Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Nicholas Nelson? Here for…” The man at the desk narrows his eyes at his clipboard. “Common assault?”

Bit harsh, Nick thinks. David deserved it. Unfortunately, the off-duty policeman who happened to be nursing a pint at the end of the bar hadn’t agreed. 

So, despite the fact that Nick’s fist had collided with his brother’s face before the slur finished leaving his lips – his mouth still poised in the ‘O’ before his tongue formed the ‘T’ – Nick has no choice but to nod remorsefully and accept the offered name-tag.

Fat lot of good coming out has done him so far.

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“It’s only six weeks of community service.” Charlie tucks his phone in the crook of his neck and bends down to tie his shoelace. Down the phone line, Tori sighs impatiently.

“Six more weeks than that prick’s car deserved.”

Allegedly, Charlie thinks bitterly. He’s grateful, at least, that there’s a court order banning him from going near Ben: it makes it less likely the prick will turn up of his own accord on Charlie’s doorstep.

Charlie tugs his hood over his head and grabs one of the paper cups of coffee on offer.

“Seriously, Tori, I’ll keep my head down.”

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There’s a bench, just outside of the front entrance, and Nick takes his insipid coffee there for some fresh air. Any hopes of a bit of solitude are dashed fairly instantly when he sees that someone is already sitting there.

He’s young, and clearly down on his luck. There’s a paper pot held in his hand and his clothes look a little sore for wear. Nick fishes around in his pocket for some change and flicks a coin into the man’s pot.

It makes a sloshing sound against whatever liquid is in the bottom of the cup.

“What the fuck?”

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Fucking idiot, Charlie thinks as he watches one of his fellow wrong'uns from across the room. They’ve all been gathered inside for some sort of introductory talk and the group’s resident genius has so far refused to make eye contact with anyone.

Charlie’s, honestly, a bit pissed at himself for thinking the guy was fit when he first wandered out of the building. That is, until he mistook Charlie for being homeless and ruined the decent coffee he bought on the way here. Now, he sips the bland freeze-dried stuff on offer and silently lists all the guy’s physical flaws.

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In the end, Charlie settles for only one: irritatingly crooked smile. He’d prefer a bigger list, but he’s got to work with what he’s been given.

Which is, annoyingly, an exceptionally pretty man. He has irritatingly broad shoulders, and infuriatingly adorable freckles. Add that to the aggravating way he seems to get on with everyone and Charlie is quickly running out of suitable synonyms. Fancying someone shouldn’t be this inconvenient. 

The other guy – Nick, according to his name-tag – glances over once or twice and quickly looks away. Two can play at that game, Charlie thinks, and turns his back completely.

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They’ve been given their instructions for the next six weeks: get this community centre up and running and ready for the council’s influx of old aged pensioners and youth groups. One of the more enthusiastic young council members apparently promised it approximately ten minutes before anyone realised the space was unusable.

There’s plenty to do, at least, and not a lot of time to do it. Should be no problem, all things considered, to be able to avoid the guy he pissed off within an hour of arriving, Nick thinks.

Shame, really, when he considers that he’s definitely Nick’s type.

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“You—” Nick stammers, looking down at the blue splatter on his new Vans. “You did that on purpose!”

Charlie shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, paintbrush cocked in hand. Nick watches as another thick, blue glob of paint drips down onto the floor.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Charlie says innocently, although Nick can see the evil glint in his eyes. “Besides, it’s not my fault you decided to wear brand new shoes to community service. You should dress like the rest of us.”

“Like I live on a park bench, you mean?” it’s a low blow, he’ll admit.

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Fucking—

Ugh!

Charlie dunks the brush into the paint can and storms off towards the water dispenser in the corner. Thankfully, Nick doesn’t follow him.

Who does he think he is, anyway?

Some ponce in branded sports clothes. Who turns up to community service in branded clothes? Twats, clearly.

If he’s honest, Charlie’s most annoyed that Tori talked him out of being that ponce. Tomorrow, he’s wearing his favourite ripped skinny jeans. He’s only dishevelled because he promised Tori he’d keep a low profile.

Still, Charlie gives his armpit a sniff, just in case.

Best stock up on deodorant tomorrow.

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“Excuse me.” 

