him anymore, maybe sensing what he doesn’t say. That he’s not just tired. That he’s… something else.

Even they can’t bring him joy. Not the way they used to, when their questions and fumbling answers lit up some spark in him. Not the way his husband used to, or his kids.

Now it’s all just… static.

Something is very wrong with him.

Nick knows it, even if he tries to ignore it. He tells himself he’s still a parent, still showing up, still holding the shape of a dad even if the weight inside is hollow. But it doesn’t feel like enough.

It doesn’t help that Aurelia barely seems to care what she says to him anymore. Her tone is sharp, dismissive, like he’s background noise instead of her Pops. He keeps telling himself she’s sixteen, that teenagers snap, that she’ll circle back eventually. But every eye roll carves him deeper. Every shrug feels like a shove further away.

And now—now he’s standing inside, watching her kiss her boyfriend on the porch.

Her boyfriend.

Nick blinks, disoriented. When did that happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, freckles scattered across her cheeks, telling him about some book she loved? Wasn’t she still supposed to be small, still supposed to curl up beside him during storms, still supposed to need him?

A gentle nudge at his arm makes Nick blink. Wylan is suddenly there beside him, bumping shoulders with that crooked grin that always manages to cut through the fog. Nick musters a smile back, as warm as he can manage these days.

“You spying on your own daughter?” Wylan teases, eyes flicking toward Aurelia and her boyfriend.

Nick huffs out something like a laugh. “When did she even get a boyfriend?”

Wylan scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, ew."

Nick shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “How did I miss this?”

Wylan shrugs, slipping his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Well, Pops… you kind of miss a lot.”

The words land heavier than Nick expects. He turns, narrowing his eyes gently at him. “Wait—what’s that mean? Are you dating someone?”

Wylan’s eyes widen. “What! No! No way. I’m too busy being home checking on you to date!”

Nick’s chest tightens. “Checking on me?” He exhales, shaking his head. “Wylan, you shouldn’t be putting your life on hold just to make sure I’m okay. I’m okay"

Wylan snorts. “Yeah, sure. Totally believe you, Pops.” He bumps his shoulder into Nick’s again. “But hey, at least I’m the favorite child. Aurelia’s too busy sucking face with Benji ‘Hope-I-have-good-breath.’”

Nick chokes on a laugh, covering his mouth. “That’s terrible.”

“Terribly accurate,” Wylan fires back, grinning

Nick’s gaze drifts back to Aurelia and Benji, the way they laugh with their heads tilted close. He exhales softly. “You shouldn’t be rude to your sister and her boyfriend, that could be you someday,” he says, half-chiding, half-curious. “Do you think they’re in love? They… they look in love.”

Wylan pats him on the back with a crooked grin. “Could be. I mean—they’re young. They’re horny. It happens.”

Nick snaps his head toward him, scandalized. “Wylan!”

Wylan just shrugs, grinning wider. “What? Just saying, Pops.”

Nick rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest tug of a smile at his lips. Before he can come up with a retort, Wylan leans in and plants a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Love you,” he says simply, then turns and heads down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets.

Nick stays where he is, blinking after him, the warmth of that kiss lingering long after the boy has gone. His gaze moves back to Aurelia and Benji, tangled up in laughter, in that clumsy spark of first love. Young. Naive. Untouchable. And something aches in him.

He misses being young. He misses the coast.

He can still feel it: the salt air sharp in his lungs, the sand burning his feet, Charlie’s smaller frame clutched in his arms as he carried him shrieking into the water. Sixteen and fifteen, the world endless, their voices breaking against the waves as they screamed that they were boyfriends.

He misses summers that stretched forever, friends diving for volleyballs, junk food dinners eaten with wet hair and sunburnt cheeks, laughter echoing over the tide.

He misses getting married on the beach, bare feet pressed into wet sand, Charlie’s eyes brighter than the horizon. He misses baby Wylan, cheeks round, face crumpling at the shock of cold water lapping at his ankles.

He misses even the pain of the coast—the sting of salt in a cut, sharp enough to remind him he was alive.

And now? Now it’s darkness. Numbness. A fog where his thoughts stumble and his heart barely stirs..He misses the ache, the rush, the sweetness of feeling everything too much. He misses his life. He’s numb now.

There is no coast. No waves rushing up his legs, no salt stinging a cut, no laughter tumbling over the tide.

There is no pain either. Just the dull hum of medicine. Just daughters sneaking kisses with boyfriends, sons watching him like he’s fragile glass. Students laughing behind his back. A husband dropping him off at school like a passenger in his own life.

There’s no coast. No fresh air. No escape. No knife to cut into the haze, however painful.

Just… numbness.

Nick’s gaze drifts to the kitchen counter, to the line of bottles waiting for him. White labels. Black print. Orange plastic glowing in the dim light. They don’t look like lifelines. They look like shackles. The pills stare back at him, cold and accusing, as if they know exactly what they’ve stolen.

He could just… throw them out.

Dump them in the sink, watch the water swallow them.

He could stop feeling numb. He could stop all of this.

Nick’s hands shake as he twists the orange caps loose, one by one, plastic clattering against the counter. He tilts the first bottle, ready to pour.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Pops?”

The voice makes him freeze.

Nick turns. Wylan is standing in the doorway, pajama pants hanging loose on his hips, hoodie strings dangling. Of course. Of course he’s here. How idiotic could Nick be? Charlie might be busy in the shower. Aurelia is with her new boyfriend. But Wylan—Wylan is still here. Always here.

Wylan steps closer, eyes flicking from the pills in Nick’s hand to the sink, then back again.

Nick swallows hard. “Wylan… what are you doing up?”

Wylan shrugs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Apparently, watching over you.”

Nick exhales shakily, shame burning hot under his skin. “I’m sorry. You’re right, you’re right. I…” He trails off, staring down at the pills, then back at his son. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

For a heartbeat, Wylan’s face twists—concern flickering, then softening into something else. Something lighter. Almost… proud.

“No,” he says at last, voice sure. “No, I think… I think it’s a great idea. Yeah. I think it’s really brave.”

Nick’s chest aches as a small, fragile smile spreads across his lips. His heart warms. Of course. He has one supporter. Always. His son, Wylan. And if he has no supporters… well. Nick shakes the thought away, too sharp, too cruel. No. Wylan isn’t dead. He’s right here. Right here in front of him.

Nick glances back at the sink, voice breaking. “What will your father think?”

Wylan tilts his head, smirking faintly. “Nothing. If he doesn’t know.”

Nick smiles softly and pats Wylan’s cheek. His hands still tremble as he gathers the bottles, one by one, shaking the pills into the sink. They scatter like tiny white stones before the water roars to life, washing them down, dissolving them into nothing.

He exhales, long and shaky, then looks back to Wylan—his sweet baby boy. Wylan’s lips curl into a smile, gentle, and he leans in to press a kiss to Nick’s cheek.

“You won’t tell your father?” Nick whispers.

“Why would I?” Wylan shrugs, eyes shadowed. “He doesn’t even notice me.”

Nick’s chest tightens. He reaches out, voice low and earnest. “Wy… you know your dad loves you, right?”

Wylan freezes. His expression flickers—hurt, confusion, something too deep for almost eighteen years old—before he shakes it off quickly. “Uh… I’m gonna play some video games, Pops.”

“Wy—” Nick calls, but Wylan’s already bounding down the hall, a skip in his step like the conversation never happened.

Nick is left alone in the kitchen light, the hum of the faucet fading into silence. The sound of Charlie’s shower drifts faintly from upstairs—steady, unknowing. And beneath it, another sound cuts through: the front door creaking open.

Aurelia slips inside, cheeks flushed, hair messy. She jumps when she notices Nick standing in the kitchen light, hands braced on the counter.

For a few seconds, he just stares at her, expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

“Pops, I was just—” she starts, shifting her weight.

“I know, I know,” Nick cuts in, waving a hand. “You’ve got a new boyfriend or something.” He tries for a smile, but it falters. “But still… just—don’t stay out too late. At least not until I’ve met him and can determine if he’s a good fit or not.”

Aurelia blinks, caught between embarrassment and relief. “You’re not serious.”

Nick shrugs, lips quirking faintly. “Dead serious. Dad rules. No boy gets a free pass without me sizing him up first.”

“Seriously, Pops?”

“Yes, seriously!” Nick insists, straightening his shoulders as if it gives him authority. “I need to make sure he’s a decent guy and not going to hurt my baby girl.”

“I’m not a baby,” Aurelia shoots back, rolling her eyes.

“No,” Nick says softly, stepping closer, “but you’re my baby.” He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.

She huffs, trying to hide her smile. “You have no reason to be this protective.”

“I have every reason,” Nick replies, his voice low but earnest. “I just love you and want to make sure you’re safe. And happy.”

Aurelia shifts her weight, fiddling with her phone. “Okay, well… I am happy. And I’m safe. And I’m now leaving, so Dad can deal with your clingy ass.”

Nick lifts a finger, mock stern. “Language.”

But Aurelia only waves him off, already heading for the stairs, her laughter echoing up the hallway.

Nick watches her go, the corners of his mouth twitching upward before falling again as the quiet of the kitchen swallows him back up.

He’ll be fine.

Right?

Getting rid of the medicine… that’s good. It has to be good.

No more numbness. No more nights staring at bottles that sneer back at him. No more sweating through sheets, no more hands that won’t stop trembling, no more shame in Charlie’s eyes when he can’t keep himself steady.

It will be good.

It has to be good.

“It’ll be good. It’ll be good.”

---

Two Weeks Later

Whatever new medication Geoff finally landed on — whatever magic balance has settled into Nick’s system — it’s working. Not just working, but working well.

Nick isn’t numb anymore. He isn’t hollow-eyed and quiet, drifting through rooms like a ghost. He isn’t the man who snapped with fury over nothing, his voice rising until the walls shook.

He’s… better. So, so much better.

It’s like having his teenage boy back — the boy with the crooked grin who once carried him into the ocean, who shouted to the coast that they were boyfriends, who made the world feel lighter just by being in it.

Charlie’s chest swells, eyes stinging as he takes it in. After months of fear and heartbreak, after years of trial and error, he has Nick back.

Lovely. Lively. His.

He doesn’t wait at work fearing the phone will ring with some new disaster. He doesn’t brace himself for an outburst at school or worry about Nick snapping at him in the shower.

And the sex—God, the sex.

They’re finally having sex again. Regularly. Not fumbling, strained attempts that collapse under frustration, but real intimacy, real heat. It’s been years—years—since they’ve touched each other like this. Since Nick has reached for him not out of obligation, not out of desperation, but with hunger.

And it’s good. Better than good. It’s great.

It’s heaven.

Charlie lies awake sometimes afterward, Nick curled against him, chest rising and falling steady in the dark. He smooths his fingers through damp hair and lets himself believe this is what they’ve been fighting for, what all the pain and meds and appointments were meant to bring them back to.

His husband. His partner. His boy.

Charlie leans against the doorway, just watching.

Nick is at the stove, humming softly to himself, flipping through the dog-eared booklet of safe foods with a little grin tugging at his lips. The sight makes Charlie’s chest ache in the best way. It’s been so long since Nick has looked this light. So long since dinner felt like something more than survival.

It’s finally better.

They might finally be getting better.

Last night, curled up in bed with the windows cracked open, they’d talked about taking a vacation. Nick had suggested the coast, his eyes bright with the thought. Maybe visiting Sarah. Maybe inviting Elle and Tao to fly down. He’d even joked about a kid-free weekend, just them and their friends.

It's getting better. It's finally, finally, getting better.

Charlie’s heart lifts as he watches Nick hum over the stove, a smile spread across his face.

It’s working. It’s improving.

The click of the front door makes Charlie glance over his shoulder. Aurelia walks in, cheeks flushed from the cold, a teenage boy trailing just behind her.

Charlie smiles warmly, stepping forward before she can close the door. “Might as well meet the boyfriend, yeah?”

“Dad—” Aurelia starts, but Charlie’s already extending his hand. “Barry, it’s so nice to meet you!”

The boy blinks, startled, before shaking his hand politely. From the kitchen, Nick’s voice drifts out, muffled but sharp: “Benji. His name’s Benji.”

Charlie glances toward him, confused, but shrugs it off with a quick smile. “Right, of course. Benji.”

“No, Dad!” Aurelia blurts, her eyes wide. “Benji really can’t stay.”

“Nonsense,” Charlie says easily, trying to smooth things over. “I think it’s fine. We’re having family dinner.”

Aurelia stares at him, shocked, as if he’s missed something obvious. Charlie just shrugs, trying to reassure her, but his gaze drifts back to the kitchen.

Nick stands at the counter, lips moving, his hands gesturing faintly as if in conversation. But there’s no one there. Just a chair pulled slightly out from the table.

Charlie’s stomach drops. No—that can’t be right. Nick’s probably muttering to himself, humming, thinking aloud like he does when he’s focused.

Hopefully.

God, he hopes so.

Charlie clears his throat, turning back to the boy in the doorway with his best welcoming smile. “You like pasta, right?”

Benji shifts awkwardly, glancing at Aurelia before nodding. “Uhh… yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Perfect.” Charlie claps his hands once, as if that settles everything. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

Aurelia lets out a long, dramatic sigh, shoulders sagging. She shoots Charlie a look—half frustrated, half resigned—before dropping her bag by the stairs. She seems to take the hint that this argument is already lost.

“Fine,” she mutters under her breath, brushing past him. 

Charlie watches her go, his smile flickering for just a moment before he forces it back in place. He gestures for Benji to follow him toward the Kitchen.

Aurelia drops into her chair with a dramatic huff, sliding closer to Benji as if to shield him from the circus of her family. Benji sits stiffly, clearly out of his depth, offering her a nervous smile.

Charlie moves behind Nick, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder before leaning in to kiss his cheek. He whispers, soft enough for only Nick to hear, “Thank you for cooking.”

Nick’s smile blooms warm and easy, the kind that always makes Charlie’s chest loosen. He glances toward the table, catching Benji’s eye. “Hi, Benji,” he says kindly, almost too intently. “It’s nice to meet you properly.”

Benji blinks, unsure how to respond. “Uh… thanks, Mr. Nelson-Spring.”

Charlie straightens, about to pull back, when Nick tilts his head and kisses his cheek again, holding him there just a second longer. “Can you finish stirring the sauce?” Nick murmurs, eyes bright. “I need to grab something real quick.”

Charlie hesitates, glancing at the pot bubbling on the stove, then back at his husband. Something about the way Nick’s voice lingers unsettles him, but he nods anyway, sliding into Nick’s place with the wooden spoon.

Charlie watches Nick disappear into the garage, his heart climbing into his throat. He listens—waiting for the mechanical groan of the garage door, the sound that would mean Nick’s about to do something reckless, something dangerous.

But it never comes.

Instead, he hears the fridge door creak open, the faint clink of glass bottles shifting. A beat later, Nick reappears—cake in hand, lights dimmed, candles already lit. The wax numbers glow bright: 18.

Nick grins, boyish and giddy. “Okay!” he announces, clapping once. “It’s somebody’s birthday!”

Charlie’s stomach knots as his husband’s eyes flick toward the empty chair he’d been talking to earlier. The grin falters, crumbling into confusion. His face falls, crestfallen, as he searches the room.

Benji tilts his head, brow furrowed. “Whose birthday is it?”

Charlie clenches his eyes shut, his grip tightening on the wooden spoon. He forces his face neutral, bracing himself, but when he looks again, Nick is still scanning the table—still looking for someone.

The silence stretches until Aurelia finally whispers, her voice thin and trembling, “My brother’s.”

Benji blinks. “Oh. I… I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Charlie can’t bear it—he sets the spoon down, moves the pan off the heat, and steps toward Nick, reaching for his arm, trying to ground him, to pull him back into the present. But Nick shakes him off, eyes darting, desperate. Still searching. Still waiting for someone who isn’t there.

