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peaceoutofthepieces · 2 years

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Heartstopper prompt -

Ben makes a mean comment about Charlie’s body in recovery and he struggles with relapsing

first off, happy three months of heartstopper, and thank you so much for 2k followers!? i would love to do a celebration but don’t know how, so if anyone has any thoughts let me know <3 and for now i have this.

this took me way longer than initially planned because i initially wasn’t sure whether to write it or not—it’s a tone i haven’t written in a really long time, and i didn’t want to do it wrong! i can’t speak from experience in this case, but i tried to be as thoughtful and authentic as i believe alice is, and i hope i’ve done okay. but if i haven’t, especially in these instances, please feel free to tell me!

safe to say, warnings for depictions of charlie’s eating disorder and ocd, and thoughts and mentions of self-harm. this tone is more solitaire-like and less fluffy and dialogue-heavy like my other fics (at least for the first half). i want to clarify no actual self-harm occurs, but if you do read, please do so with care.

also, it’s over 6k. fair warning.

~^~

Charlie wasn’t that upset that his plan of moving to Higgs was trashed by the school burning down. Really. He meant what he’d said, about staying with Nick, and it being fine. The upside to it was that he was now already going to school with Tori and all of his friends, anyway. It also brought people back, like Elle, and Michael Holden, who Charlie could now probably say was also his friend.

It also meant Ben Hope.

The return of his presence shouldn’t have been a big deal. Charlie was planning to switch to Higgs knowing Ben was there, because it still felt like the lesser evil. Now with the schools merging, Truham had to step up from its hellhole slightly. Now, at Truham, the people Charlie wanted to get away from suddenly had more interesting people to bother, and the people he’d wanted to escape to were all here.

Plus Nick, and Tao, and Aled.

But mostly Nick.

It should have been an improvement, really. A better outcome than he’d even initially hoped for. Easier to handle all around.

Maybe it was still the toxicness of Truham. Charlie had never given much thought to why Ben left (though he assumed it was likely at-least-in-part due to him), but he imagined having to come back would mess with your head, if you’d been trying to escape like he’d planned to. (Michael mostly confirmed this for him. Having Tori and ‘acquaintances like Nick Nelson’ around him now apparently helped. Charlie could understand that part.)

He realised he’d just never fully thought about having to pass Ben in the hallways again, or to catch sight of him across the courtyard.

Or to have Ben looking back.

“He knows better than to do anything more,” Nick had said, a little darkly (venomously) with his arm wrapped around Charlie at some point in the first week, when Ben had made the mistake of catching his eye. “If he says one word or comes within ten feet, I swear to God.”

Charlie had murmured platitudes and felt silently sick, but he’d believed Nick was right, for a while.

But Truham was only so big, and it was impossible to ignore anyone forever—especially if they wanted to be noticed.

And Ben had never been able to accept Charlie’s attempts to ignore him.

It didn’t even seem intentional, at first. Charlie didn’t even think any of the boys surrounding the bench knew he was there, right within hearing distance. He’d thought he’d heard his name, in those quiet, scandalised, gossipy tones that had covered it in the past few months since he came back to school. Then he caught more of the conversation, and he knew he’d heard it, amidst claims of it’s not like he can hide it, just look at him and it doesn’t even make sense though and yeah, he hardly thinks he’s fat, does he? like, what’s the point?, and then he caught the more familiar voice, and all his attempts to block it out shattered.

“I’d be more concerned about how Nelson’s brain works. Hugging a sack of ribs would be bad enough, but he looks like he’d snap in half if you bent him over. Bit of a weird turn on, innit?”

There were quiet, half-embarrassed snickers mingled with outright laughter and a few jeers. Ben’s self-satisfied smirk was unsurprising to Charlie even before Ben’s gaze swiveled directly to him.

Charlie sucked in a breath, and his fight-or-flight instinct finally overrode the frozen mode he was in. He chose, obviously, to flee. It didn’t matter that he’d mean planning to meet Nick so they could go home together, because Nick didn’t know that. Charlie could spin on his heel and run to his bus, and no one would think anything was amiss. So he did.