Nick looks down. A woman from the group – slight and smelling faintly of cigarettes – has sidled up to him. She has a look on her face that tells Nick she wants something.

“Yes?”

“Could you introduce me to your friend, please? I’ve seen the two of you chatting and I think he’s really fit.”

Nick’s brain feels like it’s gone offline.

“My… friend?”

She nods and, to Nick’s mounting horror, points directly at Charlie.

“Yeah, the one with the curls. I’d ask for his number but, y’know, it’s awkward considering where we are.”

Nick blinks at her blankly.

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“Here.”

When Charlie looks up, Nick is hovering over him. He’s holding out a paper coffee cup from the refreshment table. Charlie takes it gingerly.

“Er… I…” Nick scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “I’ve been sent over to ask for your number.”

Okay, yeah, Charlie has been here before. Guys who don’t want to admit that they like guys acting all coy. He rolls his eyes.

And then—

“That girl, over there.” Nick’s pointing to a nervous-looking woman by the entrance. “She thinks you're fit, or something.”

“I’m gay, okay,” Charlie snaps. To his delight, Nick goes red.

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“Right, everyone!” The woman who’s loosely in charge claps her hands together. “We’ve had a great first day!”

Charlie looks around the room: one wall has been painted – badly – and there seems to somehow be more dust than when they started. Standards are low, it seems.

“We like to do something fun at the end of every day, just to keep spirits high! Today, we’re awarding Volunteer of the Day to the man whose smile has brightened all our days today!”

Oh, no.

“Nick! Come get your prize!”

Charlie glares as that prick stumbles over to receive his congratulatory chocolate.

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“What the fuck is that on your name tag?”

Nick glances down at his own chest, as if the sticker he popped there earlier might have somehow morphed into something offensive.

No, still the same.

“It’s a… smiley face?” he says slowly. Charlie narrows his eyes suspiciously. It's first thing in the morning and the coffee is even worse than usual, so. Nick decides to get a jab in. “Have you never seen a smile before?”

The words land – morphing across Charlie’s face as he realises what Nick’s said – before he goes bright red.

“Oh, fuck off,” he mutters finally.

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Turns out, the bumbling idiot can get a blow or two in. Charlie’s still reeling from the insult when, half an hour into the day, he notices Nick staring at his shoes.

“What?” he snaps, slapping the paintbrush against the wall angrily. A tiny splatter launches itself from the bristles and careens down onto his Converse.

Nick’s lips twitch into a smirk.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just didn’t expect you to be into weird vintage shoes.” The way he says it, it’s clearly not a welcome realisation.

“Well, as expected, you clearly have no taste.”

Nick grumbles as he slouches off.

Chapter Text

You have been added to ‘Community Compadres’!

Hey all, let’s brainstorm a social event!

Charlie squints at the screen. Worryingly, the people running the show have decided that what everyone needs is more time together.

A flood of messages starts pinging through: hellos and whatsups and, in one case, a slightly pretentious Konnichiwa that Charlie is fairly sure has come from the middle-aged bloke who always wears a Death Wish T-shirt.

Then, even worse, Nick’s name appears on the screen:

Hi all, looking forward to some downtime! Anyone up for bowling?

Charlie rolls his eyes and mutes the chat instantly.

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“Charlie, you're late.”

The woman at the desk says this as if it might be news to him; as if he hasn’t just run in the rain to try and get here after the bus was late.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He drips onto the table.

“This could go against you, you know.”

“I know.” 

He got the lecture when they assigned him to the community centre. Be on time. Turn up every day. The obvious.

He glares at the sign-in sheet. Of course Nick’s name is at the top.

Without hesitation, Charlie writes the word ‘prick’ after Nick’s name.

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“Er, hi,” Nick nudges the ground near Charlie’s foot with the toe of his shoe and watches as Charlie tries to school his face into something neutral before looking up.

The expression is replaced, instantly, with one that resembles distaste. Nick swallows heavily. 

“What do you want?”

“I, er… wanted to apologise. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

He watches as Charlie’s eyes drift down to Nick’s still-stained pair of Vans.

“You could say that.”

Nick scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

“Truce? Would be nice to get through this whole experience in one piece.”

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“So… you’re gay?”