Aurelia swallows hard, staring at the table. “I don’t… he, uh…” Her voice cracks. “He died. Before I was born.”

The candles flicker, wax spilling down the sides.

Charlie’s eyes stay fixed on Nick. He watches the warmth drain from his husband’s face, the confusion hardening into something rawer, emptier. Nick’s grip on the cake trembles, shoulders rising and falling too fast. His gaze clings to the empty chair like it might save him.

Dead.

His baby boy. His son.

Gone.

And Nick, his lovely husband Nick, is still a believer that he's here.

Notes:

for those of you that know 'Next To Normal' this isn't a huge reveal, but to those who haven't.... welp, here ya go.... 😞😭

I just want to hug them all.
That's all I can really say.

Just wanna give them hugs and warmth.

*mwah*
- Willie

Chapter 5

Notes:

TW: Nick and Charlie Arguing, Talks of Child Death, Bad Mental Health, Hallucinations

Charlie watches Nick blink hard, tears glossing his eyes before he tears his gaze away from the empty chair. Slowly, almost reverently, Nick looks down the hallway, as if he expects Wylan to appear at any moment.

The look of a father trying to find his son.

“He’s not here,” Charlie says softly, stepping forward, voice breaking. “Nick, he’s not here… I know you know. Nick, please just…” He swallows hard. “I know you think he’s still real, but baby—it’s just not.... so.”

He reaches out carefully, trying to take the cake from Nick’s trembling hands. But Nick shoos him away, clutching it close to his chest, moving toward the stairs. His palm hovers protectively in front of the candles, shielding the flames from the draft.

Charlie’s chest caves as he calls after him, desperation spilling out.

“Why is it you still believe? Nick….” His voice cracks, sharp with grief. “He’s been dead all these years.”

Aurelia scoffs, shoving back from the table so hard the chair squeals against the floor. “This is fucked!”

“Aurelia—language,” Charlie snaps, his voice weary, automatic.

“No!” Her voice cracks, hands balled into fists. “This is fucked! We’re fucked!”

Before Charlie can reach her, she’s storming up the stairs, footsteps thundering.

Benji hesitates, caught between them, wide-eyed. “It… uh… it was nice to meet you both,” he stammers, and then he bolts after Aurelia, two steps at a time.

Nick doesn’t move. He lowers the cake onto the counter, his hands trembling as he sets it down. The candles burn on, soft and steady, mocking in their glow. He stares at it for a long moment, like if he looks hard enough, the missing piece will reappear.

Charlie crosses the kitchen slowly, carefully, and comes to stand beside him. His hand hovers, aching to touch but afraid to startle.

“Baby,” he whispers, gentle as he can manage. “What about the new meds? They were—they were supposed to help with these…” He swallows, forcing the word out carefully. “Episodes.”

Nick’s eyes don’t leave the flickering candles, his voice barely audible. “They… they’re down the drain.”

Charlie blinks, “I’m sorry, what?”

Nick swallows, shoulders curling in. “I… I dumped them. Down the drain. Two weeks ago. After my last appointment with Geoff.”

Charlie stares at him, unblinking. Then he shakes his head, disbelief flooding in. His hand slams against the counter, the crack splitting the silence. Nick flinches hard, eyes wide.

“Damnit, Nick!” Charlie’s voice is ragged, trembling with fury and fear. “They were working!”

“No!” Nick explodes, spinning toward him, tears glinting at the edges of his eyes. “They weren’t working! They just made me feel nothing! Like a goddamn ghost in my own life while everyone tiptoed around me like I was some fragile fucking thing!” His chest heaves. “I’m not fragile! I don’t need to be treated like I’m fragile!”

Charlie’s voice rises, sharp as glass. “Because you are, Nick! You’ve been fragile for sixteen fucking years!”

Nick staggers back, shaking his head furiously. “Because of the fucking medicine! Because you forced me on medicine!”

Charlie’s voice cracks, grief spilling over rage. “Because you weren’t coping! You weren’t grieving! Jesus Christ, Nick—you’re still imagining him!” His hand shoots toward the empty chair, candles casting its shadow long against the wall. “He isn’t here! Okay?! I know that sucks, and I know you’re hurting, but he isn’t here!”

Nick shakes his head violently, tears spilling now, his voice breaking apart. “You don’t get it, Char. You never understood it! He is here! He is. He’s…” His hand trembles as he presses it to his chest. “He’s here.”

Then, with a sharp turn, Nick points down the hallway. To the door that’s always closed. The room no one speaks of.

Wylan’s room.

Still a nursery. Still frozen in time. Forever empty.

Charlie feels the breath punch out of him. His throat tightens as he shakes his head. “Okay… okay,” he says carefully, soothingly, though his stomach twists. “We’ll just go back to Geoff. We’ll explain that you’re having these episodes again, and we’ll try a new batch.”

“No!!!” Nick’s cry rips through the kitchen, full and guttural, so raw that Charlie feels sick. It’s grief distilled into sound, years of it spilling all at once.

“Nick…” Charlie steps forward, hands half-raised, pleading. “Look, I know this is hard—”

Nick scoffs, spinning back to the counter. He grabs the pasta dish, shoving it into a container with jerky movements, each scrape of the spoon louder than the last. Then he whirls back, eyes blazing, words tumbling out sharp and desperate.

“Oh, you know? You think you know!? Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and need help just to lift your head? To open the paper, see the obituaries, and feel jealous of the dead?” His breath catches, voice breaking, but he keeps going. “It’s like living on a cliffside, Charlie—never knowing when you’ll fall, never knowing when the ground’s going to vanish under you. Do you even understand what it’s like to be alive and still feel like you’re already dead?”

The lines cut like a knife, and Charlie flinches. He wants to step forward, to hold him, to stop this, but Nick’s eyes are blazing and Charlie knows he can’t touch fire without burning.

“I know you’re hurting, Nick!” Charlie blurts out, voice rising despite himself. “I’ve seen it! Hell, I’ve lived it for the last sixteen years. I’m trying to help you, and the medicine helps—okay? I know it does, I promise it does.”

The sound of glass shattering makes Charlie jolt. He covers his mouth without thinking, watching shards scatter across the counter, across the floor, and Nick doesn’t even flinch. Nick's having another outburst then, throwing glass into the sink. 

“I had a good life!” Nick’s voice shakes, chest heaving. “We had a good fucking life, Char! And then the world that once had color—” he breaks, sobbing, “—faded to white and grey and black! And you don’t even care! You never fucking cared! You won’t even—you never even speak about him!”

Charlie’s throat closes, but the words come anyway, sharp and guttural. “Because he’s gone, Nick! And it just—it just makes you have these episodes! That’s why we got you on the meds in the first place, remember?”

Nick’s fists clench, shaking his head like a child refusing the truth. “No! You—you were supposed to be my husband. You were supposed to support me with the pain. But you didn’t. You just—ran to a doctor.”

The sting of it makes Charlie’s chest ache. “Because you needed help!” His voice breaks, ragged. “Baby, you needed help! We were about to have Aurelia and you—God, you were too far in your own head to be a father again and I couldn’t—I didn’t know what else to do! We had just lost him, and we were about to be parents of two and we became parents of one, and I couldn’t parent Aurelia alone!”

Nick points at the empty chair, his tears bright in the dim light. “But you never fucking healed, Char. You never even hurt. You shoved it aside, locked it away. Wylan is real! He’s real and he’s our son and you never even shed a fucking tear! So no—you don’t know! You say you’re hurting, but you have a weird way of showing it!”

Charlie’s chest caves, fury boiling to the surface, his voice trembling with a truth he’s never wanted to speak aloud. “Because I had to stand up and be the parent Aurelia needed—because you weren’t here!”

“There’s this feeling—like you’re screaming, but nothing comes out. And this weight—like you’re falling, but you never hit the ground.” He drags his hands through his hair, tugging, his chest heaving. “It doesn’t stop, Char. It just keeps pressing down on me, day after day after day, like it’s never going to end.”

He smacks his palm against his forehead, too hard, and then spins on Charlie, eyes blazing.

“You don’t know what it’s like to live that way! You don’t! And that’s on you! Because you forced me into this—shoving meds at me, dragging me from doctor to doctor to doctor.” His voice cracks. “And now? I can barely hold down my job because of the meds. I can’t drive. Aurelia won’t fucking open up to me, and it’s all because of you. Because you don’t think he’s real. Because you don’t want me to believe he’s real!”

Charlie’s throat closes. He takes a step forward, voice breaking as much as his resolve. “Because it keeps hurting you, Nick! It’s—”

He stops himself, draws in a sharp breath, fighting the sob at the edge of his throat. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, trembling.

“Nick… it’s killing the boy I love. And I can’t—I can’t keep watching that boy, my husband, die again and again because you keep clinging to these delusions. That’s not fair to me, or to you, or even to Aurelia.”

Nick scoffs, a hollow, bitter sound. He shakes his head like he wants to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat and twists into something darker. But when he looks at Charlie, there’s nothing warm left in his eyes. 

“You say you loved him, Char… but you buried him the second he was gone. You shut the door, locked it, and pretended he never existed. Don’t tell me you’re the one hurting.”

The words knock the air right out of Charlie. His throat seizes, tears prickling hot, but he forces them back, his jaw tightening.

Nick’s gaze flickers toward the stairs, his voice dropping lower, colder. “You put it all into Aurelia instead. Made her your whole world. And what did that leave me with? Nothing. Not a son. Not even a husband who cared enough to grieve with me.”

Nick turns away, reaching for the cake. Nick plucks the candles from the cake one by one, snuffing each flame between his fingers until thin curls of smoke coil upward. His hand reaches for the base of the cake, ready to toss it away.

“Nick—wait.” Charlie steps forward quickly, his voice trembling but firm. He lays a hand over Nick’s wrist. “Don’t. You worked so hard on this. You… you handmade it. We can still—” His throat catches. “We can still celebrate it.”

It. It.

Fuck, did he really call his son an it?

Nick freezes, eyes narrowing as he turns to him. The silence stretches long and heavy before he spits the words, quiet and sharp.

“Celebrate what, Charlie? He doesn’t even exist to you.”

Charlie recoils as if struck, the words cutting deeper than a scream ever could. And then Nick rips his wrist free, lifts the cake, and dumps it into the trash with a sickening thud. Frosting smears down the inside of the bin, the smell of sugar thick in the air, and the silence that follows feels unbearable.

Charlie stands frozen in place, the ache in his chest spreading until it’s hard to breathe. He presses a fist to his mouth, blinking back tears because if he lets them spill, he isn’t sure he’ll ever stop.

---

Seventeen Years Ago 

The coast stretched wide before them, sun spilling gold across the waves. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, gulls crying overhead. Charlie’s hand was laced with Nick’s, their fingers sticky with sand and sugar from the cheap ice cream cones they’d just devoured.

Wylan was strapped snug against Nick’s chest, nestled in the baby carrier, his chubby face half-hidden by a blue sunhat far too big for his tiny head. Every now and then he’d make a soft noise, a little coo muffled by Nick’s shirt. Nick would bend his head low, whispering nonsense to him, kissing the crown of his hair.

Nick shifted the baby carrier strapped to his chest, one hand steadying the small bundle nestled inside. “Come on, big guy,” he whispered, grinning down at the little face peeking up at him. “You want to feel the ocean?”

Wylan cooed in reply, cheeks flushed pink from the salt-kissed wind. Then, clear as anything, came the sound: “Papa… papa… papa.”

Charlie laughed, the sound ringing out over the surf. “Wylan always choosing his favorites,” he teased, leaning in to press quick kisses to both of the baby’s cheeks. Wylan squealed with delight, tiny fists batting at the air until one caught Charlie’s finger and clutched it tight.

Nick laughed, eyes bright as the waves behind him. “Mmmhmm, I think you’re his favorite at this very moment.” He bent his head low, brushing his nose over Wylan’s cap of hair. “Isn’t that right, Wylan? Did you trap Daddy?”

Wylan’s giggles bubbled out, breathy and sweet. “Daddy, daddy… my daddy!” he squealed, tugging Charlie’s finger closer with all his little strength.

Charlie doubled over in laughter, eyes stinging with joy as he kissed Nick’s shoulder and Wylan’s fist in turn. Wylan squirmed in his carrier, cheeks flushed, fists opening and closing like he was reaching for the whole ocean.

“Birthday boy is demanding,” Charlie teased, brushing his hand over the boy’s cheeks.

“Oh, shush!” Nick grinned, adjusting the straps so Wylan was more snug against his chest. “He’s one. Let the guy wish to be by his daddy.” He wiggled his eyebrows, a familiar glint sparking in his eyes.

Charlie snorted, narrowing his gaze. “Absolutely not. I know that look. And no—you are not using that term in the bedroom. You tried it once and… no. Absolutely not.”

Wylan looked between them, eyes wide and bright, before bursting into a fit of giggles, little finger pointing at Nick. “Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!” he chanted, bouncing in the carrier with his squeals.

Nick threw his head back with a laugh. “I agree, Wy. I think Daddy is perfectly acceptable—”

“—Nope!” Charlie cut in, cupping his hand firmly over Nick’s mouth, trying not to laugh. “You’re done. You are not traumatizing our one-year-old son.”

Nick’s laughter rumbled under Charlie’s palm, muffled and bright, while Wylan dissolved into another round of squeals, clapping his tiny hands together like he’d just won.

Nick’s grin was wide and easy, sunlight catching the edges of his hair. “I love this beach,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent.

Charlie leaned over and kissed him gently, then bent down to press another kiss against Wylan’s cheek. The baby squealed with laughter, clapping his hands, eyes squinting up in delight.

“Yeah?” Charlie teased, brushing a finger down Wylan’s arm.

“Yeah,” Nick murmured, his eyes never leaving the horizon. “I mean—this is where we became boyfriends. Where we had our first proper date. Where we got married. Where we spent every summer holiday that mattered.” He shook his head, a laugh bubbling up through his throat. “Sorry, I’m being emotional on this big guy’s birthday. It’s just… I know my dad thinks we’re crazy. I know Jane does too. Married at twenty-one and twenty, a year later with a one-year-old, still finishing school.” His voice softened. “But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Right now? This is it for me.”

Charlie’s eyes burned, too full, too happy. He kissed Nick again, holding him close. “I’m so happy, Nick. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be either. We might be young, maybe a bit stupid, but I always knew you’d be my husband. And I always knew I wanted to raise kids with you.”

He looked at Wylan then, watching as the boy stared at Nick with adoration, clapping his hands together like his father hung the moon. And God, he did look like Nick—so much it was almost sickening. The soft eyes, the tiny spray of sun-kissed freckles, the reddish-brown blond wisps of hair. A replica of the man Charlie loved.

He hadn’t cared if the boy resembled the surrogate—they’d searched for a woman who shared Charlie’s features, just in case—but Wylan was all Nick. Purely, completely Nick.

And Charlie’s heart swelled, so full with love it felt like it might burst right there on the sand.

Wylan’s tiny hand shot out, latching onto Charlie’s finger with surprising strength. He pointed it toward the rolling waves, his chubby arm waving insistently. “Go! Go!” he squealed, followed by a string of cooing noises that almost sounded like words.

Nick burst into laughter, tilting his head down to kiss the top of Wylan’s head. “Okay, okay—we’re going, big guy.”

Charlie grinned, brushing his thumb over Wylan’s soft knuckles. “Gotta listen to the birthday boy,” he said, and Nick squeezed his hand, their fingers lacing together as they walked down the warm sand toward the water.

Nick began undoing the carrier as they went, careful hands easing the straps loose. Charlie scooped Wylan up once he was free, holding him high and steady. “Airplane incoming!” he announced, making buzzing sounds as he dipped Wylan through the salty breeze.

Wylan squealed, his laugh bursting like sunlight on water, his hands flapping with pure joy. Charlie pretended to swoop him toward the waves, then pulled him back up against his chest, both of them grinning wide.