Objectively, Charlie knew what was starting to spin in his brain was wrong. Objectively, he knew Ben was an asshole and his words were meant to hurt Charlie and that didn’t mean they meant anything. Objectively, he knew Nick loved him and that Nick would give a list of ways he found Charlie attractive if asked, and he knew that Nick enjoyed hugs generally, but especially with Charlie. Objectively—realistically—he knew he wouldn’t actually snap in half very easily.

Objectively, Charlie knew Ben’s words never really meant anything and Ben wasn’t in control of him.

But, maybe because Charlie’s brain didn’t care about being objective, or maybe because it was Ben, it didn’t matter what meager rationalisations he could come up with. He suddenly felt he had no control over himself, precisely because he’d made control the centre of everything.

It hadn’t actually gotten him anything he wanted, had it?

He could take control, and he would take up less space, and he would have less needs, and he wouldn’t feel as bad when he was being annoying and pathetic and undeserving. That was what he’d always thought. That was how it always felt.

But he had ended up, really, with even more needs. Taking up more spaces. Beyond annoying, pityingly pathetic, so far below undeserving. He was a fool, to think he was in charge of it. He’d made himself ugly, he’d made himself sickly, he’d made himself weak. That was what he’d done, with all his control.

It had been too much, waiting for the harm to come from somewhere else, and it was always better, once he took matters into his own hands, once he admitted it was the most he deserved, that his lack of strength in ignoring everything going in should of course result in a little pain getting it out.

It had been too much, holding all the ugliness on the inside. He’d meant to let it out.

He hadn’t meant for it to cover him instead.

That hadn’t been his choice, not really.

He’d never been in control.

And now he had even less strength than before.

This is what he managed to think through on the bus, which meant by the time he got home, he’d turned to thinking, I can change that. I can make a different choice. I’m in control of what I do.

He went straight to the kitchen when he got home, coat and shoes and bag abandoned in the hallway and mind racing and channeled and determined. He went for the cupboards.

It wasn’t time to eat, but he wasn’t looking for anything on his plan, anyway. He grabbed the bread, and set it on the counter, and stared at it.

Bread was filling. Bread was fattening. Bread didn’t have all that much of a flavour—he had a lot of choice in what he could put with it. Charlie had seen Nick wolf down slice after slice of bread, toasted or as a sandwich or both, in a matter of minutes, and it was both soft and sturdy, and so was Nick. And it wasn’t unhealthy. He would get some nutrients out of it, and it wasn’t greasy, or slimy, or overly chewy, or even that big, really. Toast, and sandwiches, and even soup paired with one mere slice had all filtered into his meal plans before. And this was brown bread, and that was healthier. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

But the thought of taking out a slice and doing anything with it, of biting into it, of it slipping down his throat and settling into his stomach, felt very, very far from right.

That was fine. It wasn’t the only option. He could find something else, something a little healthier, something he liked a little more, that still held some weight, that he didn’t really need to take much of. He could find a few things, and then figure out which was best.

He ended up emptying the cupboard, then moving to the next, then the next, until he had all his options lined out on the counters, vaguely organised by what seemed preferable, and what he’d get the most out of it.

Maybe he should check the fridge. Maybe having something to pair them with would help. Maybe he could find something light, but nutritious, something that was bulky but didn’t feel like it, that he could eat on its own. Something cool, and smooth, that would slip down easy.

Once most of the contents of the fridge were organised on the counter, he still hadn’t made up his mind.

He tried the freezer.

Then he realised he had everything organised by what seemed most beneficial and least undesirable, but it would be easier to decide if all those things were organised together rather than by cupboard, fridge, and freezer, and he made new stacks, and made those stacks into new bundles.

His hands were wet and chilly from holding damp and frozen packaging, and that was transferring onto cardboard boxes and plastic-sheet coverings and making them soggy and slippy, which was making his stomach churn, which was making even the least undesirable options still seem not-at-all desirable.

Like him, he supposed.

