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"Just because you are always there and always helpful doesn't mean you don't deserve to hear it."
"He just makes me so fucking mad, sometimes." Nick looks at me with shiny eyes.
"Of course he does, love." I hold eye contact with my husband. "Nick. Look, I know he's grown, and I know he's getting a bit better and is legitimately trying to work on himself sometimes. But–"
Nick looks at me, he's got that look like his heart in his throat and he might cry at any time.
"David is a fucking grown up. He doesn't get points for being a decent human. Your mother has been sick. She has needed help. And you were there for seven hours yesterday. You went over before work today. You brought her to an appointment after work, then made dinner for her. David flew in and brought up one load of washing and she praised him in front of you. What does that tell you?"
He looks back at me with so much sadness, so much pain in his eyes.
"I don't… know?"
"Oh baby. It tells me that your older brother is immature enough that he still needs dog biscuits for doing the bare fucking minimum."
"But—"
"But nothing."
I kiss him softly on the tip of his nose as his eyes flutter closed. Pressing kisses across his cheekbones, I murmur soft words to him. He pulls me against him tightly and we kiss once, deeply, reverently, and hold on.
As we part, my hands move down the way they always do: from his shoulders, over his chest, to the centre of his abdomen. Nick once had a blindsiding panic once when I didn't do that after a kiss. It took a minute for him to explain what I hadn't even realised: that after we kiss, I always run my hands down his body in the same path: shoulders, chest, abdomen. He told me he'd mentally dubbed it ‘bisous, boobs, belly' and the familiarity was comforting. So when I'd gotten distracted and not done it, he worried.
After that, I paid a bit more than vague attention. I really do follow that path every time. There must be something about the comfort I feel from Nick's body. Even since that unrequited - or so I'd-thought - crush on an assumed straight boy, I'd enjoyed looking at all the parts of him. Then as boyfriends, learning about each other's bodies, each bit he let me unwrap was incredible, because it was Nick and because, yeah, he's fucking exquisite. Have you seen him?
To describe it? The feel of Nick's strong chest muscles under his skin, the skave of chest hair over the top, his nipples nestled in the centre of each strong pec. I mean, I'm a card carrying member of the Nick Nelson's Body Hair fan club — it's a thing! Even under tshirts and the work shirts he wears, I can feel it.
Then from there? Over the formerly moulded ridges of his abdomen, to the well-deserved softness below. God. It's one of my favourite parts of him. I've held, licked, nuzzled, and made a pillow of that belly through nearly every iteration of it's life.
I've loved every one.
Over the years, apparently both Nick and I have made an unconscious comforting ritual of my hands on his body.
I've gotten myself distracted again. Part and parcel of having a gorgeous, gallant, golden retriever as my husband.
"You said ‘but nothing.'" Nick prompts me. Over the years (and through plenty of arguments and misunderstandings) we've learnt so much about each other, including when the other gets distracted mid conversation.
"I did." I glance at the clock. The baby is in bed — I mean, I say baby. Our adopted daughter is eleven months old already and neither of us knows how to deal with that. We've got another hour or so until we both get ready for bed. "Why don't I make us some tea and we can snuggle on the sofa?"
"Perfect."
Nick busies himself getting his school bag ready for work tomorrow and setting up the baby's bag with diapers, clothes, and other things for her carer.
When we reconvene on the sofa, I can see that uncertainty in Nick's face: the worry lines, the tuft of hair he anxiously pushes, all of it. In spite of how far he's come, in spite of Nick learning to set personal boundaries with his father, the way embraces communication with me about our relationship, the way he openly and fiercely cares about things, I can still see evidence of that young boy, desperately looking for approval, worried that he somehow made a mistake and cocked things all up.
"C'mere," I tell him, and he snuggle-burrows into me. "Look. You are… god, Nick, you are the best person. You care openly, everyone adores you. You're beautiful. You're capable, and you are so freaking smart. You do things that need to be done because they need to be done, not for praise."
He looks at me and I give him a heated look, "bedroom praise notwithstanding."
He sighs happily, curling even more deeply into my side and running his thumb over the belly of my t-shirt.
"Not everyone is like that. Isn't it sad that David still needs your mum to praise him for stupid shit? Imagine if she praised you? It would sound like: ‘Nicky, thank you for inviting me to dinner every Wednesday night, and always being there when I need you and doing seven things around the house — even things I barely notice — every time you're there. Thank you for taking care of me when I'm sick, for making dinner and cleaning it up and doing the dishes and cleaning out the fridge of old things. Thank you for making sure my favourite nightgown was clean, that my pillows were fluffed, and about sixteen other things that I likely didn't even see you do.'"
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"I think it's hard because like… sibling relationships can be tricky. Tori and I always got along so well and championed each other. We were lucky. Oliver was younger enough that we could understand why our parents parented him the way they did. But you and David have always had a relationship based on comparison, because your bellend father made it that way. So it's probably your first conditioned response to get defensive when you hear your mum praise David for shit like that, but think about this: would you want her to praise you for stuff like that?"
There's a long pause as he considers it. His voice is night-quiet. "No. I really wouldn't."
"Of course not. Because you're an adult now. You're a teacher, a father, a husband. And one of the best sons on the bloody planet. You have a fulfilling career, a beautiful family, and a great support network."
"Not to mention my smoking hot husband," he says into my stomach.
"Naturally. Definitely don't forget him."
"I never will," he says quietly. From below, he looks up at me and then finally sits up so we're facing each other. "Thanks, Charlie. I… needed that outside perspective again. I sometimes get so caught up in things that I do feel like I'm little again and I've actually grown since then."
"And maybe David will, too. But he's not that person right now. Or not yet. So let her praise him for that bullshit, unnecessary stuff and remember that your mum knows — everyone knows — that you are one of the very best people in the world. We're lucky to have you in our lives."
He digests all this, I can see little changes in his expression as he thinks, and then he grins.
"Okay," he says, his voice calm and confident.
"Okay?"
"Yeah," he says, "I'm okay now." Then I see a naughty glint in his eye. "Now how about we go investigate my need for praise in the bedroom I believe you mentioned before?"
"Who, me?"
He laughs and grabs me around the middle, picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I'm still the fourteen year old teenager that he could pick up anytime he wanted to.
Some things never change. I think about this as he carries me into our bedroom. But then again, there are some things I'd never want to change.