Nick took hold of one of Wylan’s tiny arms and a leg, Charlie holding the other side. “Okay, baby,” Charlie murmured, his voice soft with delight, “it might be a little cold.”

Together they lowered him toward the surf, careful and slow. The waves lapped over Wylan’s toes, and instantly he kicked them back, squeaking at the shock before bursting into bubbling laughter.

“That’s the ocean, baby,” Nick said, grinning so wide his cheeks ached. He leaned down, kissing Wylan’s damp little foot as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Charlie looked at them both—the boy squirming in their hands, the man he loved smiling brighter than the sun—and his chest swelled. Nothing, he thought, nothing would ever make him feel like an unlucky man when this was his life.

---

Present Day

Nick flicked the switch, flooding the kitchen with harsh white light. The candles were gone, their smoke long faded, and there was nothing left to celebrate. Just broken glass in the sink, sugar clinging to the trash bin, and the silence that pressed too heavy against his ears.

He turned back around.

Charlie stood there, his face tired, his shoulders heavy, eyes still rimmed with the threat of tears. For a moment, Nick just stared at him, taking in every detail — the man he’d spent over two decades with, the man who had held him, fought with him, built a life with him.

And yet—something inside Nick shifted. Something he had never let himself think before.

For the first time in his marriage—no, for the first time in his life—he wondered if he really loved Charlie at all.

Nick wants to blame it on the medicine. To tell himself this corrosive thought is just chemicals twisting his brain, dulling what’s real. But he can’t—because he hasn’t taken the meds in weeks. Not since the day he poured them down the drain.

He did that for Wylan.

He’d do anything for Wylan.

He doesn’t care if people call him crazy. Doesn’t care if they look at him like a fool. Wylan is his son. His baby boy. Nick would burn the whole world down just to keep him close.

And Aurelia—his sweet, stubborn girl. Even if she looks at him now and sees a man unraveling, even if she secretly hates him for being “insane,” he’d take a bullet for her without hesitation. She’s his daughter. His child. His.

These are his kids. His reason. His blood and his heart.

And Charlie—Charlie is his husband. The boy who kissed him at a birthday party all those years ago, the man who built a home with him. But Charlie is also the one who nods in the doctor’s office. Who signs the prescriptions. Who tells the therapists what’s wrong with him.

Charlie is the man who put him on medicine—not to heal him, but to help him forget.

Nick watches Charlie shake his head, sees him start to walk closer, and something ugly rises in his chest. A sick urge to shove him back, to grab his shirt, to drag him to Wylan’s empty chair and make him see. Make him understand.

But he can’t.

This is Charlie. His Char. His husband.

Charlie takes a few steadying breaths, his voice soft but cutting through the silence. “Can you tell me what it is you’re afraid of? And can you tell me why I can’t stop being afraid it’s me?”

Nick scoffs, looking away. Because it’s everything and nothing to do with Charlie. It’s his fault—the meds, the adjustments, the endless cycle. But Wylan? No. That part isn’t Charlie’s fault. That pain is older, sharper, untouchable.

Charlie steps closer. His voice dips, tentative. “Can I touch you?”

Nick jerks his shoulder, shrugging him off. Instead, he reaches for a rag and starts wiping at the counter, even though the surface is already clean. His motions are fast, frantic, like he can scrub away the weight in his chest.

Charlie watches him, eyes dark with something between anger and grief. “How am I supposed to see what’s wrong when it’s hidden? How am I supposed to help if you keep pushing me out?”

Nick snaps his gaze up, meeting him squarely. “Because you aren’t paying attention to what’s right in front of you.”

“Nick—” Charlie starts, but Nick cuts him off with a sharp, “Don’t.”

Charlie exhales, heavy and broken. He takes the rag gently from Nick’s hand and starts wiping the counter himself. His voice is steady, but the words tremble with everything he’s been holding back.

“I’m the one who’s been here, Nick. The one who knows you. The one who cares. The one who’s tried, every single time, to hold this family together.” His voice cracks, but he pushes through. “And if you think for a second that I don’t give a damn—then you don’t know who I am."

Nick shakes his head and pushes past the counter, his chest tight. He just… he just needs to get away. To breathe. To stop feeling Charlie’s eyes on him like a spotlight, burning through every crack he’s tried to patch.

Then a voice cuts through the air.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

Nick stops dead, his heart slamming against his ribs. He turns, just slightly, and there he is—Wylan, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

Charlie’s voice follows, low and pleading. “Nick, just talk to me. Please.”

But Nick isn’t listening to him. He’s staring.

Because Wylan moves. Steps into the kitchen like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there. He comes right up to the counter and locks eyes with Charlie, his expression sharp, hurt simmering underneath.

“Why can’t you see me?” Wylan asks, his voice quiet, steady.

Nick’s throat closes. His knees nearly buckle. Why can’t his husband see? Why can’t Charlie see the boy standing right in front of him—eighteen years old now, tall and restless, so achingly alive? Why can’t he see their son, leaning on the counter, his face just inches from his?

Nick edges closer, his chest aching with the need to be near his son. He lowers himself into the chair Wylan had been sitting in earlier, the one pulled out while Nick was still cooking, as if being in the same place keeps them tethered.

Charlie’s voice trembles across the silence. “Why won’t you just talk to me? Are you… are you broken?”

Nick’s head snaps up. The word carves through him like a blade. And when he looks at Wylan, his son’s face mirrors it—the same hurt, the same disbelief.

Wylan leans forward until he’s right in Charlie’s face, eyes blazing. Nick can barely breathe as he stares between them. Wylan's voice cracks as he speaks, gaze locked on Charlie. “Are you waiting? Are you wishing? Are you wanting all that he can’t give?”

The words taste like grief. Nick bites down on his fist to stop the sob from ripping free, but a small cry escapes anyway. Is that what Charlie is doing? Grieving not the son they lost but the husband Nick can never be again?

Charlie’s eyes glisten, but his voice comes out sharp. “Are you… bruised? Bleeding? Buried with him?”

Wylan’s lips curl, venom lacing every word as he spits them like fire. “Are you hurting? Are you healing? Are you hoping for a life to live?”

Nick presses his fist harder to his mouth, staring at them both—the husband who won’t see, the son who burns like live fire—and wonders which truth will finally break him.

Charlie moves closer, desperate, pointing at his own chest as if he can rip it open. “Just… Nick, I’m broken. I’m buried with him, I’m bleeding too, I am! I promise I am.” His voice cracks, and his hands fall useless at his sides. “But I’m not—” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Just… tell me what to do.”

Nick stares at him, his vision blurring with tears. His throat aches with the weight of everything he can’t say. And then Wylan steps forward again. Slowly, deliberately.

His eyes never leaving Charlie. His voice low, insistent. “Look at me.”

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if refusing to hear. “Or… or… tell me who to be.” His words fall like a prayer, hands trembling.

Wylan’s voice rises, sharper now. “Look at me and you’ll see!”

Nick nearly sobs, clutching the edge of the chair. That’s it. That’s all it would take. If Charlie would just look—just once—he’d see him. He’d know how to act, how to be, who to be. But Charlie doesn’t look. He won’t. He keeps acting like Wylan never existed at all.

And it’s killing Nick. He grabs at his head, fingers digging into his hair, the pressure mounting until he thinks he’ll split apart. Then—hands. Gentle, steady hands pressing against his temples, lips brushing the crown of his head. He exhales, trembling, leaning into it. Wylan. His sweet Wylan. Always there. Always holding him up.

Charlie steps forward, reaching. “You think I don’t give a damn, Nick—”

Wylan jerks back at Charlie’s hand, flinching hard. The movement is so sharp, so clear, Nick has to bite down on his lip to keep from screaming. Of course his son recoils. Of course he’s terrified. Because Charlie won’t see him. Won’t even try. So why would he want to be touched by him?

“You don’t give a damn,” Wylan whispers, venom laced with grief.

Nick shakes his head, his chest heaving. Maybe Wylan is right. Maybe Charlie doesn’t.

“Nick… I’m the one who loves you. I’ll always love you. I’ll always protect you. I always will. I’m just—” He takes a breath, pained. “I’m trying to protect you now. From your brain. Because your brain is being cruel to you.”

Nick shakes his head violently. “No. No, it’s not. You don’t—you don’t get it. You don’t give a damn!”

Charlie blinks, stung. Then his expression hardens, the plea collapsing into something bitter. “Fine. Fine.” He scoffs, throwing his hands up. “You just don’t know who I am then.”

Nick watches the fight drain out of him, replaced with a weary shake of the head. Charlie mutters something under his breath about throwing medicine away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs as he retreats.

Wylan turns toward the stairs, his eyes blazing, and shouts after Charlie, “You just don’t know who I am!”

But Charlie doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t hear. Doesn’t care.

Nick crumples, his knees giving out beneath him as he collapses onto the kitchen floor. The sob rips out of him, muffled against the tile, jagged and raw.

In an instant, Wylan abandons his glare at the retreating figure on the stairs and drops down beside him. He wraps his arms around Nick, pulling him close, holding him as if the pieces of him can still be kept together.

Nick clings to him, trembling, his face buried against his son’s chest. Wylan is real. He’s here. He’s solid and warm and whispering comforts only Nick can hear.

And Nick knows—he knows—the medicine Charlie wants to force back into him would strip this away. Would erase his boy. Would silence the only arms that are still holding him.

He won’t let that happen. He can’t.

Not Wylan.
Not his son.
Not his baby boy.

Notes:

😭😭😭😭😭

I hate our boys fighting. I hate everything about this. I just want them all happy. I want them to be happy and in love again and have Nick acknowledge Aurelia and have Charlie accept that he needs to grieve so he can see wylan and then let go. ugh! I hate this!

here's a hug and a kiss on the cheek (only if consented of course) to help comfort you after this sad chapter.

okay okay I'm actually going to bed now and done writing, because I've got to be up in a few hours. night night!

thank you for reading.

*mwah*

-Willie

Chapter 6

Summary:

TW: Child Neglect, Smoking Weed, Talks of Child Death, Child Resentment, Bad Mental Health

It isn’t that Aurelia hates her parents. She’s not that low. She loves them, in her way, even when the house feels heavy with storms that never pass.

But she knows—deep down, in the quiet parts of herself—that she will never compare to her brother.

She’s the second born. The second choice. The backup, the afterthought. The child who came after disaster, and somehow that makes it worse. Her whole life, she’s felt like the shadow that came too late, the consolation prize in a family built on grief.

No matter how hard she works, no matter how loud she tries to laugh or how bright she tries to shine, she will always feel like the 2nd favorite. Always the outcast in her own home.

She loves them, of course she does. But the love sits tangled with something darker, something she can never quite untangle.

Resentment.

More toward Nick than Charlie, though she isn’t sure if that’s fair. Maybe it’s only because Charlie isn’t the one on the pills, the one unraveling in front of her eyes. Nick is. And when he unravels, it always seems to trace back to her brother.

The brother who’s been dead all these years. Dead before she was even born. Dead before she was ever their daughter. And yet, somehow, still—still—he’s more important than she is.

She resents him for that. Hates herself for resenting someone she never even met. But the truth sits like a stone in her chest: she will never be enough. She will always be the after. The second choice. The daughter who came in the wake of disaster, and never stopped being compared to the ghost who came before.

Aurelia lifts her head from Benji’s shoulder, embarrassed by the damp spot she’s left there. She hates admitting she was crying, but hearing her parents argue always… it always sets her off. Always makes her chest tighten and her pulse skitter with panic.

She wipes at her eyes quickly, moving toward the edge of her bed. The soft purple glow from her lamp fills the room, but instead of being cozy it just makes everything feel heavy, gloomier than she wants it to.

“When he gets like this,” she mutters, voice low, “he’s useless. He can’t talk on the phone, or drive, or sleep, or… or even parent.”

Benji shifts, leaning back against her headboard with that lopsided grin of his. “Well, I mean… he’s got great pills.”

Aurelia stares at him, stunned into silence for a beat. God, she knows she’s dating a bit of a stoner, a weirdo, a pot head, but she actually likes those quirks. Still—this? That lands wrong.

“Not that I’d go there,” Benji adds quickly, lifting his hands like he’s caught.

“I hope not,” Aurelia says, a sharp edge in her voice. Then her shoulders drop, the anger melting into something smaller. “I mean, obviously the medicine isn’t working like it should. If he just… didn’t fucking throw the meds out—” She cuts herself off with a sigh.

Benji shrugs, almost too casual. “He’s a bit crazy, isn’t he?”

Aurelia lets out a humorless laugh. “Pops? Oh yeah. He’s… always been a bit crazy.” Her voice softens, almost guilty. “Dad’s tried so many different doctors and meds, but… well, as you saw tonight, it doesn’t help much.”

Benji hums, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Maybe he’s just… I don’t know. Not found the right doctor yet?”

Aurelia lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I appreciate the hope, Benji, I really do.” She pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin there for a moment before letting her arms fall away again. “But… I don’t think there is a right doctor. Or a right medication. I mean, hell, even if he finds the perfect cocktail of meds, I think I’ll always be…”

She trails off, her hand sweeping through the purple-lit air before finally landing on her chest. “Just this. Just… me.”

Benji studies her for a moment, the easy grin gone. He nudges her shoulder gently, voice quieter now. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” Aurelia says flatly. She picks at a loose thread on her blanket, eyes stinging but refusing to let tears fall. “Dad… he at least tries. I know he does. I know he’s trying to give us something that feels normal—movie nights, asking about my quirks, pretending it’s all fine. But at the end of the day, he’s always going to be there for Nick more than he’s ever there for me.”

Her voice falters, then sharpens again. “Which—fine. Whatever. I just… sometimes I wonder if they hadn’t married so young. If they hadn’t had kids so soon after. Maybe… maybe if they’d waited, if they were older, things would’ve been different.”

Benji frowns, leaning back against the headboard. “Do you really believe that though? I mean…” He shrugs. “I think regardless, Nick would still be on meds.”

Aurelia opens her mouth, but the words dry up. Benji sighs and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a small bag of weed. He dangles it half-heartedly, eyebrows raised.

Aurelia rolls her eyes, groaning. “Seriously? You think getting high will make me forget I have a psychotic family and that I’m invisible in my own house?”

Benji shrugs again, sheepish grin tugging at his lips as he shakes the bag. “I mean… probably not. But it might make the purple light feel cooler.”

Despite herself, Aurelia huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. She leans back against the headboard, the purple light from her lamp washing everything in that weird twilight glow. Her arms wrap around her knees like she’s holding herself together.

“You know what it feels like sometimes?” she says quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the hum of her fan.

Benji looks up from fiddling with the bag in his hand. “What?”

“It feels like I’m invisible.” Her throat tightens, but the words keep coming. “Like my family’s this story about him—my brother—the super boy. The perfect son who never got the chance to screw up, who’ll always stay perfect. And then there’s me.” She laughs bitterly, swiping at her eye. “The invisible girl. The second-born. The second choice. The one they tolerate.”

Benji frowns, softer now. “Rey…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice sharpens. “To my pops, Wylan’s immortal. Forever alive. To my dad, Wylan’s gone, but still everything. And me?” She gestures to herself, a hollow smile on her lips. “I’m just… there. I’ll never be the light. I’ll never be the wound. Just the space in between.”

Benji doesn’t know what to say, not at first. So he does the only thing he can—he reaches out, his fingers brushing over hers.

“You’re not invisible to me,” he says, quietly.

Aurelia shakes her head, pulling her hand back. “But you’re not family, Benji. You don’t know what it’s like to be home and feel like you’re just… this invisible girl.” Her voice cracks on the word. “While my dead brother gets to be this Superboy of an… idea. He doesn’t even have to be real anymore. He’s perfect just by being gone.”

She laughs bitterly, then drops her face into her palms. “And me? I’m stuck here. Trying. Failing. Existing in the space he left behind.”

Benji shifts, unsure, but she keeps talking, the words spilling out like they’ve been building for years.