He stared at what he’d done and curled his arms around his stomach, and they curled too far, so he had to drop them and cover his mouth to swallow the sob-whine-gag building in him, and the touch against his lips made his skin prickle, so he had to grip his hair and press in and pull to get himself together, and all he could think about was each tip of his finger pressing a hard point into his skull, bone against bone.

Was that what Nick felt, every time he touched him?

Hugging a sack of ribs would be bad enough.

It made Charlie want to be sick.

But quickly taking over from the self-pity was the fear.

He’d basically emptied his kitchen. For nothing. Everything was out in the open, softening and heating and defrosting; being destroyed, for nothing. The thought of any of it in his stomach, laying and churning and rotting, was too much to even consider.

And he couldn’t remember where everything went.

He’d taken everything from everywhere. He’d kept moving them around. Everything that was now damp, and soggy, and softening, and defrosting, and rotting, and in the wrong place. How had it been organised? Where had the rest of his family, with their normal brains, had everything? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure he paid enough attention to know in the first place.

But Tori cooked. His parents cooked. His parents did the shopping. They would know.

They would come back—any time now—and they would see, and they would know. Charlie had no way of preventing it. He had no way of covering it. He had absolutely no control over what they would think or say or do about it.

He dragged his tightly clutched fists out to the ends of his hair, both so his hands were no longer in direct contact with his head and so the pull elicited a slight sting over his scalp. His hands shook. It bordered on too much. His pulse pounded. It was nowhere near enough.

The thing was, his family wouldn’t care so much, if it meant something. If it could be taken as progress. If he took everything, something that was softening or defrosting or rotting and saved it; if he ate something. If it meant he’d at least get some bulk around his bones, like he’d been planning to. Like he’d convinced himself he was going to, that there was a chance that he could.

It would be easier, he thought, to open up his skin and rearrange his flesh. It wasn’t the usual motivator, but it didn’t seem like too much of a stretch. It became all too tempting the more his hands shook and his scalp stung and his skin prickled, all of his body too sharp, too tight, too much.

How could he put everything back right, in time? Where did everything go? How much could he get wrong without really making anyone notice?

If he put everything back, it was further proof he’d failed without even trying. He’d made it this far—everything was set out, everything was organised, and in place, and ready. He’d done all the work to get this far. He couldn’t just put it back. He had to get rid of the evidence. He had to do it quickly.

His skin was too tight and he wanted it off.

Please, he thought. Please let me out.

“Charlie?”

The front door shut over the tail-end of Nick’s call, and Charlie made a strangled noise, and leaped for the door. He threw his weight against it—all the little there was of it, and it was too much, the door banging and the footsteps in the hall coming to a stop.

“Charlie?” Nick tried again. “You down here?”

The steps got closer, and Charlie swallowed another strangled sound, and snatched at the door handle as soon as it moved. “Don’t come in here,” he blurted.

He was holding onto the handle with all his strength, but he was wasting it—it had gone utterly still.

Nick’s voice was right there, now, but Charlie didn’t think that was what quietened it. “Charlie?”

Charlie held the handle tighter and stared at where the packet of bread was beginning to slip off the packets of ham and cheese.

“What are you doing, Char?” Nick asked, and Charlie felt pressure on the handle again. Nick’s voice was right there, and it sounded like it was coming to Charlie through a dozen dams and an ocean of water. But that might’ve just been the wobble in it. “Charlie, let me in.”

“Don’t,” Charlie gasped, automatic again. His hands were already starting to sweat and slip, and it intensified the buzz along the rest of his skin. It wouldn’t ease, no matter how much he shifted and shuffled and shivered it out of him. “It’s—I’m fine. Just don’t. Leave me a while.”

The handle jiggled in his hand. He pressed himself against the door as he felt it starting to press back.

Nick’s voice was even closer, and ragged. “No, Char. What are you doing? I’m not leaving. Can you let me in?”

Charlie shook his head—too sharp, too much—and it swam, and Nick couldn’t even see it. “Don’t,” he repeated, almost a sob.