“Sometimes I just wish I could fly. Magically appear and disappear whenever I wanted. Slip out of sight, out of mind.” Her voice grows quieter, almost a whisper. “If I could fly, I’d fly far away from here.”

Her chest heaves once, like she’s holding back a sob. The purple glow paints her face in shadows. Benji sighs, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Maybe you should just… tell them how you feel. If they knew you felt second to everything, maybe they’d—”

“Change?” Aurelia snaps, heat in her chest. She swings her legs off the bed, pacing the small space. “Benji, they should notice! I shouldn’t have to spell it out for them like I’m a little kid waving my arms, begging for attention.”

“I know.” His voice is calm, steady. “I’m not saying it’s fair or right that you’d have to be the one. But if you opened the conversation… maybe it would change things. At least then, they couldn’t pretend not to know.”

Aurelia stops pacing, hugging herself tight. She stares at the purple glow of her lamp, at the way it pools on her floor and walls, and she feels the weight of it pressing in. She thinks of all the nights she’s hidden up here while their arguments thundered downstairs. Of all the times she’s swallowed her words because what did it matter anyway? She was always second.

But maybe… maybe she’s tired of being second.

She looks back at Benji, who’s watching her with that crooked half-smile, waiting. For a moment, her chest softens. “You’re right. You’re… you’re a genius, Benji.”

She leans down and kisses his forehead, then his lips with a sudden rush of affection that surprises them both. When she pulls back, she murmurs, “Why don’t you roll a joint while I talk to them?”

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

She laughs, though it comes out shakier than she means it to. “I can tell you’ve been dying to get high since you were forced into that dinner.”

“Guilty,” he admits, grinning and she laughs again, leaning in to kiss him once more.

“Be right back,” she whispers against his lips, before swinging the door open and darting down the stairs, heart hammering.

Aurelia freezes halfway down the stairs, her heart pounding in her throat.

Her pops is crumpled on the kitchen floor, sobbing into his hands like a child, shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. Her dad is on the middle step, pinching at his arms, his face pale and tight, as if he’s barely holding himself together.

And something inside her cracks.

She storms down the last steps, her chest burning, her eyes wet. She stops just short of Nick, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

“He’s this Superboy for you,” she spits, her voice shaking with rage. “This forever-living thing you can’t let go of! And me?” She points at her own chest, her voice breaking. “I’m just this invisible girl. You make me invisible!”

Nick lifts his head, his face streaked with tears, confusion flashing across his eyes.

Aurelia doesn’t let him speak. She takes another step, her words sharper, louder. “But you’re focusing on the wrong invisible thing, Pops! Because he’s not here! He isn’t! And still—still—he’s the one you wish would appear. He’s your hero. Forever your son. And I’m right here!” Her voice cracks, raw and guttural. “I am here, and you still don’t—you still don’t fucking notice me!”

Nick shakes his head hard, swiping at his tears with the heel of his hand. He staggers to his feet, clutching the back of the chair for balance. His voice comes out cracked, desperate. “You know that’s not true! You’re our little pride and joy, our perfect plan!”

Aurelia’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “Perfect plan? Really? That’s what I am to you? A plan? A box checked off? Do you even—” Her voice catches, trembling before it sharpens again. “Do you even love me?”

Nick’s face twists, his hands lifting like he could hold her words back. “Of course we do! Of course I do! I love you, Aurelia. I love you as much as I can—”

But that last part lands like a punch.

“As much as you can.”

She can’t handle it. Can’t handle him.

Charlie moves in, reaching to pull her close, to hold her, but Aurelia jerks away, shrugging off his arms like they burn. “Don’t,” she spits, her chest heaving, eyes glossed with tears she won’t let fall.

“Take a look at me,” Aurelia snaps, her voice trembling but fierce. “I’m right here. Clear as day. Why can’t you just see me—why can’t you notice me—before I fade away?”

Nick’s hands claw at his hair again, his whole body curling inward like he’s trying to block something out.

Aurelia doesn’t stop. The words have been clawing their way out of her for years. “You’ve got your Superboy, right? Your golden son. The one who gets to stay perfect forever because he never had the chance to grow up and screw up. He’s everything—a hero, a prince, all the things you wanted.” She lets out a bitter laugh, her chest heaving. “And me? I’m just air. I’m nothing. I’m invisible.”

Nick shudders, his breaths ragged, and Aurelia stares at him with a twisted sort of pity.

He’s probably hearing Wylan right now. Of course he is. Wylan always outshines her—even in death, even in the silence of their kitchen.

Aurelia lets out a sharp, bitter scoff. “He’s not here!” she screams, her throat raw. “And I won’t be either!”

Before Nick can even look up, before Charlie can move, she’s gone—feet pounding against the steps as she tears up to her room. She won’t watch her pops wrestle with a ghost. She won’t fight for space against an imagination when her voice is right there, screaming, and still unheard.

The door slams behind her, rattling the frame.

And there’s Benji, sprawled on her bed, a fresh joint between his fingers, smoke curling lazily in the purple light. She marches over, plucks the joint from his hand, and drags in a lungful without thinking.

Her chest burns, her eyes water, but she doesn’t cough. She exhales hard, the smoke clouding the air around them, and passes it back.

She won't let Benji see her as invisible too.

---

Sixteen Years Ago

Nick hates to admit it, but the hospital feels like a coffin. Every step down those antiseptic-bright corridors makes his stomach churn. The smell, the hush, the hollow ring of footsteps—it’s all too familiar.

Only six months ago, he and Charlie walked through these same doors with their son. Wylan had been bundled in Nick’s arms, cheeks pink, eyes wide. A family of three walked in. Hours later, only a family of two walked out.

The thought claws at him even now. He’d give anything not to be here again. Not to feel the walls closing in. Not to feel the weight of that absence pressing into his chest like it always does.

But his baby girl is supposed to be born today. Aurelia. Their second chance. Their “perfect plan,” Charlie called her. And what’s he supposed to do? Refuse to show up? Let fear keep him from the moment that’s supposed to matter most?

So Nick sits in the waiting chair, knuckles white around Charlie’s hand, the bile rising in his throat as he tries to breathe. His baby girl is supposed to be born today. And God help him, he just prays they don’t leave with one less again.

He just can’t handle it. The thought of this place—these walls, these halls—it makes his chest cave in. It’s all bad memories now. Every corner echoes. Every breath tastes like loss.

How could it hold anything good?

This is where his son died. Where he last held him, felt his little chest rise and fall, watched those eyes flutter open for the last time. The weight of that final moment is still in Nick’s arms, no matter how many times he tries to shake it free.

And now—now he’s supposed to sit here and wait for another child to be born? Another shot at being a father? It’s fucking ridiculous.

This wasn’t the plan.

They were supposed to have two kids under two—chaos and laughter and exhaustion and joy all tangled together. They were supposed to have a son who was curious, toddling on wobbly legs, babbling nonsense words, pointing at everything. And a newborn daughter curled in Charlie’s arms.

Instead, they have a hole in their hearts. A bedroom frozen in time.

And a daughter he doesn’t even want anymore.

The thought guts him, makes him sick, but it’s there all the same. How is he supposed to want her when she’s being born in the same place he lost him?

There’s a nurse rushing toward them, her words spilling too fast to catch. Alana—labor—asking for you— but Nick can’t make sense of any of it. Everything is muffled, thick, like his head is packed with cotton.

Charlie’s hand squeezes his, tight, grounding. His voice breaks through in pieces. Ready—meet—daughter—

But Nick can’t. He can’t be here. Not again. Not in this place where laughter curdled into screams, where life slipped through his fingers like smoke. He shakes his head hard, breath ragged.

Charlie grips tighter, desperate. “Nick—please—I need you—” His words wobble at the edges, but they’re still muffled, swallowed by the cotton.

Nick shakes his head again, sharper this time. No. He can’t walk into that room. He can’t sit through a birth and wait for cries that may never come. He can’t watch another child die.

Charlie’s breath stutters, his shoulders dropping. For a second, it looks like he might beg again, but then—he exhales, defeated. He leans in, presses a quick, shaking kiss to Nick’s hair.

And then he lets go.

Nick watches him follow the nurse down the hall in a rush, the sound of their footsteps fading, leaving him alone on the plastic chair. His palms are damp, his whole body trembling.

All cotton. Nothing but cotton.

Cotton.

Cotton like Wylan’s stuffed bear. Cotton like the onesie he died in. Cotton in Nick’s ears, in his chest, in his head until it’s the only word he can hear.

He stands abruptly, the squeak of the plastic chair shrill against the tile, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. His legs move without thought—forward, away, anywhere but here.

When he stops, he’s clutching a plastic cup of chocolate pudding he doesn’t remember buying, a cheap white spoon shoved inside. His hands shake as he tears off the lid.

He’s sitting on the hard bench outside the NICU, spoon in hand, chocolate smeared on his tongue, tears streaking down his face. He probably looks like a creep. Sitting here, staring through the glass, eating pudding while newborns lie inside, swaddled and wired to machines.

He probably looks like a fucking pedo to some stranger passing by.

But he can’t move.

Because there are babies inside. Babies who are breathing, alive, machines blinking steady, steady, steady. Babies who will go home with their parents.

He was here once. Two years ago. When Wylan was first born. When everything went sideways and his tiny boy’s heart faltered and they wheeled him into this very unit. Nick remembers standing right here, forehead pressed to the glass, whispering prayers he didn’t believe in.

Wylan stayed a week. Tubes in his nose, wires across his chest. Nick remembers the beep of the monitor, the way every rise and fall of that tiny chest was a miracle. He remembers Charlie standing beside him, hand squeezing his, whispering, He’s strong. He’s ours. He’ll make it.

And he had.

Until he didn’t.

Now Nick sits with pudding melting on his tongue, staring at strangers’ babies through glass, and wonders how many of them won’t make it home.

He’s a cruel parent. A cruel person for even thinking it.

But damnit—he wants to go back. Back to that time when Wylan was tiny and fragile and alive, when every breath was a victory and every beep of the machine meant hope. He’d do anything to go back to that time. Anything.

But he can’t.

So he eats the chocolate he doesn’t remember buying, maybe even stole, the sweetness thick on his tongue until it turns sour in his stomach. He doesn’t care.

He just sits there, staring through the glass, watching the steady rise and fall of infants’ chests, the machines humming, the parents leaning over cribs with soft hands and softer voices. He watches strangers live the miracle he lost.

And he waits.

For Charlie to come back. For someone to tell him whether he’s gained a daughter or lost another child. He sits there long enough to know the pudding’s melted into soup at the bottom of the cup. His stomach growls anyway, medicine or not. Maybe the side effects haven’t kicked in yet—he’s only been on the pills for a month, after all. Doesn’t matter. He still feels hungry. He still feels like shit. A shit husband, an even worse parent.

He tosses the cup in the trash and turns—only to find Charlie standing in the doorway.

Nick freezes. He searches his husband’s face like it holds the verdict to everything, like he’ll find the answer in the corners of his mouth or the crinkle of his eyes. But Charlie’s expression is unreadable. Nick can’t read him anymore. Not these days.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Charlie says, voice soft, careful.

Nick hums, a hollow sound in his throat.

Charlie steps closer, wringing his hands together before shoving them under his arms. “I got scared when you didn’t come in. Then I checked the waiting room and you weren’t there. For a second, I thought maybe you drove away—but that’s not you, is it? So I thought the only logical—”

“Stop the bullshit.” Nick’s voice cuts like glass. “Do we have a daughter?”

Charlie flinches at the sharpness, crossing his arms tight. His jaw works, like he wants to tell Nick off, but instead he takes a slow breath. “Normally I wouldn’t let you speak to me like that. But I’ll give you a free pass because of the meds… and because of everything else.” His lips twitch, softening. “Yes. We have a daughter. A very beautiful daughter. She’s got your freckles, your nose. And she’s waiting for you. I’m sure she’d love for her papa to hold her.”

Nick stares at him, hollow-eyed. The words don’t land. They bounce off, empty.

“No.”

Charlie blinks. “No?”

“I don’t want to hold her.”

Charlie’s voice cracks as he snaps back, louder now. “She’s your daughter, Nick!”

“And I said I don’t want to hold her! Are you fucking deaf?”

He’s a terrible father. He knows it. But he can't hold her. He doesn't want to. All he wants is Wylan—his baby boy—and Wylan isn't there.

---

Present Day

Now, sixteen years later, he can’t lie to himself anymore. From the very day Aurelia was born, resentment curled in his chest like smoke. Maybe she’s right—maybe she really is invisible to him. And maybe that’s unforgivable.

But Nick can’t see it as a sin. Not when Wylan still fills the empty chair at the table, still walks the hallways of their house, still leans against the kitchen counter with a crooked grin only Nick can see.

Delusion or not, Wylan is here.

And Nick will always choose him.

Notes:

😭 Nick, you need help. Buddy, you can't keep living this life where you're imagining your son. He isn't a teen. He isn't here. He's gone. And you child, your daughter, needs you. Your husband needs you.

uhh, I feel bad for all of them. I really really really really do.

Also, holy crap it's hard writing lyrics narratively 😭😭 this is the best I could do

I will say though, I love a character that haunts the narrative.

Also fun fact: I don't believe anyway has clocked it yet, but Wylan's nickname is Wy, and Aurelia's is Rey. It's a nickname Nick created for Aurelia so he could feel as if he was calling out to Wy and talking to him instead of his daughter, which is quite cruel when you think about it, but you can't really blame the actions and thoughts of a grieving parent.

anyways
*mwah*

-Willie

Chapter 7

Notes:

TW: Charlie and Nick Auguring, Hallucinations, Talks of Hypnosis Therapy, Harry Greene (But He's Decent)

Charlie doesn’t hate Nick. There isn’t a universe, a timeline, a multiverse like in those Marvel films Nick adores where he could ever hate him. Nick is his life. His love. Forever and always.

But loving him doesn’t erase the cracks.

Knowing that Nick willingly dumped his pills down the drain—that he chose to silence the only thing keeping him steady—tears something in Charlie clean open. And watching him now, so consumed by Wylan, so blind to the daughter who is flesh and blood, who is here, who is aching for his attention… it breaks Charlie in ways he doesn’t know how to put into words.

He can’t hate Nick. But he can’t ignore what this is doing to them, either.

Charlie scratches gently at Nick’s back, slow circles with his nails, the way he knows calms him best. Nick is sprawled over him now, heavy and spent, their legs tangled under the blanket, Nick’s cheek pressed right against his chest where his heart beats steady and sure.

It took nearly two hours to get him here. Two hours of coaxing him off the kitchen floor, of holding him through sobs so raw Charlie swore they’d split him open. By the time he got Nick upstairs, Nick was shaking so hard he thought he might collapse. The shower helped a little—though Nick cried the whole time, face hidden against Charlie’s shoulder, hot water running over both of them as if it could wash the grief away.

Charlie had wanted to say something then. To promise him it would be okay. To beg him to see the truth, to see her, to see them. But he hadn’t. Because trying to reason with Nick in the middle of one of his breakdowns only ever makes it worse.

So instead he just held him. And he’s still holding him now, tracing circles on his back, whispering nothing words into his damp hair.

Nick’s voice comes muffled against Charlie’s chest, broken and raw. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Charlie’s hand pauses on his back. “Nick—”

“No,” Nick insists, lifting his head just enough for the words to land. “I need to apologize. I know we say no ‘s’ word, but this one… this one’s needed.” His throat tightens as he pushes on. “I am sorry. For yelling at you. For throwing the pills away. For being a bad father. A bad husband. For being… crazy.”

Charlie presses a kiss into Nick’s damp hair, whispering against it, “You aren’t crazy.”

Nick lets out a shaky laugh that’s closer to a sob. “But I am a shit father. And a shit husband.”

“Nick—” Charlie starts, but Nick cuts him off, voice cracking as the words tumble out.

“I’m turning into my father.” His fingers clutch at Charlie like he’s holding himself together. “Absent. Horrible. I’m just like him.”