“Charlie,” Nick said—stronger now, even with the wobble. Always strong, and steady, and more than enough, and never too much. Charlie’s hands slackened. “Charlie, please let me—I’m coming in, okay? I need you to open the door, because I’m coming in. I really don’t want to hurt you, but I have to come in, so I need you to open the door. Please, Charlie.”

Charlie couldn’t. Couldn’t open the door. Couldn’t ignore the crack that snuck through the wobble in Nick’s voice. Couldn’t ignore Nick. Couldn’t let anyone see. Couldn’t tell Nick no. The bread slid from its perch. It toppled the carefully organised stack to its right. Charlie let go of the door and buried his hands back in his hair. Nick opened the door and came in.

Charlie had already paced over to where the bread had fallen, had taken ham and biscuits and frozen pies with it and drawn something like a low, long whine from his throat. By the time Nick was in the room, he was backing against the island and beginning a slow slide to the floor.

He could do nothing but watch Nick watch. He saw as Nick’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, as he looked over the mess Charlie had made, and the mess that Charlie himself was. As his face screwed back up into something frantic and fearful and his steps never faltered. “God, what have you done?” he asked, making it to Charlie as Charlie made it to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, no more than a panicked breath. Then, understanding, “I didn’t.”

He wasn’t sure Nick heard him. “Jesus, Charlie, you can’t do that,” Nick said, and he wasn’t angry. Charlie knew he wasn’t angry, that the most Nick ever got towards being angry with him were the occasional tired or hurt twists of frustration. It wasn’t anger that made Nick’s voice wobble and crack as he crouched down in front of Charlie, because Nick wasn’t angry, he was terrified. And that was worse. “Charlie, God, let me see.”

Charlie rapidly shook his head and brandished his hands at Nick, empty and clean and unharmed, and repeated, “I didn’t, I didn’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t, I’m really sorry.”

Some of the terror slipped away in favour of softness, and then Nick was there. His hands touched Charlie’s cheeks, his fingertips trails of warmth at the edge of Charlie’s hair where moments before Charlie’s own touch had felt like ice, so coldly sharp that it caused physical pain.

“Hey, no s-word,” Nick chided—somewhat automatically, Charlie thought—as he let out a slow breath. “It’s okay, we’re okay. I didn’t mean to panic you. I’m sorry, it’s okay.”

Charlie released his hair and leaned his face into Nick’s hands, letting his own grip at the air instead. His breath came quick and rattling, but as Nick shushed him, some of the din in his head quietened. “I didn’t,” Charlie repeated, unable, apparently, to say anything else. In a whisper, he added, “I want to.”

Nick’s face shuttered again, and though Charlie was expecting it, he hated himself for it. But Nick only took another slow breath, and briefly gripped Charlie’s cheeks harder. Charlie finally settled his hands on Nick’s biceps as his eyes watered, and Nick took the invitation and wrapped him up in a tight hold.

“Did something happen?” Nick asked softly, voice muffled from where his mouth was pressed to Charlie’s hair and Charlie’s ear was pressed to Nick’s chest. Charlie clutched him more tightly, and felt him sigh after a moment’s silence. “You’re safe, Char. I’ve got you now.”

Charlie swallowed the sob building in him. Lingering panic still prickled all over. His body buzzed with the familiar sensation of wrongness. Part of him wanted to peel himself out of Nick’s arms and shove him away. To hide, to finish what he’d been doing, to continue tearing himself apart, piece by piece. He shoved that away instead.

It was weak. But he didn’t have to be strong. He didn’t have to fight, because he was safe, and he could fall down, because Nick would hold him up.

Because Nick was strong. Because he was healthy, and normal.

“I can’t remember where they go,” Charlie said, his voice cracking this time. “I can’t put them back properly.”

A brief pause, then an, “Oh.” Charlie felt a kiss pressed to the top of his head. “It’ll be okay.”