Charlie’s whole body stiffens. “Nick, don’t you dare.” His voice comes low but firm, trembling with emotion. He tilts Nick’s chin up just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t you ever say that again. I can handle a lot of shit you throw at me, but not this. Not that.”

Nick’s lips tremble, his breath catching, but Charlie doesn’t flinch. He won’t let him rewrite himself into the man who broke him.

“But I am, Char. I’m not present in Aurelia’s life. I’m shit to you. I’m… I’m fucked up. So fucked up. You deserve better.” His shoulders quake, his eyes shining with guilt he can’t swallow down.

“Nick… you’re my husband. I made vows to stay with you, and I will. Why?.Not because it’s some obligation. Not because I feel trapped. But because I love you. And I always will.”

Nick swallows hard, chest rising against Charlie’s. His voice is small, almost childlike. “I wish we were back in Form, Charlie. Everything was so simple then.”

Charlie’s heart cracks at that. The memory of their younger years—wild, golden, uncomplicated—he presses another kiss to Nick’s hair, eyes burning. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

“I mean…” he mutters, voice rough but laced with a shaky humor, “I’d take a gay crisis over this any day.”

Charlie actually laughs, low and warm, though it catches at the end. “Mmmhmm. I wouldn’t. Not a chance. Tao spent half a semester trying to convince me you were just some straight mate I was hung up on. Do you know how exhausting that was?”

A small laugh slips out of Nick—weak, but real—and Charlie swears his heart nearly bursts at the sound. He’s missed that laugh.

“The amount of times I cried searching up ‘Am I Gay’ quizzes…” Nick shakes his head, lips quirking faintly. “It’s… crazy. God, I was pathetic.”

Charlie tips his head, brushing his lips against Nick’s hair. “Maybe. But you figured it out eventually, didn’t you?”

“…Yeah. But now you’re stuck with a shitty husband.”

Charlie stills, then cups Nick’s face in both hands, forcing him to look at him. His voice comes firm, almost sharp, but trembling at the edges. “Nicholas Nelson-Spring, don’t you dare. You say that again and I’ll actually be mad at you.”

Nick blinks, startled, his mouth opening and closing before he whispers, “I don’t want you to be cross with me.”

Charlie shakes his head, thumbs brushing away the wetness at the corners of Nick’s eyes. “Then don’t make me be. Don’t put that lie into the world. You’re not a shitty husband. You’re the man I love. The boy I fell for at fifteen, the man I married, the father of my children. My best friend. My partner. You’re everything, Nick. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels impossible. You are not—will never be—shitty.”

Nick swallows hard, his whole body trembling, as if the words are too big to hold. He buries his face back into Charlie’s chest, clinging tighter. 

“I am sorry for yelling, though. I hope you know that. I don’t mean to yell or… or have outbursts. And I… I didn’t mean to throw the pills away.”

His voice is cautious, quiet. “Then why did you?”

Nick swallows hard, his breath hitching. “Because… because of Wy.”

Charlie’s heart clenches, his stomach twisting. He doesn’t understand it. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He loathes that name, loathes the hold it still has. Loathes his own son for having this much control over his husband, years after he should’ve been gone.

“Nick…” he starts, but the words tangle in his throat.

“I know it doesn’t make sense!” Nick’s voice cracks, sharp with desperation. “I know! But… I was numb. And when I’m numb…” He pulls back, looking Charlie dead in the eye, tears spilling hot down his cheeks. “Wy isn’t there. And I—” his voice fractures, “I needed him. I still need him. And so… he… he helped me throw them out.”

Charlie feels something snap inside him. A terrible, ugly thought coils in his chest like poison. Maybe he’s the worst kind of parent for thinking it—but in this moment, he hates Wylan. Hates the son who isn’t even here, the son who still haunts their house, their marriage, his husband’s mind.

He hates the ghost that stole Nick from him. But he shakes the thoughts away. He can't feel like that. He shouldn't.

Charlie presses a kiss into his hair, whispering, “We’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

For a moment, it feels like Nick believes him. His body softens against Charlie’s, clinging in a way that makes Charlie’s chest ache with love. But underneath, Charlie knows—the cracks are still there.

And that’s when he feels it in himself—the shift. The tenderness giving way to something harder, sharper. He can’t just hold Nick through this. Not anymore. Not if it means watching him unravel.

He tilts Nick’s chin up, heart pounding as he says, “We’re gonna get you on more meds, Nick.”

Nick’s whole body jolts like he’s been slapped. “No.” His voice splinters. Then louder, almost a shout: “No!”

“Yes, Nick. We are.” Charlie forces his voice steady, though his own heart is racing. “You can’t keep living like this. We’ll go back to Geoff—”

“Geoff can’t help me!” Nick’s cry is so raw, so sharp, Charlie flinches. “Doctor after doctor after doctor—it’s always the same! He can’t help me! No one can!”

“That’s not true, Nick. You know that’s not true.”

“It is.” Nick’s eyes are shining with tears, his voice ragged. “Sixteen years. Sixteen years of meds and doctors and treatments and nothing—nothing—works. Just let it go. Just let me go.”

Charlie’s throat burns. He presses his forehead against Nick’s for a fleeting second, desperate to ground them both. 

“I’m not letting it go, Nick. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m finding you a doctor. That’s final.” He reaches to cup Nick’s cheek, but Nick jerks away. Charlie swallows the sting, pushing on. “I won’t sit here and watch my husband slowly fade away. That isn’t happening. So hate me all you want—I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is crushing. Charlie watches as the fight drains right out of him. Nick’s eyes dull, his lips press into a thin line, his whole body sagging with defeat. Charlie sees it—the exact moment he gives up.

Nick turns his face away, voice flat, broken. “…I’m sleeping on the couch.”

Charlie’s hand drops uselessly to his lap as Nick pulls away from him, untangling their legs, climbing off the bed. Charlie doesn’t stop him. His own body feels carved out, hollow. He just sits there, frozen, as Nick walks out, each step heavy, final.

The sound of the door shutting behind him echoes louder than it should.

Charlie lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, and wonders how much longer he can keep holding everything together before it all finally collapses.

---

If Nick were to count the number of nights he’s slept on the couch since marrying Charlie, the counter would probably split damn near even with the nights he’s spent in their bed. Which should tell him everything about how fucked their relationship is.

But to be fair, the first two years after Wylan… he barely slept at all. And when he did, it wasn’t in their bed. Charlie was away at inpatient and there was a baby to take care of and bills to be paid, so he made do with anything that could be used as a bed.

It was in the bathtub, curled up on cold porcelain because it felt like the only place where his body couldn’t betray him. It was on the floor of Wylan’s room, the nursery frozen in time, Nick clinging to the smell of powdered soap and soft cotton that never really faded. Sometimes it was just at the kitchen counter, his head hitting the marble where he’d dumped his work bag, the meds dragging him under before he could even make it to the bedroom.

The medicine made him drowsy then. Too many pills, too fast. Going from nothing to multiple scripts like he was being rebuilt from the ground up. And still—still—he wasn’t fixed. Just dulled. Just tired.

Still just tired.

Nick drops onto the couch, his hands shoot to his hair, tugging hard, sharp little pulls that sting against his scalp. He should’ve known. He should’ve known throwing the pills away was a bad idea.

Now Aurelia thinks she’s invisible. Now Charlie looks at him like he’s already gone. Now he’s all fucked up again.

He sighs, long and heavy, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Maybe he should talk to her. Tell her she isn’t invisible. Tell her he loves her, that she’s his daughter and he cares. God, he cares.

But Charlie kicked Benji out not long after her outburst, and Aurelia probably doesn’t want to see either of them. Not him. Not like this.

Nick leans his head back, staring at the ceiling, chest burning.

And then—footsteps. The soft sound of someone crossing the room. Nick lowers his hands and finds Wylan standing there, a little frown carved into his face.

“What’s wrong, Pops?”

“Everything’s wrong, Wy,” Nick mutters, voice catching in his throat.

Wylan frowns, dragging the ottoman across the rug until it’s planted right in front of the couch. He plops down, knees bumping against Nick’s, looking at him with those eyes Nick swears are still too big for his face.

And God—Nick just wants to grab him. To hold him and curse him and love him and grieve him. But how can you grieve someone who’s sitting right there, whole and solid? Surely he’s—surely he’s real.

Nick sighs, rubbing at his face. “You should be asleep, Wylan. It’s almost midnight and it’s a school night.”

Wylan smirks faintly. “But you aren’t asleep either.”

Nick snorts despite himself. “No duh, smartass.”

That earns a chuckle, soft and familiar. “You shouldn’t call me a smartass.”

“You’re being one, though.”

“Mmhmm. True.”

Nick exhales patting his cheek before saying, “I’m sorry your birthday didn’t go as planned.”

Wylan just shrugs, shoulders loose but eyes too tired for his age. “It’s okay. They never seem to go my way.”

The words hit Nick like a bruise. He frowns, reaching out to pat his cheek gently, thumb brushing over the mess of hair that refuses to sit flat.

“It’s okay though, Pops,” Wylan adds, forcing a small grin.

“Is it?” Nick murmurs, searching his son’s face.

“Yeah. Because you’re still here.”

Nick feels his chest ache, a promise rising like instinct. “Always.”

For a long moment, Wylan just stares at him, eyes shimmering, mouth trembling like he’s holding something back. Then he leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m scared, Pops.”

Nick stiffens, his heart lurching. “What? Why? What’s wrong, Wy?”

Wylan’s voice cracks as he says it. “Dad’s what’s wrong. What if he… what if he tries to make you forget?” His hands curl into fists on his knees. “I don’t want to be forgotten.”

Nick swallows hard, his vision blurring. He reaches out and cups Wylan’s face, pulling him close. His boy, his baby boy. “You won’t be. I swear, Wy. I’ll never let that happen.”

Wylan’s voice is small, barely above a whisper. “Promise?”

Nick cups his face tighter, his own throat tight, eyes burning as he nods. “Promise.”

For a second, neither of them moves. It’s just the two of them, staring at each other like the whole world is about to crumble if either one lets go.

Nick presses his forehead to Wylan’s, whispering it again, softer this time, like he’s carving it into the air between them. “Promise.”

And Wylan exhales shakily, like it’s enough to keep him here.

---

The Next Day

The morning sun barely filters through the curtains when Nick sits at the table, hands wrapped tight around his mug of coffee. His voice is flat, tired. “So. Who’s the new doctor we’re seeing today?”

Charlie freezes halfway through buttoning his shirt. “Uhhh… don’t hate me.”

Nick squints at him. “Uhh… why?”

Charlie winces. “I maybe hired Harry Greene.”

Nick nearly spits out his coffee. “What!? Harry—our Harry? As in the bully Harry?!”

Charlie’s already raising his hands in surrender. “Yes, yes, I know how it sounds—crazy, I get it—but he’s kind of a professional now.”

Nick’s eyes widen, his voice pitching up. “You’re telling me we’re going to let homophobic bully Harry Greene get into our business? Isn’t that, like… against psychology rules or something? Having a patient you used to know?”

Charlie sighs, tugging at his sleeve nervously. “Technically, Harry doesn’t really know you—or me—anymore. It’s not like we’ve talked to him recently. Nick, it’s been almost twenty years!”

Nick slams his mug down on the table. “Still! I can’t believe you, Charlie.”

Charlie groans, rubbing his temples. “My options were limited! It’s not like there are a ton of specialists out here in Leeds!”

Nick’s chair scrapes back against the floor as he stands, glaring across the kitchen. “Unbelievable. Out of every doctor in the bloody UK, you chose him? Harry Greene? The same Harry who made your life hell in school? Who called you a faggot? The one who made your life a nightmare in school?"

Charlie winces, already defensive. “Nick, I know who he was. I haven’t forgotten. But he’s not just some random bloke anymore—he’s a licensed therapist. And he specializes in hypnosis therapy.”

Nick’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “Hypnosis therapy? You mean the crap where someone waves a pocket watch and suddenly I’m supposed to stop seeing Wylan? Jesus, Charlie!” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard. “You think that’s going to fix me?”

“We’ve tried everything else. Sixteen years, Nick. Medications, talk therapy, CBT, EMDR—you name it, we’ve tried it. And nothing has lasted. This was our last option.”

Nick’s chest heaves, his voice cracking as he spits the words. “Our last option is handing me over to the same bastard who made you hate yourself when you were fifteen? That’s your plan?”

Charlie swallows hard, fighting to stay steady. “I don’t like it, Nick. But if it means even a chance that you stop living like this… I’ll take it. I’ll swallow my pride, my history, all of it. Because I can’t just sit here and watch you fade away.”

Nick stares at him, stunned, fury and heartbreak warring on his face. “So what—you’re willing to put me under and let Harry Greene crawl around in my head? That’s what we’ve come to?”

Charlie’s voice drops, quiet but certain. “If it means getting you back… then yes.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, Charlie!” Nick’s voice shatters the quiet, raw and jagged, loud enough he swears the neighbors could hear. His chest heaves as though the words themselves have ripped something open inside him.

Charlie doesn’t flinch. His face, usually soft even in argument, hardens. “Well, if you hadn’t thrown the pills down the fucking drain, we wouldn’t even be here!”

“That wasn’t in my control!” he spits, throat tight. “Wylan made me do that!”

The words are out before he can catch them, and the moment they hang in the air, Nick feels sick. He knows what Charlie will say. He knows.

And sure enough, Charlie’s voice comes sharp, furious. “He’s dead, Nick! He’s fucking dead! When will you realize that!?”

Nick’s vision blurs. His hands shake. He feels small, cornered, like a child all over again. But the fury burns hotter, swallowing him whole. “Never! Never if I must!” His voice cracks, grief tearing through every syllable. “I am not forgetting him like you have!”

Charlie’s jaw trembles, but his voice is steady, too steady. “I haven’t forgotten! I’m not imagining him, Nick—you are! And you’re… you’re losing yourself! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how wrong this is?”

Nick laughs, bitter and broken, shoving his hand through his hair until it hurts. “So Harry Greene—what? You want him to dig into my head and see that we’re not the perfect family? That I’m a fucking mess-up? Is that what you want?”

“I want him to build a wall, Nick. A wall. So when Wylan shows up, you don’t follow him around like he's some dog!”

Nick’s chest caves in, his whole body trembling. “He’s our son!” he roars, his throat raw. “Not a fucking dog, Charlie!”

Charlie’s face twists, grief and fury tangled in one. His voice shakes, but the words come brutal, unforgiving. “He’s six feet under, Nick. That’s what he is.”

Nick’s whole body shakes as he stares at Charlie, his throat burning. “I can’t believe you, Charlie.”

Charlie steps closer, voice cracking with desperation. “Nick! There are people here—live people—who need you! I need you! Aurelia needs you! Your students need you!”

Nick lets out a bitter laugh, throwing his arms wide like he’s been caught in some cruel trap. “Okay, fine! Fine! Guilt trip me! I’ll do it, Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not trying to guilt trip you,” Charlie says quickly.

“But you are!” Nick’s voice breaks, his eyes burning. He jabs a finger at his own chest, fury and grief pouring out. “I know I’m a shit husband. I know I’m a shit father. You can disagree all you want, lie to my face about it all you want—but it’s true.” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper, gutted. “We both know it’s true.”

Charlie’s face crumples, but Nick doesn’t give him the chance to respond. He turns away, pressing his fists into his eyes. “Let’s just go. Okay? Let’s just go so I can get to school and you can get to work, and I can make you the happy husband you want to be.”

Charlie’s chest caves a little, his voice soft. “Nick—”

“I said let’s go!” Nick snaps, louder this time, the words like a whip. “I’m done arguing.”

He pushes past Charlie, grabbing his bag, ignoring Charlie’s face—anger, pity, maybe even resignation.

---

“Nick, Charlie—it’s good to see you both again,” Doctor Greene says. His tone is calm, professional.