Suddenly, Charlie was glad it was Nick. It didn’t matter that an hour ago he’d turned tail to avoid seeing Nick, or that thirty minutes ago he would have done anything to prevent Nick from seeing him. It only mattered that it wasn’t worse. Charlie wasn’t sure what his mother would have said or done, if she’d been the one to find him in this state, and he honestly didn’t want to ponder on it—tried not to, lest it sent him into a new panic.

But he knew exactly what it was like to do that to Tori.

His annoying big sister, the only other person in the world who was never truly angry with him, the only person in the world whose love Charlie didn’t doubt for a second. Tori, who Charlie could never be angry with and who he loved unconditionally, who took all of Charlie’s pain atop her own and never once blamed him for it.

Tori, who Charlie had seen hurting just as much, and who he only ever managed to hurt more.

God, where was Oliver? How careless could Charlie still be?

“I need to fix it,” Charlie said, urgent now. “I don’t want them to—they can’t—“

Charlie broke off, and Nick held him tighter, and Charlie was so glad it was Nick.

“You don’t want them to know,” Nick finished for him. He sighed again, a breath in Charlie’s ear with their temples touching. Nick pressed against him a little harder, then rolled his head gently, so they were forehead to forehead. “I think it would be better if they did, but I won’t be the one to tell them. You need to call Geoff, though.”

Charlie’s stomach churned again, both with how frustrated and nervous the mere thought made him and with how unfailingly understanding and kind Nick was. So strong and still so soft.

What attracted him to Charlie, who was neither?

“I will,” he managed, in response to Nick’s gentle order. He couldn’t look at him, this close, but he could feel it when Nick nodded in response, and that was almost better.

“Alright,” Nick said, giving Charlie one more gentle squeeze before slowly shifting away and getting to his feet. “We need to get everything back in the freezer, first, then. Actually, we can do dinner as we go. What’s on your plan tonight, again?”

Now Charlie stared up at him. The buzz along his skin bordered on debilitating as it spread into his ears. Nick was understanding. Nick knew him better than anyone. He thought Nick understood. “Nick,” he choked. “It’s not—I can’t.”

Nick was already shaking his head, looking down at Charlie, still without a hint of anger or pity. “I’m not making you do anything, Char, promise. But it’s been helping, sticking to the plan. Right? So I’m just going to do that, okay?”

Nick was right. Charlie knew that. The plan had been helping. Even if he couldn’t always manage to go through with it, sticking to it held some element of comfort—some small sense of strength. It wouldn’t help to disrupt it.

But there was a pressure that came with it that Charlie couldn’t always handle. Now felt like one of those times.

“I can’t sit and do that,” he whispered. “That’ll upset them even more, and—”

“You don’t have to,” Nick promised. “We’re going to hang out in your room. And I’ll bring it up, and you can have some if you want to, or don’t. And you can tell me what‘s up, or not. Is that…does that sound manageable?”

Charlie caught on. He could see it, now, lingering on the outskirts of Nick’s puffed chest and soft smiles. His hands fidgeted at his sides, curling and fluttering and tapping, and his wide eyes remained worried where they gazed down at Charlie. Nick couldn’t fix this. They’d both always known that. Charlie had always known that this frustrated Nick more than him. Nick could only do—well, what he could.

Even if that was just sticking to the plan.

Charlie nodded, and the ringing in his ears receded as relief rounded Nick’s shoulders.

“Okay,” Nick said, with a bit more surety. “Then this stuff really needs to go back in the freezer, and you need to get chatting to Geoff.”

It could have felt pushy, and like too much of an order, but all Charlie could notice was how Nick didn’t touch any of his carefully arranged food until he’d picked himself up and left the room. It was a more generous compromise than he deserved.

Especially given he didn’t actually chat to Geoff. He pulled out his phone and planned to, but the more he thought about hitting the call button, the more his hands shook. He ended up tapping the message icon instead, which was a compromise he hoped Nick would be okay with.

Hi, Geoff. I wanted to know if I could maybe make an earlier appointment than planned?