Nick can’t stop himself from thinking how weird it is. Harry Greene. The same boy who used to sneer at Charlie in the corridors, now sitting there in a pressed shirt with a notepad balanced on his knee. A doctor.

Nick swallows, shifting in his seat. “Uh… yeah. Likewise.”

Harry gives a small nod, then looks to Charlie. “For today, I’d like to start just with Nick. It usually helps me get a clearer sense of things without the pressure of someone else in the room. Would you mind waiting outside for a bit?”

Nick’s eyes flick to Charlie immediately. He hates the idea of being left alone with Harry, even if Harry’s calling himself a professional now.

Charlie hesitates, frowning, then leans down and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s lips. “I’ll be right outside,” he says quietly, squeezing Nick’s shoulder. “If you need me, just call.”

Nick watches him walk out, the door clicking shut behind him. The room feels bigger and emptier all at once. He already misses Charlie.

Harry clears his throat, straightening the pad on his lap like he’s buying himself a second. “Why don’t we start by getting to know one another a bit?”

Nick lets out a humorless chuckle. “We do know each other.”

"Nick, the last time we actually talked was at graduation. You were stressing about your relationship with Charlie, if I remember right.” He glances briefly toward the empty chair where Charlie had been sitting only seconds before, then back at Nick. “And from the looks of it, things worked out. Congratulations on the marriage.”

Nick shrugs, eyes fixed on the edge of the rug. His voice comes out low, defensive. “Thanks.”

Harry shifts again, tapping his pen once against his notebook. “So. Normally psychotherapy and medication work best together. But I’ve been told the medication hasn’t been giving you what you need.” His tone softens, almost careful. “So, we can start with psychotherapy and see where that gets us.”

Nick leans back, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “So what—you want me to sit here and spill my deepest, darkest secrets?”

Harry shakes his head gently. “It doesn’t have to start that way.”

Nick narrows his eyes, finally letting them meet Harry’s. “You know I haven’t forgotten how you treated Charlie.”

Harry exhales through his nose, slow, like he expected that. “I must admit,” he says evenly, “I was a bit of an asshole back then.” His eyes flicker down for a moment before meeting Nick’s again. “More than a bit. But I’ve grown, Nick.”

Nick’s gaze drops to Harry’s hand, the rainbow-striped pen moving between his fingers. The sight makes him bristle, suspicion crawling under his skin. He doesn’t buy it. But Harry notices the look, follows it, and says quietly, “My wife’s pan. And my son is trans. So, yeah. My life looks different now.”

Nick hums, his voice sharp with doubt. “So you can’t be homophobic anymore.”

Harry shakes his head firmly. “Not can’t. Don’t want to be. I’m not that person anymore.”

Nick exhales sharply, guilt mixing with his anger. “I’m judging you. I know I am. I shouldn’t… sorry.”

Harry lifts a hand quickly, stopping him. “No. Don’t apologize here. This is a judgement-free space, Nick. You can think whatever you need to think about me. That’s not what this is about.” He leans forward slightly, setting the pen against the paper but not writing. “Let’s just start from the beginning, yeah? Tell me what it’s been like, in your words.”

Nick exhales, long and heavy, staring at the floor. “I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder sixteen years ago. But…” His fingers tug at a loose thread on his sleeve, picking at it like it might unravel him. “That doesn’t seem to cover it.”

Harry tilts his head, “Mm. That’s not unusual. Many psychologists focus on finding a neat label for the illness inside the cluster of symptoms. But sometimes what looks like bipolar disorder overlaps with other things. Depression can mask itself. Schizophrenia can creep in at the edges. Dissociation, even.” He shrugs lightly. “The labels aren’t the cure, though. They never were. Sometimes a diagnosis only reveals itself when trauma flips a switch.”

Nick lets out a sharp scoff. “So you do want me to spill my darkest secrets.”

Harry meets his gaze evenly. “If those secrets happen to be events that shaped this… then yes. If you’re okay sharing them.”

Nick laughs once, short and bitter, and rubs at his face. “You won’t believe me, though. No one does. When I start talking about it for too long, it feels… fake. Fabricated. Like it’s not even my life.”

Harry’s voice is steady, careful. “But it is your life. Is it not?”

Nick stares at him, throat tight. His answer comes cracked, almost childlike. “I wish it wasn’t.”

Harry leans back in his chair, his voice dropping a little, less professional, more personal. “When I found out my son was trans, I… didn’t want that to be my life.” He shakes his head, almost wincing at his own words. “Saying it out loud, years later, makes me sound like a complete piece of shit. And I was, for a while. I liked having who I thought was my baby girl. I liked being seen as a ‘girl dad.’”

Nick raises an eyebrow, stiff. He doesn’t want to admit he’s listening.

Harry’s gaze drifts downward, softer now. “Turns out I was never a girl dad. I was meant to teach my son rugby and football, argue over muddy cleats, drive him to practice. But before that—before I accepted it—I tried to bargain with it. With my life. Because it didn’t feel real. Didn’t sound real. And it hurt to let go of what I thought I had.”

Nick frowns, his voice rough. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because even though, back then, I thought my life wasn’t my own, I was still happy. It was mine to own. Messy. Complicated. But mine.” He pauses, then leans forward just slightly, his tone careful but probing. “Can you tell me when you were last happy? Or… the happiest memory you have. Something you never tried to bargain away.”

Nick doesn’t even hesitate. The answer is right there, lodged in his chest like it’s been waiting all along. “When I married Charlie,” he says, his voice softening, almost breaking. “I knew that was… that was the person for me. I mean, I always knew he was, but making it official—standing there and saying it out loud—it was great. It felt… great.”

Harry hums, pen tapping lightly against the edge of his notebook. “And why is that something you didn’t want to bargain with?”

“Because he’s mine. I don’t mean that in some ownership kind of way, I just… I love him. He’s my person.” His throat works. “Always has been.”

“Okay,” Harry says quietly. He tilts his head. “Now… I can assume you were also happy when your son was born.”

Nick’s head snaps up. The room tilts. His stomach twists, panic scratching at the edges of his thoughts. How does Harry know? Did Charlie tell him? No—Charlie wouldn’t. He wouldn’t betray him like that. Right? Or… maybe they still follow each other on social media, maybe Harry scrolled far enough back, maybe—

“My son?” Nick repeats, his voice sharp, brittle.

“Who is he? What is he?”

How does Nick even begin to explain that? How could he ever put it into words? Wylan isn’t something that makes sense. He’s just… his.

And then, as if on cue, Wylan appears. One second the chair across from him is empty, the one Charlie had been sitting in before leaving. The next, Wylan is there—slouched casually, like he’s been waiting the whole time.

His voice cuts through the silence, low and steady, eyes locked on Nick. “I’m whatever you need me to be. Your comfort, your fear. Both at once. You know that, don’t you?" He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his tone turning sharper. “I’m not just a memory. I’m possibility. I’m mystery. I’m what could’ve been, what still might be. And you know me—you’ve always known me."

Nick’s chest tightens. His eyes flick to Harry—calm, scribbling something on his pad, oblivious—and then back to Wylan, so solid, so present, he could almost reach out and touch him.

Nick’s breath hitches as Wylan leans back in the chair, lifting his arms wide like he’s on stage, like he wants the whole world to see him.

“When I appear,” Wylan says, his voice threading between teasing and haunting, “it’s never clear, is it? Am I just some ghost hanging around in your head… or flesh and blood, sitting right here in front of you?”

Nick’s throat tightens. Because that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thing that keeps him swallowing pill after pill, sitting through doctor after doctor. Trying to fix himself. Trying to be normal again.

And yet—here Wylan is. Smirking, breathing, alive in ways Nick can’t explain.

“Nick,” Harry says carefully, tilting his head just enough to catch Nick’s eye. “Where do you think he comes from?”

Nick shakes his head, sharp and desperate, because how is he supposed to explain that? He can’t. He won’t.

And then Wylan is there. Not across the room anymore, not safely contained in a chair, but right in front of him. Leaning close. Hands reaching as if to cup his face. Nick breaks with a sob as Wylan murmurs, low and certain, "I feed on the fear behind your eyes. I need you to need me. That’s no surprise, though is it? I’m alive, Pops. I’m alive. These doctors? They’re lying. The medicine’s lying. But me? I’m here. I’m here."

The words sink deep, shaking something loose inside him. Nick can feel his chest collapsing around them, his body convulsing with the force of it.

“Nick?” Harry’s voice cuts across the static. “Are you still with me?”

Nick shakes his head so hard his teeth clack. “I can’t,” he rasps, voice shredded. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“Okay. That’s fine.” Harry keeps his voice low, soothing, like he’s trying not to startle him. “We can stop. We can try again another time, yeah?”

Nick blinks through the blur, trying to focus. His throat burns as he croaks, “What?”

Harry exhales slowly, setting his pen aside. “Four times a week,” he says. “I want to see you four times a week. I don’t know the full story yet, but I want to learn. I want to help.”

The words scatter uselessly in Nick’s head, dissolving into the rush of cotton that fills his ears. He shakes his head again, mumbling, “I… I can’t.”

And then the door opens. A shift in the air, a presence he knows instantly.

Charlie.

He’s at Nick’s side in an instant, sinking to his knees, gathering him in with steady arms. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispers against Nick’s temple, rocking him gently. “We’ll come back and talk later. When you feel better, yeah? I’m proud of you for trying. So proud.”

Nick presses his face into Charlie’s chest, trembling, the fabric dampening with his tears. Charlie just holds him tighter, stroking his neck, kissing his hair, his voice a constant murmur in the blur.

“Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Charlie’s voice is just a murmur against the cotton in Nick’s ears, something like gratitude directed at Harry, but it’s all muffled, blurred, too far away to catch. What Nick does feel is the warmth of Charlie’s hand, steady at his back, guiding him out of the office and into the hallway.

But Wylan is there too—always there. Moving just ahead of them, his stride lazy, his head turning back to keep Nick in his sights.

“I’m fire, Pops,” Wylan says, voice low, rich with certainty. “I burn when you least expect it. I’m the crack in the floor, the storm you can’t outrun. I’m every desire you’re afraid to admit. And I’ll never let you forget me.”

Nick’s chest caves around the words, his legs trembling as if they might give out.

Wylan’s gaze softens, still locked on him, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But I’ll heal you too. I’m every wish you made. Every dream you lost. I can give it all back. I can be everything you need.”

Nick stiffens, a cry catching in his throat as he watches Wylan’s hand lift, fingertips ghosting over Charlie’s cheek with a tenderness that curdles into threat.

And then Wylan looks back at him—always back at him. His smile returns, too calm, too certain. “I’m your dream, Pops. And I’m your nightmare. I’ve shown you what I am. You know I’ll always own you.”

Nick freezes as Wylan shifts his gaze away from him for once, fixing squarely on Charlie. His son steps closer, his voice steady, deliberate, every word meant to land like a knife.

“I’m alive. Right here. Right behind you.”

Charlie doesn’t react—can’t react—but Nick swears he sees Wylan lean in, close enough to whisper against his ear.

“You keep saying forget… but I’ll remind you. Every time. You can try to hide, but I’ll always find you.”

Nick’s chest constricts as Wylan’s hand hovers over Charlie’s shoulder, almost affectionate, almost cruel.

“Because if you won’t grieve me,” Wylan murmurs, his eyes hard now, “then you’ll never leave me behind.”

Nick lets out a strangled sound, torn between sobbing and screaming, because Charlie still doesn’t see. Still doesn’t feel.

“I’m alive, Dad,” Wylan says, his voice sharp enough to slice right through Nick.

And then he’s gone—bolting down the corridor, vanishing past the double doors, the echo of his words still clinging to Nick’s skin. By the time they reach the car, Wylan’s already there, curled casually into the backseat, smirking like he belongs.

Charlie doesn’t see him. Of course he doesn’t. Charlie’s too busy fussing over Nick, easing him gently into the passenger seat as though he might break. He presses a quick kiss to Nick’s forehead, eyes filled with worry.

“What’s wrong, Nick? Was it Harry? Did he say something? Did he hurt you?”

Nick shakes his head hard, his voice ragged. “No. No, no… it’s not him. It’s all me. It’s all me.”

Nick doesn’t dare look back—because he already knows Wylan will be there, smiling in the dark.

Notes:

harry being a decent person was not something I planned for this book, but well, here he is anyways! and Wylan, sweetie, you've got to stop haunting Nick and blaming Charlie for not seeing you. I know you're there baby, but Wylan please stop....

Nick and Charlie have a very back and forth relationship. Some would say it's unhealthy, and maybe it is, but there's no script on how to handle a relationship after losing a child. Nor is there a script in general on how to "correctly" be a good partner.

I hope I did okay making "I'm Alive" into this work narratively speaking.

now Wylan is the creation of grief and love and hurt and destruction and wishes which is why he is saying these things. he's not this innocent child because he doesn't exist, even if Nick does see him as a teenager, or what teenage Wylan would look and act like! if that makes sense?

Chapter 8

Notes:

TW: Hallucinations, Child Death, Child Neglect, Bad Mental Heath, Premature Birth Mentioned, Marital Issues

Twenty Years Ago

Nick’s childhood bedroom is barely big enough for the both of them—an old bed shoved against the wall, sheets bunched from the scuffle of knees and elbows, packing boxes littered around, and the things he's collected from college thus far shoved in a corner. They’d started with bickering, some half-serious disagreement about Marvel that had dissolved quickly into laughter and shoves. It's not his fault Charlie's opinion on who's hotter, Captain America or Thor is just wrong.

Charlie is on his feet now, trying to dart away toward the desk cluttered with textbooks, but Nick lunges off the bed, fingers brushing against his wrists. Charlie slips free, shoving at Nick’s chest with both hands.

“Oi!” Charlie laughs, breathless. “You’re rubbish at this.”

Nick grins, that wild, boyish grin Charlie has always been weak for. “Am I? I was the rugby captain, you know.”

He tries again, reaching for Charlie’s wrists, but Charlie twists out of reach, laughing harder now, shoving him away each time. The room fills with the sound of it—two boys, too young and too in love, rattling the old posters on the wall.

Then, Nick dips low, hooks an arm around the back of Charlie’s knee, and scoops him clean off the floor. Charlie yelps, his laugh cracking into a shout as Nick hefts him up, one leg dangling, his arms flailing to steady himself.

“Got you!” Nick crows, holding him tight despite Charlie’s wriggling.

Charlie tips his head back, laughing so hard his cheeks hurt, the sound muffled against Nick’s shoulder. “You absolute idiot—put me down!”

But Nick only grins wider, carrying him back toward the bed, as if the whole world has shrunk to this. Nick dumps Charlie onto the mattress with a grunt, both of them bouncing on the old springs. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, hair sticking damp to his forehead from the effort. For a second Charlie tries to push him off, still laughing, but Nick swings a leg over and straddles him, pinning him down with ease.

Charlie freezes under him, flushed and breathless, his grin tugging wider. Nick looks down at him and it hits him all over again. How could someone be this hot, this perfect, this Charlie? His Charlie.

Nick leans down and kisses him, messy and desperate, the laughter still caught between their mouths. He pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes wide, heart pounding like it’s going to break his ribs.

“Marry me,” Nick blurts, the words tumbling out raw and reckless.

Charlie blinks up at him, still breathless from being thrown onto the mattress, his curls falling into his eyes. His chest is rising and falling fast, a grin tugging at his mouth like he can’t quite catch up with what Nick just said.

“What?” he asks, almost laughing.

Nick doesn’t flinch. He just leans closer, still straddling him, his hands pressing into the blankets at either side of Charlie’s head. “Marry me.”

Charlie actually laughs this time, incredulous. “What? Nick—”

“I know, I know,” Nick blurts before he can go on, words tumbling out. “I don’t have a ring. This is—this is pathetic, actually. Like, the least romantic proposal ever, on my disgusting old bed with the rugby posters staring at us. And we’ve only been back together for a few months but—” He sucks in a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Char. I can’t do long distance. I can’t go another day pretending like there’s anything else out there for me because there isn’t. It’s you. It’s always been you. You’re the only one.”

His voice catches, and he stares down at him, eyes glassy but stubborn. “I love you. God, I love you so much. And I want to keep loving you, every day, forever. So—” He lets out a shaky laugh. “So marry me. Please. Will you marry me?”

“You’re serious?”

Nick swallows, nodding quickly, desperately. “If you want me to be. I—” His gaze falters for the first time. “God, sorry, this is so stupid. We’re too young. I shouldn’t have—”

He starts to pull back, already shifting his weight off Charlie, shame rolling off him in waves. But Charlie shoots a hand up, grabbing his wrist tight. “Nick. Stop.”

Nick freezes, his whole body taut, his chest heaving. He looks down at him like he’s bracing for rejection, for the floor to drop out from under him.

Charlie shakes his head slowly, something burning hot behind his eyes. He doesn’t give Nick another second to talk himself out of it—he sits up enough to press their mouths together, firm and certain, cutting off the apology before it can even come.

When he pulls back, their foreheads are touching, Nick trembling against him, eyes wide and wet. Charlie whispers, “Yes, Nick. A thousand times yes.”

“Wait… really?”

Charlie laughs through the sting of tears, shoving weakly at his chest. “Yes, you idiot! Of course I’m gonna marry you.”

For a second, Nick just stares at him, stunned, and then the biggest smile breaks over his face—boyish and bright and a little shaky around the edges. He kisses Charlie hard, like he can’t help himself, like he’s trying to pour every ounce of relief and love straight into him. When he finally pulls back, his grin is still there, his forehead pressed to Charlie’s.

“Does that mean,” Nick breathes, eyes shining, “you’re my fiancé?”

Charlie flushes pink, cheeks hot, and he can’t stop smiling even if he tried. “Yep. Your fiancé.”

Nick lets out a laugh that sounds almost like a sob, kissing him again and again, the word still burning in his chest. Fiancé.

“Sooooo,” he drawls, eyes sparkling, “that means we have to plan a wedding.”

Charlie snorts, grabbing the nearest pillow and smacking him lightly with it. “No. That means you let Tara and Darcy plan a wedding, and I get to pick out the cake and the suits. Sorry, but I’m not twinning with you.”

Nick gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “But you’d look so cute in a white suit!”

“Nope,” Charlie says flatly, though there’s laughter tugging at his lips. “Not happening.”

Nick’s eyes glimmer mischievously. “What about a white dress?”

Charlie’s whole face ignites, and he shoves him back with another whack of the pillow. “Nick! No. Absolutely not. If anyone’s wearing a dress, it’s you, with your Mary Jane obsession.”

Nick explodes into laughter, nearly rolling off the bed. “Oh my God, stop!”

Charlie grins wickedly and smacks him again. Nick holds up his hands in surrender, breathless from laughing. “Okay, okay! You pick the suits, you pick the cake, you can even pick the music if you want.”

Charlie hums smugly, satisfied, before softening. “And I get to pick out your ring.”

Nick freezes, the giddy laughter fading into something softer, deeper. His heart squeezes, the idea suddenly feeling so real. “Oh, right,” he whispers, like he’s only just realizing it. Then he breaks into another big, goofy smile. “We need rings! Ooooh, and once we’re married—we’re gonna have kids, right? I want kids with you.”

Charlie blinks at him, the shift catching him off guard. “You do?”

Nick nods, earnest now. “Yeah. I want… us. Like… messy breakfasts, school runs, teaching them how to swim. All of it. With you.” His cheeks flush, but his smile stays. “I’ve always wanted that.”

Charlie swallows hard, something tender flickering in his eyes, but he can’t help smirking to cover it. “Well, I’ve been trying to get you pregnant, but you’re too shy to ever wanna bottom.”

Nick’s jaw drops, face going scarlet. “Charlieeeeee!”

Charlie collapses into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Kidding! Kidding. God, the look on your face.”

Nick grabs the pillow and smacks him with it, but even as his cheeks burn, he’s laughing too, his chest aching with how much he loves him

Charlie grins, cheeks pink, and murmurs dreamily, “I'm thinking two kids. A boy and a girl. Close in age, like Tori and me. You're genes because you're hot as fuck."

Nick hums in agreement, his lips brushing Charlie’s temple. “And a smokin’ hot husband with a publishing degree,” he adds, voice low and teasing.

Charlie snorts, shoving lightly at his chest. “Mmmhmm. I am pretty fucking hot, aren’t I?”

“The hottest,” Nick breathes, kissing him again. His lips trail down to Charlie’s jaw, then the soft skin of his neck. Charlie’s laughter catches in his throat, breaking into a startled moan, his hand curling instinctively into Nick’s hair.

“Nick…” Charlie whispers, the sound ragged, half-plea, half-confession.

Nick hums against his skin, pressing closer, his voice muffled but intent. “God, I’ve gotta fuck my fiancé for the first time,” he teases, nibbling gently before pulling back just enough to smirk down at him. “Just lay there, all pretty for me.”

Charlie’s cheeks flush bright red, torn between laughing and hiding his face, but his grin doesn’t falter. He fists Nick’s shirt and pulls him back down into another kiss, deeper this time, heat rising between them in the space of shared breaths and soft sounds.

The bed creaks under their tangled bodies, the world outside vanishing until it’s just the two of them—Nick’s weight above him, Charlie’s hands clutching tight, kisses tumbling one after the other until they’re both dizzy.

And for that moment, nothing exists but the taste of each other’s lips and the reckless joy of being young, in love, and stupidly sure of forever.

---

Present Day 

There have been about five times Nick’s almost picked up the phone to call his dad. Five times he’s stared at the screen, thumb hovering, thinking maybe Stéphane Fournier—of all people—might have the answer to the thing Nick can’t figure out himself.

Divorce.

The word feels sour on his tongue every time he thinks it. He knows it doesn’t make him a good husband. He knows it means something in their marriage has cracked, split down the middle, sharp edges they keep cutting themselves on. But God, sometimes Charlie just doesn’t see things the way Nick does. Doesn’t want to see them, maybe. And it’s so infuriating Nick can feel the walls closing in until the only way out seems like running.

He doesn't actually want to go through with it. He doesn’t want to picture lawyers or paperwork or explaining to Aurelia why her parents broke apart. He doesn’t want to wake up in a bed without Charlie’s weight beside him, doesn’t want to sit in a kitchen that no longer smells like Charlie’s coffee. He doesn’t want to live a life where Wylan’s ghost is the only company he keeps.

But there are days—too many—where the fight feels endless. Where Charlie’s silence stings worse than shouting, where Nick’s own voice sounds foreign even to himself.

One of those five times is right now.

Charlie goes on about hypnosis like it’s the neat little bow to tie up all their mess.

Talking to Harry—fine. Getting the past dragged out into the light, as humiliating as it is—fine. But this? Letting someone poke around in his head until he’s glassy-eyed and pliant, until the edges of his thoughts don’t even belong to him anymore?

Absolutely not.

It isn’t peaceful to Nick. It isn’t healing. It’s being gutted, stripped of the only thing he still has left: control. Even when that control is shaky, fragile, broken in all the wrong ways—it’s his. And now Charlie’s looking at him like he’s already agreed, like this is the next step in some pre-written script Nick never signed off on.

His chest burns with it—anger, fear, betrayal all tangled together. The words almost slip out, I can’t do this anymore, maybe we need to stop pretending we can. He swallows them back, but they sit there like glass in his throat.

It’s been four weeks. Four weeks of dragging himself to Harry Greene’s office, sitting in that stiff chair while the man with the neat haircut and pride pen scribbles notes and asks the same questions in different ways.

And they’ve gotten… nowhere.

Not that it’s surprising.

The sessions bleed together—Nick talking about his “mood swings” in vague terms, Harry nodding, humming, pushing gently but never getting close to what actually matters. Because how can he say it? How can he admit out loud that Wylan still shows up, warm and solid, laughing and frowning, that his son is as alive to him as the people sitting across from him?

So instead he gives scraps, half-truths, avoids Charlie’s gaze when they drive home. And each time, Nick tells himself maybe next week something will shift, maybe Harry will say something that makes it all worth it. But deep down, he knows.

Four weeks in, and the silence in his chest is the same. The ache in his throat is the same. The fights with Charlie are the same.

Nothing’s changing.

Which is why they’re here now—sitting on the couch, the air between them tight as piano wire.

Charlie’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his voice soft but insistent. “Maybe we should try Harry’s hypnosis therapy. I mean… he is an expert at it.”

Nick stares at him, his jaw tight, nails biting into his palms. He wants to laugh, but the sound that bubbles up is more like a choke. Four weeks of circling the same drain, four weeks of Harry nodding like some saint of patience, and now Charlie’s ready to hand Nick’s mind over like it’s a broken watch that just needs tinkering with.

“I just think… it might help. It could give you some peace, Nick. Real peace. You deserve that.”

Nick drags a hand down his face, the urge to scream sitting hot in his throat. Peace. That’s what Charlie calls this? Letting Harry poke around in his head until Nick doesn’t even recognize himself? Until the one person who still feels real to him—gone, vanished, like he never existed at all?

Nick lets out a harsh scoff, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Charlie, I’ve done the talk therapy thing with Harry for a month and we’ve gotten nowhere. Nowhere. Maybe Harry just isn’t a good match?”

Charlie rubs his palms together like he’s trying to keep himself steady. “But you haven’t tried hypnosis yet. I know we said we’d ease into it, take time, but…”

Nick snaps his head toward him, eyes narrowing. “But what?”

Charlie exhales through his nose, shoulders sagging under the weight of words he clearly doesn’t want to say. “But I’m tired, Nick. I’m really fucking tired of being the only one trying in this relationship. Being the only one parenting. Carrying everything while you…” His voice wavers, then hardens. “It’s draining. It’s really fucking draining.”

Nick’s chest tightens, the words hitting like a punch. “I’m trying!” His voice cracks, raw with a desperation he doesn’t want Charlie to hear.

“I know,” Charlie says quietly. His hands twist in his lap, his jaw clenched. “I know you are, but…”

Nick shakes his head, the sting of it pushing tears into his eyes. “It’s not enough? That’s what you’re saying? It’s not enough?”

Charlie looks at him for a long moment—long enough that Nick wants to beg him to take it back. Then, finally, Charlie whispers, “No.”

Nick drags his hands down his face, voice breaking as it spills out. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Char. I’m—God—the pills make me numb, the talk therapy makes me crazy. I feel like I’m being pulled apart either way.”

Charlie shifts closer, his voice gentler now, almost pleading. “It’s just an illness, baby. Like my eating disorder was. It’s not your fault.”

Nick’s eyes flash, wet and furious. “But you got better! You got through it. You climbed out, and I’m still here, sixteen years later, stuck in the same hell. Mine hasn’t gotten better. It feels like it never will.”

Charlie swallows hard, nodding slowly, steadying his voice. “Just… try. One time. That’s all I’m asking. One time, Nick. Try the hypnosis therapy. If it gets nowhere—if it leads to nowhere—I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop pushing and prying.”

Nick lets out a shaky breath, nodding faintly. “Okay…” He leans into Charlie, forehead pressing against his shoulder, voice muffled. “I’m sorry.”

Charlie strokes the back of his neck, firm but gentle. “No s word, remember?”

Nick hums a broken little laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mmmhmm… but I’m a bad husband right now. Maybe I’ve always been. If I didn’t rush us to get married, to be a family, then we never would’ve had him when we were so busy and young and naïve. And maybe—maybe we would’ve noticed the signs sooner, or maybe they wouldn’t have existed at all, and none of this ugliness would be here.” His voice cracks, heavy with the kind of pain that never softens. “Maybe we’d still be whole.”

Charlie’s chest aches at the words, but he keeps his hold steady, refusing to let Nick pull away. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Nick.”

Nick turns his face just enough to look at him, eyes red and raw. “But if I don’t blame myself, then where does the blame go?”

Charlie takes a long, deliberate breath, his own eyes stinging. “On the doctors, for not catching it. On God, for creating it. On the universe, fate, hell—I don’t know, baby. But not on you. Never on you.”

Nick shakes his head, lips pressed tight, but he doesn’t argue. He just buries himself deeper into Charlie’s arms, trembling under the weight of it all.

And this—this is why Nick never goes through with it. Why those late nights when he’s sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone with the thought rising sharp and ugly—I should call my dad, ask him about divorce—never turn into anything more than a thought. He’s rehearsed it in his head, the words bitter and cold, tumbling like stones in his mouth. But he’s never spoken them aloud.

Because then there are moments like this. Reminders. The way Charlie kisses his hair even after being screamed at. The way he stays, no matter how messy it gets, no matter how many pills Nick throws down the drain, no matter how many times Nick swears he’s ruined everything. Charlie still pulls him back. Still looks at him and says, you’re not crazy, you’re mine.

Nick hates himself for resenting him and loving him in the same breath. For wanting to run and wanting to stay all at once. But he knows, deep down, that if he ever did make that call, if he ever told his dad he couldn’t do it anymore, he’d lose the one person who has always been his anchor.

So he doesn’t call. He never will. Because Charlie is still here. Because Charlie still fights for him, even when Nick can’t fight for himself.

And maybe that’s not perfect. Maybe it’s not enough to fix the fractures running through them. But it’s enough to keep Nick from letting go.

---

The Next Day

The office feels too bright, too warm, like it’s been staged just to make him sweat.

Harry folds his hands over his notepad and clears his throat. “Charlie’s asked me to try hypnosis with you,” he says carefully, as though he’s testing the words before letting them loose. “It’s something we sometimes do when stories are particularly hard to tell. When memory gets tangled.”

Nick lets out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah… great. Love that my husband is talking behind my back to my therapist.”

Harry doesn’t flinch, though his expression softens. “Maybe you see it that way. But I think what Charlie’s doing is caring for you. He’s worried, Nick.”

Nick leans forward, eyes narrowing. “That’s one word for it.” His voice cuts, flat and cold. “Controlling, maybe. Smothering. Meddling. Take your pick.”

Harry exhales slowly, setting his pen down. "Or maybe it’s love. Love expressed badly, clumsily, desperately—because he doesn’t know what else to do.” He pauses, watching Nick’s restless hands tighten on his knees. “I don’t think he’s trying to betray you. I think he’s trying not to lose you.”

Nick scoffs under his breath, though the sound cracks halfway through. He turns his head toward the window, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. “Yeah. Well. He might not have a choice.”

Harry lets out a long sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose before meeting Nick’s eyes again. “Nick, once upon a time we were… friends, or teammates—whatever word you’ll accept. And even back then, although I was a dick—” he shakes his head, grimacing at the admission, “—I could tell how much Charlie meant to you. Maybe I had a bad way of showing it, especially at the start, but I did eventually try to stop the bullying. I saw it. That connection between you two.”

Nick stiffens, his jaw ticking. Harry knows nothing.

“All I know is this: Charlie loved you then, and he loves you now. I don’t think you’d still be married if he didn’t.”

Nick lets out a low scoff, bitter. “I don’t need you meddling in my marriage.”

“Maybe not,” Harry admits, "but you do speak poorly of Charlie. Often. And from the outside… I don’t think he deserves that.”

“Well, I’m sorry me and him aren’t in the honeymoon stage anymore, like when we were teens. Guess real life’s a little messier than some schoolboy crush, huh?”

Harry exhales slowly, his shoulders dipping as though he’s carrying the weight of Nick’s anger. “Sometimes child loss will do that to a marriage,” he says carefully.

Nick’s head snaps up, his voice cracking with fury. “What the hell do you know about child loss? Huh? Have you even dealt with patients who’ve lived through it, or is it all just addicts and failed marriages in your little file cabinet?”

Harry holds up a hand before Nick can spiral further. “You have every right to question my experience, Nick. Especially when it comes to something like hypnosis—I’ll give you that. It can sound scary, even dangerous.”