This was better—kinder—than simply ringing his therapist out of the blue, anyway. The man had his own life, and while he told Charlie he could call him at any time if it was ever necessary, Charlie knew no one could be available twenty-four-seven. Surely, Nick would see the logic in this as well. There was a chance Geoff wouldn’t even reply to him this evening.

His phone buzzed in less than a minute, but that slim chance had existed.

Of course, Charlie. When were you thinking? I’m free for you to give me a call now if you feel it’s in any way urgent.

Charlie blew out a breath, shaking his head slightly. But that alone made him feel a little better.

No, that’s okay. Nick’s here now. It’s not that urgent.

Tomorrow, then? I have a slot right after you’d be finished up with school.

That works. Thank you.

Call me before then if you need to!

A small smile tweaked at Charlie’s lips as another breath escaped him, just as Nick nudged through the door with two plates in hand. He paused at the sight of Charlie with his phone still in hand, a tentative smile taking over his own face. “Did you talk to him?”

Charlie hesitated, and eventually just turned his phone around to show Nick. “I can’t ring, but, I’m going to see him tomorrow?”

Nick quickly read over the messages—softening, likely at the sight of his own name—and nodded his acceptance, though a small furrow formed in his brow. “Will you be okay until then? Is it…I mean, you don’t have to go to school tomorrow.”

“I should.” Charlie shook his head. “I will. It’s not that bad, honestly.”

Nick tucked one of the plates on a free spot on Charlie’s desk, where it became mostly unnoticeable. He settled onto Charlie’s bed with the other on his lap and a concerned, disbelieving look.

Charlie knew it would slip right off his face if he just sat down, picked one thing off the plate, and took a single bite.

He couldn’t, though.

So he sat down and curled his arms around one of Nick’s, and tucked his face against Nick’s shoulder. “I’ll have to tell my parents something, since I’ve moved my appointment.”

Nick relaxed minutely. “Yeah. Well, probably better. I wasn’t as lost as I could’ve been, but I’d say I still made a right mess of your kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He was jostled by Nick’s shrug. “Well, even I don’t want to eat defrosted chicken, so yes, I definitely did.”

Charlie picked his head up enough to see Nick smiling at him, and he couldn’t resist covering those lips with his own.

Something in him unraveled when Nick kissed him back. Something about the way Nick instinctively cupped Charlie’s cheek and parted his lips, and how he managed to set his plate safely aside without disconnecting from Charlie or opening his eyes. Something in the soft, hitched noise he made when Charlie wove a hand into his hair, and how he kissed Charlie a little more thoroughly in response.

Charlie responded in kind and then some. Even with his skin buzzing and his ears ringing and his stomach still tumbling, he kissed Nick hungrily. It was the only way he could ever describe it. This was sustenance his brain never fought against.

Then he was thinking sack of ribs and bone against bone and turn-on, and kissing Nick harder, and Nick was pulling back.

“Charlie, take a breath,” Nick said softly, cupping Charlie’s face in his hands.

Charlie’s heart fell. “You don’t want to kiss me.”

Stupid, stupid idiot. Can you honestly blame him?

Nick smiled, and it wasn’t sad or pitying. It was bright and bashful and unbearably fond, that heartstopping half-tilt which was accompanied by a faint blush. “I always want to kiss you,” he said simply; not a reassurance, but an admittance. He brushed back Charlie’s curls and proved his point by kissing Charlie’s forehead, his cheeks, and his lips, brief but lingering, and Charlie’s heart floated back into place. “But right now I want you to be okay more.”

His smile softened, and his thumb stroked over Charlie’s cheek, and Charlie hiccuped and hid himself in Nick’s chest. Nick adjusted instantly, wrapping his arms around Charlie and petting through his hair.

“I’d prefer to kiss you when you actually want to kiss me,” Nick added, tentatively. “Like, for real, I mean. And not for…not to…”

“I always want to kiss you,” Charlie answered, fast and forceful, because he suddenly realised. And he could not let Nick think anything like that. “I love kissing you, because I love you.”