Nick leans forward, teeth clenched. “Yeah, because it is. I don’t need your fingers digging around in my brain.”

Harry keeps his voice steady, measured. “That’s a common misconception. Hypnosis doesn’t give me control over you. You’re never without power. You can come out of it anytime you want—it’s more like a guided state than… whatever image you’ve built in your head.”

Nick huffs, shaking his head. “That still doesn’t answer my damn question. Have you ever hypnotized and actually worked with patients who lost a child? Or are you just winging it, hoping I’m gullible enough to play along?”

Harry studies him for a moment, then asks quietly, “Are you asking me that professionally… or personally?”

Nick freezes, his eyes snapping to Harry. “What?”

Harry exhales, his voice heavy in a way Nick’s never heard before. “Last year of uni… my girlfriend at the time got pregnant. I wasn’t ready for marriage, let alone being a dad, but… well, it wasn’t really my decision to make, was it?” He swallows, looking past Nick like the words are carved somewhere on the wall. “She went into labor too soon. Our daughter was born at thirty weeks. Tiny. Fragile. They put her straight in the NICU. She stayed there for five weeks before her heart gave out.”

Nick’s breath catches. What?

“I never even got to hold her,” Harry says, his voice rough. “One day she was there, fighting, and the next… she wasn’t. Long story short, my girlfriend couldn’t handle the grief, and she left. I packed up, moved to Leeds. I was supposed to go into finance, wear a suit, crunch numbers the rest of my life.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “But after those five weeks in hell, after all those late nights with a shrink just trying to make sense of it, I realized I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t live in a world that broke people like that without trying to help. So… I went back. Got a master’s in therapy. Got married. Had a son. Then went back and got.my certificate in hypnosis. Eventually, a doctorate. Because I figured… if I couldn’t save her, maybe I could help someone else.”

Nick stares at him, searching for some crack in the story, some tell that Harry’s exaggerating just to win him over. He racks his brain, trying to remember ever seeing anything about this on social media—some post, some whisper—but nothing comes. And truthfully, his mind’s been too scrambled these last few years to trust what it recalls anyway.

“Why are you telling me this?” Nick asks at last, his voice low, suspicious.

“Because you asked. And because I want you to know I’ve been on the other side of this. I’ve been the one sitting in the chair, letting someone guide me under. Many, many times.” He leans back slightly, his tone softening. “I’m not asking for your trust all at once, Nick. I’m just trying to build it. Brick by brick.”

Nick exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes drift off to the corner of the office, where a figure hovers in the shadow—Wylan. Hoodie too big for him, sleeves hanging past his hands, staring with that quiet, unblinking patience. Nick’s chest aches, but he doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” Nick mutters finally. “Fine. I promised Charlie I’d try, so… I’ll try. Just—” his throat tightens, “—you promise I won’t be in danger?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “You have my word.”

Wylan shifts, just enough for Nick to notice, as if weighing Harry’s vow himself.

My boy.

Harry adjusts in his chair, voice soft but firm. “Alright, Nick. I want you to sit back, feet flat on the floor. Hands resting in your lap. Just… breathe.”

Nick scoffs under his breath but does as he’s told, leaning back, his palms sweaty against his thighs. His pulse is pounding. He feels ridiculous—childish even—but Charlie’s voice echoes in his head: Just once. Try it once.

“Focus on the sound of my voice. Nothing else matters. Not the office, not the clock ticking on the wall. Just me. And your breath. In and out."

Nick shuts his eyes, jaw tight. He can feel the cotton starting to creep in—the fog he hates—but he doesn’t fight it. Not yet.

“You’re safe,” Harry says. “You are always in control. If at any point you want to stop, you can. But right now, just breathe and follow.”

Nick nods faintly, though his chest feels heavy. The room seems distant now, like he’s sinking into water.

“Now,” Harry murmurs, “I want you to picture a place. A place that once made you feel safe. Where are you?”

Nick swallows. His voice cracks. “The coast.”

“Good,” Harry encourages. “Tell me about it.”

“I… I’m sixteen. Charlie’s with me. We’re barefoot, shouting into the wind, saying we’re boyfriends. The sand’s warm, and the water’s freezing, but I don’t care.” His lips twitch upward for half a second, but then falter.

Harry hums. “Stay with that memory. The warmth. The laughter.”

But the laughter isn’t Charlie’s anymore. It’s lighter, higher—Wylan’s. Nick’s eyes flick open before he catches himself, snapping them shut again. He sees his son—still a baby, still whole—running down the sand, kicking water at him, calling “Papa! Dada!”

Nick’s throat closes.

Harry’s voice cuts through, steady. “Who’s there with you, Nick?”

Nick’s breathing hitches. “I… he… Wylan. My boy.”

There’s silence from Harry, a pause that feels like forever. Then, gently: “Stay with him for a moment. What’s he doing?”

Nick swallows hard, his nails digging crescents into his palms. “He’s laughing. He’s running toward me. I can hear his feet in the sand.”

And then, as if summoned, Wylan appears again in the shadowed edges of the office, clearer now. Hoodie still too big, eyes shining.

“Don’t leave me, Pops,” Wylan whispers.

Nick stiffens. His chest feels torn in two—part of him still on the couch, part of him sprinting barefoot into that impossible ocean.

Nick’s head jerks in protest. “It is real. He’s real!” His breathing quickens, teetering on panic.

“Then let’s stay with that,” Harry says calmly. “Don’t run from it. Look at him. What does he want?”

Nick finally dares to meet Wylan’s eyes. And his son smiles—a wide, impossible smile.

“I want you, Pops,” Wylan says softly. “Always you.”

Harry’s voice stays steady, a thread of calm in the room. “What age is Wylan right now, Nick?”

“He’s… he’s eighteen.”

Harry hums softly, not pushing too hard yet. “Eighteen, hm? But if I’m not mistaken… Wylan passed long ago.” He tilts his head, careful, measured. “So who is it you’re seeing?”

Nick’s jaw clenches, his whole body shuddering. “My son! I’m seeing my son!” His voice cracks, wild with grief and conviction. “He’s here, don’t you understand? He’s here.”

Harry leans forward just slightly, lowering his voice. “But do you know this son? If your boy passed at such a young age… then who is this young man in front of you?”

Nick’s head jerks toward the far corner of the room. He doesn’t answer Harry—he can’t. Because Wylan is right there. Eighteen. An adult. His hoodie hangs loose on narrow shoulders, but the eyes—God, the eyes are the same soft ones he had as a baby. The same ones that used to blink up at him while clapping his chubby hands. The same ones that squeezed shut when he squealed “Papa, papa!” on the beach.

Now those eyes are pleading.

“Catch me, Pops,” Wylan whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “Catch me, I’m falling.”

Nick lets out a ragged sob, almost pitching forward.

“Nick?” Harry’s voice cuts through the haze, trying to anchor him.

Nick's back at the beach, aware Wylan is somewhere in the office but trying to focus on his baby boy. His son so young. But Wylan's voice in the office says it again, louder this time, his figure already slipping back, already drifting toward the crashing waves of that familiar coast. “Catch me, I’m falling!”

Nick’s breath hitches violently. He can see him in the sand, staggering, reaching back.

Harry asks, “Is Wylan still with you, or… are you back at the coast with Charlie as teenagers?”

Nick shakes his head hard, eyes wide, chest heaving. “No… no. Wylan’s there. But he’s—he’s walking away. Toward the ocean.”

 Wylan's voice, in the office again, not from memory of delusion, thin, shaking, closer than it should be: “I’m falling faster than anyone should.”

The sound knocks the air from his lungs. And then—he swears he feels it too. A weight settling against him, pressing into his chest. The heavy warmth of his son, seeking comfort, aching to be held.

Nick’s arms twitch forward, torn between the world in his head—the coast, the boy who is slipping further away—and the ghostly sensation grounding him in this room, this body. His son crying, needing love.

He can’t tell what’s real anymore. And that terrifies him more than anything.

Harry’s voice stays calm, steady. “He’s headed toward the ocean, yeah? Maybe… maybe instead of following, you let him go.”

Nick’s whole body jolts, his throat closing tight. “But—he’ll drown.”

Harry leans forward a little, soft but insistent. “If he’s eighteen, Nick, I’m sure he knows how to swim… right?”

Nick shakes his head violently, nails digging into his palms. “No. No, he doesn’t. We never—we never taught him.”

And then—God—he hears it. Not in memory. Not in his head. But here, in the office, faint and breaking:

“I’m falling for good.”

Nick’s heart splinters. “No,” he gasps, clutching his chest as though he can keep Wylan tethered there.

Harry cuts in gently, like a hand reaching through smoke. “Where is he now, Nick? Look closely. Where is he?”

Nick forces his eyes to the coast. His boy—his sweet boy—isn’t there anymore. The sand is empty. His gaze blurs, shifts—and suddenly it’s not Wylan at all. It’s Aurelia, small and giggling, her little hands patting wet sand into towers. Charlie’s beside her, crouched low, his smile soft as he helps steady her lopsided creation.

Nick’s voice cracks. “He’s not there… he’s not there.” His shoulders slump, as though saying it drains everything out of him.

"That’s good, Nick. That’s okay. Remember—this is all in your mind. You’re still in my office. You’re safe.” He pauses, waiting for Nick’s breathing to steady just a little before continuing. “If Wylan isn’t there, what do you see?”

Nick swallows hard, blinking through tears. “Aurelia.”

Harry’s tone lifts, just slightly. “Good. That’s good. You haven’t spoken about Aurelia much.”

Nick lets out a bitter laugh that dies almost instantly. “Because we… we had her after.” His chest tightens, the words scraping their way out. “And when we were in the hospital I—God—I couldn’t hold her. I couldn’t hold her when I should’ve held…” His voice breaks. “…him.”

“But Aurelia is here, Nick. Right now, she’s here. You can hold her. You can walk toward her. You can put your arms around her, yeah?”

Nick stares at the image in his mind—the little girl who grew into a young woman who feels invisible. The daughter who is real. Alive. Waiting.

Wylan’s voice slides in, thin as smoke but sharp enough to cut. “Catch me—I’m falling.”

Nick jerks, breath catching in his throat.

“Nick?” Harry’s tone is even, careful.

The whisper comes again, closer now, pleading. “I’m falling… please, catch me. I’m falling.”

Nick squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head hard, as though it might block the sound out. The sand, the coast, Aurelia giggling with Charlie—he tries to anchor himself there. Stay with her. Stay with her.

But the ocean looms, restless and dark. His son had gone that way. His son can’t swim. What if he’s already under? What if he’s calling because he’s drowning?

Wylan’s voice cuts through again, louder, heavier. “Flying headfirst into fate.”

Nick clutches his chest, his nails biting through fabric. “No,” he rasps. “No, it wasn’t fate. It wasn’t fate for him to leave.”

Across from him, Harry stays steady. “Nick… unresolved loss can lead to depression.” His words are calm, almost clinical, but not unkind.

Nick shakes his head violently. “You don’t get it. He’s out there—he’s out there in the deep, he’s drowning—”

Harry leans forward, voice firmer. “Loss can lead to anxiety, Nick. To fear. To intrusive thoughts that make it feel like the loss is happening all over again, right now. But it isn’t. You’re not back there.”

Nick’s eyes sting with tears, locked on the image of the waves swallowing the horizon.

But Wylan’s voice keeps echoing in his ears. “Catch me. I’m falling.”

Harry’s voice stays steady, calm, the kind of tone meant to ground someone. “Nick, try to bring yourself back to the present. Think of Aurelia. Think of Charlie. Anchor yourself to them. Can you do that?”

Nick shakes his head hard, panic clawing up his throat. “No… no, he’s falling—he’s drowning—I can’t.” His chest heaves, his voice breaking.

The coastline dissolves, vanishing like mist. The waves are gone. Nick blinks, and suddenly he’s back in the office—four walls, the hum of the vent, Harry sitting across from him with his usual clinical composure. But next to Harry, Wylan sits. His boy’s face is wet with tears, his hands swallowed by the sleeves of a hoodie too big for him. Nick wants to reach for him, wants to hold him, but his body won’t move.

“Nick,” Harry says gently, leaning forward. “Are you back with me now? Are you here in the room?”

Nick drags in a breath, then another. He nods, though it feels shallow and thin.

Harry nods in return, acknowledging the effort. “Good. That was difficult, but you stayed with it. That’s progress, Nick. I want you to recognize that. You are safe.”

Nick stares at Wylan, can’t pull his eyes away from him. It takes Harry’s voice again to make him look over.

“If you’re willing,” Harry continues, “I’d like to give you something to work on between sessions.”

Nick frowns, wary. “What?”

“You’ve told me how overwhelming Wylan’s presence feels to you. What if you could hold his memory without that fear? Wouldn’t you want that? Wouldn’t you like to feel more present with Aurelia and Charlie?”

Nick’s throat tightens. The answer comes out cracked. “Yes. I want that.”

Harry folds his hands, speaking with deliberate clarity. “I believe what you’re experiencing is the result of unresolved grief. That grief has fueled anxiety. The anxiety developed into depression. And now, the depression is feeding paranoia. But grief doesn’t have to stay unresolved. It can be worked through.”

Nick swallows hard. “How?”

“I want you to revisit Wylan’s belongings,” Harry says. “Go through his room. Look at photographs, favorite toys, clothes—anything that ties you to the child you truly had, not the eighteen-year-old you see now. That young man in your mind isn’t Wylan. He’s a projection of your fear and longing. Remember your son as he was. That’s where healing begins.”

Nick turns, staring at Wylan. His boy wipes his eyes with his sleeve, gaze fixed on him with all the vulnerability of someone desperate to be held.

But Harry’s voice cuts through: “That isn’t him, Nick.”

Nick’s breath rattles in his chest. His eyes flick between Harry, calm and deliberate, and Wylan, raw and trembling at his side. The boy’s sleeve is still pressed to his cheek, his eyes rimmed red, silently begging Nick not to let go.

“That isn’t him, Nick,” Harry repeats softly.

Nick wants to argue, wants to scream, wants to beg Harry to open his own eyes. But the words die in his throat. He can only sit there, frozen, tears streaking down his face.

Harry leans back in his chair, folding his hands. “We’ll stop here today. You did well, Nick. I’ll see you again soon.”

The office fades around him—blurred corners, muted sounds. Charlie’s arms are suddenly there, strong and steady, guiding him out of the chair, out of the room. Nick lets himself be led, hollow and shaking.

But when they reach the door, Nick glances back.

Harry is tidying his desk. The chair across from him is empty.

And yet, Nick swears he feels a presence at his side, swears he hears a whisper in his ear, low and urgent—

"You made me fall, Pops."

The words echo long after he’s in the car, long after Charlie’s hand steadies his trembling knee. By the time they’re home, Nick already knows what he has to do: walk into that frozen room, open those untouched boxes, and face the boy as he truly was—before he fell.

Notes:

Nick seeing baby wylan on the coast calling him Papa but imagining Wylan at the age he would be if he were alive in the office saying 'catch me' nearly ended me. Wylan, stop trying to manipulate our boy, please. I know you just want to be remembered and loved but it's soon painful. Ugh. Our boys! And also the fact Nick wasn't willing to stick with the image of Aurelia and Charlie at the coast, just.... 😭😭 our poor family.

Charlie, you are a brave man and very strong man for keeping this family together. Nick, don't you ever think of divorcing him!

Charlie and Nick so young, getting engaged on a random Tuesday while Nick's back from Uni, back together after their small break, and immediately talking about kids 😭😭 and it being a boy and girl close in age! this is what they would have had if Wylan didn't pass!

Next chapter is probably me favorite 🫠🥺 even though it's really emotional.

Notes:

soooooo.... yeah. I hope you fall in love with this little Nelson-Spring Family, even if they go through the highs and lows of life 🥹 because I think they are a pretty adorable family regardless of the circumstances!

anyways, let me know your thoughts!

and again, be mindful of the tags!

okay,
*mwah*

-Willie