Nick’s hand rubbed broadly down his back, big and warm and strong, and Charlie was caught between melting under the touch and curling away. “Yeah. Me too.” He kissed the top of Charlie’s head, and wrapped his arms around him fully again. “So much.”

Charlie’s shoulders hunched slightly. “You’re right, though. I shouldn’t be kissing you to make myself feel better. Even though it always does make me feel better.”

“Magic kisses,” Nick readily agreed, his chin ruffling Charlie’s hair as he nodded.

“And I really shouldn’t be when you don’t want to.”

Nick’s arms tightened, and Charlie squeezed his eyes shut. “I really always want to, Char. Like, probably more than is actually healthy. I just…don’t like not being sure it’s for the right reasons. The thought of doing anything like that to you…I just—well, sometimes a hug just feels better. Just like this.”

“But it can’t feel good. Hugging me,” Charlie whispered.

“What?” Nick sounded baffled, but Charlie couldn’t explain. He didn’t think he would have to, and wasn’t prepared. Eventually, Nick accepted the silence and answered for himself. “Charlie, hugging you is essentially my favourite thing to do. I would never stop hugging you for the rest of my life if that was in any way practical. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

“But…me,” Charlie tried. “Don’t I feel…isn’t it like…” He groaned in frustation, and tried starting from scratch. “Your hugs are the best thing ever because they’re big, and warm, and strong, but I’m just…I’m not any of those things. I don’t even know how this is comfortable, for you.”

There was a drawn-out pause, in which Charlie waited for Nick to say, Actually, you have a point, and let him go, but then Nick let out a punched-sounding breath. “Charlie. It’s not because—you think—your body—you think it’s uncomfortable to hug you?”

Charlie’s shoulders hunched a little higher, and Nick gave another of those breaths, and squeezed Charlie even tighter.

“I can promise you you’re completely wrong. That’s not how it works at all. You’re incredibly cud—cuddleable?—huggable. And we fit perfectly. Do you not think so?”

Of course, Charlie thought, instantly. Dreamily, all the time.

But what he said was, “It makes you sad, though.”

“What?”

Charlie wasn’t going to pretend Nick’s question was because he hadn’t heard the whispered concern. The utter bafflement had returned to Nick’s tone. Charlie was sure it was about to get worse, once he tried to explain. “You always hold me tighter midway through.”

“You think I don’t enjoy hugging you, because every time I do, I always hug you tighter?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Charlie said.

“I’m not!” Nick squeezed him again, and he truly didn’t sound like he was joking. “I promise I’m not. I’m trying to understand, but I think it’s you who needs to do that. I mean, just listen to what you’re saying, Char.”

Charlie insisted, “You know what I’m trying to say, though.”

“I think I do. I think your brain is doing that thing where it thinks itself in circles and tells you things that are wrong. Am I right?”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped, and Nick rubbed his back again.

“I thought so,” Nick murmured. “I know I can’t stop it, but I promise I won’t stop reminding you what’s true.”

“And what’s that?” Charlie prodded, sounding as small as he felt.

Nick was more prepared. “I love you, and I always want to kiss you because I fancy you more than I’ve ever fancied anybody, and hugging you is so inarguably my favourite thing that I would gladly never stop. And that all I want is for you to be healthy and safe and as happy as you can be, because I care about you and you deserve it, more than anything.”

Charlie’s eyes watered again, and automatically, in some awe, he answered, “So do you. I love you too.”

“Well, that works out then, ‘cause I’m never safer or happier than when I’m with you.”

If possible, Charlie’s awe expanded. “You feel safe with me?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, as if it was obvious. “Ever since I’ve known you. How do you think I realised I loved you so much? Everything’s so much easier with you than it is with anyone else.”

The tears in Charlie’s eyes spilled over. “Oh.”

Nick hummed, and pressed another kiss to the top of Charlie’s head, and gave Charlie another squeeze. Charlie tried to reconcile this information with what his brain had been telling him an hour prior. He knew that he was safe with Nick—no one, not even Tori, was as comfortable and easy for Charlie to simply be with as Nick. Nick had been there to take care of Charlie ever since they met; and Charlie knew he hadn’t made it easy. It would’ve been impossible for Charlie not to feel safe with him. To feel that Nick was steady and supportive and strong enough to make Charlie safe.

And Charlie knew that he would do absolutely anything for Nick. Regardless of his own state, he would try to take care of Nick in whatever way possible, any time it was needed. And he knew that he had been a comfort for Nick, more than once, for numerous different reasons. But it was also impossible to think Nick needed him as much as he needed Nick. That, with all his flaws and faults, he could incite those same feelings in response.

That he wasn’t just dragging Nick, who was too nice for his own good, along on his miserable ride.

“So you’re not—you don’t…hold back because it makes you sad or freaks you out or—or grosses you out and makes you feel like—like you’ll break me, or something—”

“Char,” Nick interrupted, sounding distraught. “Do I make you feel like that? Because that’s not what I think at all—you’re the strongest person I know, like, that’s why I admire you so much, and I really never thought I was treating you like—”

Charlie finally mustered the will to pull away and look up at Nick. He put his hand on Nick‘s chest, and felt grateful that Nick kept him in his hold. “You don’t. You’re right. It’s not…I guess, this isn’t really about you? But it made me think…I don’t know.”

Nick shook his head. “You don’t have to explain.” I’m used to it, Charlie expected him to add. But—of course—he didn’t. “Of course, I’d like you to, if you want, but I know it usually isn’t something you can really express, and that’s okay. You don’t owe me anything, and especially not reassurance, or anything like that. I just want to know how I can help. If there’s any way I can, that is. And I hope it isn’t—I hope I haven’t done something to trigger it. I honestly…I can’t tell you how sorry I am if I did.”

“No, you didn’t, I promise.” Charlie curled his hand in Nick’s shirt and looked down again. “Honestly, it wasn’t something I was even aware upset me until today—” Charlie’s mouth clicked shut.

But Nick’s brow had already furrowed into his concerned, listening face, and he was giving an encouraging nod and gently prodding, “What happened today?”

Charlie’s hand curled tighter. “Uhm.”

“Hey.” Nick sat up straighter, jostling Charlie where he was still perched in his lap. He kept one hand on the small of Charlie’s back and raised the other to cup Charlie’s cheek. “What happened? Did someone say something?”

“I…yeah. Well, not really? I…” Charlie blew out a breath. “I sort of, just, overhead Ben?”

Nick’s gaze darkened instantly. Charlie felt him tense, saw his jaw twitch, but Nick’s touch on him remained soft and careful. “What did he say?”

Charlie’s cheeks burned. “I really don’t want to repeat it,” he mumbled.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Then you’ll be in prison, and what will I do?” Charlie pointed out, feeling a little lighter in the face of Nick’s darkness—retaining their constant balance.

“You don’t think I’d get away with it?” Nick demanded.

Charlie released his shirt and reached up to squish his cheeks. “I think you’re much better than that to begin with.”

“And with much better kisses,” Nick said, through squished lips.

Charlie leaned in to kiss them and agreed, “So much better.”

“Magical?”

“Maybe.”

Nick made an outraged noise and dragged Charlie closer. There was a grin fighting its way onto his face. “That’s better,” he said softly. “Do you feel a little less stressed now?”

Charlie tucked his temple against Nick’s and catalogued himself. The distress was far from gone, but his skin didn’t feel so tight, his muscles weren’t so tense, and his stomach felt still. “Yeah,” he decided. “But, not enough that I can…”

“Yeah,” Nick said, kissing his cheek. “Okay. Is there anything else I can do?”

Charlie breathed, and said, “Hold me tighter?”

#heartstopper #osemanverse #heartstopper fic #charlie spring #nick nelson #ben hope #briefly i promise #nick x charlie #narlie #tw eating disorder #tw ed #tw ocd #tw self destructive thoughts #if anyone thinks i should add any other tags please lmk!#i’m very unsure how i feel about this and especially the ending but i hope i’ve handled it respectfully at least #prompts #my fics

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