Charlie glances up from where he’s been using something called a caulk gun and glares when he spots Nick hovering nearby. Things have been better, since his awkward apology yesterday, but it’s a hot day.

“Well remembered,” Charlie says sarcastically. “You in the market for a gay bestie? Whatever you’re picturing, I’m probably not it.”

“No, I—” Nick shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m bi. I just came out… recently, in fact. Just thought it would be nice to talk, I guess.”

He’s gone before Charlie can absorb the words enough to feel really fucking awful.

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“Okay, it’s my turn to say sorry.”

Nick has barely managed to stir the paint tin he’s been given before Charlie approaches, caulk gun in hand. He raises an eyebrow at Charlie’s guilty expression.

“Oh?”

Charlie shrugs – a bold gesture for an apology, Nick thinks. 

“I haven’t had the best track record with… guys who look like you. I’m sorry for assuming.”

Nick dumps his stirring stick back in the tin.

“You could say you jumped the gun?” He waggles his eyebrows at the caulk gun in Charlie’s hand.

“You’re not fucking funny, you know.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

Chapter Text

Charlie’s fairly sure he’s read this book – as he and Nick are sent to the far end of the community centre’s garden to dig holes. No one has particularly specified what the holes are for, just that they need to be dug.

Nick is, irritatingly, much quicker. He’s already made a dent in four before Charlie has managed to break the ground with his shovel. And now he’s thinking in fucking puns.

“Could you slow down and stop making me look bad, please?”

Nick swipes his forehead with the back of his hand – looking infuriatingly like ginger Mellors – and scoffs.

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It’s been a shitty few months, Nick can’t lie, but his current predicament almost makes it worthwhile. Nick clutches the tiny dog that has been handed to him while its elderly owner bends to tie her laces.

“…His paws are too delicate for this pavement, you know.”

The chihuahua wiggles in agreement.

“Oh, no, I understand. It’s no problem.”

He thinks, until he feels a warm dribble running down his arm.

“Here, Pooky, come to Mummy!”

Nick, bereft and sticky, hands the rambunctious parcel back to her.

“You can stop fucking laughing, Charlie,” he snaps when she’s rounded the corner.

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“Can you turn that shit down, please?”

Nick’s not sure from which orifice Charlie has produced the tiny speaker, but it’s been blurting a strange medley of pop-synth all morning. The heat is a little oppressive today, and Nick hasn’t got the patience for it.

Across the path they’re weeding, Charlie scoffs.

“Immerse yourself in the culture, Nick. God.”

It earns him an eye-roll back.

“Some of us have taste, you know.”

The volume is turned up – a smidge – after that. The music wafts across the path and seeps into Nick’s soul.

To his horror, he finds himself humming along.

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Charlie’s scraping at the weeds between the paving slabs – his trowel making a satisfying screech against the concrete – when he realises neither of them have spoken in a while. When he looks over at Nick, he’s expecting to see he’s put in AirPods. 

Instead, he’s bopping along to the music that Charlie turned on earlier, as if he hadn’t ever been complaining.

“I—”

Nick looks up at the sound of Charlie’s voice.

“What?” he says, his voice lacking in any of its usual snap. Charlie shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, as Nick turns back to the task at hand. 

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Once the path is de-weeded, their clipboard-wielding overlord directs them to the flowerbeds that line the edge of the garden. Most of the plants there have long succumbed to neglect and Nick picks up his secateurs in preparation.

Except… there’s something that has survived: a little flash of pink and green amongst the brown.

“Hey bud, how’s it growing?” he chirps as he toffs one of the young branches of the rose bush.

Behind him, he hears a splutter. When he looks round, Charlie’s face is red, like he’s holding his breath.

“Did you just… laugh at my bad pun?”

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Lunch is provided, as a treat. Nick shoves his wilting sandwiches back in his bag and heads to the greasy food van that has parked up outside. Probably for the best; he’s not sure he can handle another day of sweaty cheese and pickle.

Little cliques have already emerged, he’s noticed: groups who have flocked together by accident or design. They all smile at him, still.

“Come sit!” one of the middle-aged women calls. Then, when he’s close, whispers, “You don’t have to eat with the mean one, too.”

Nick frowns.

“I’m okay, thanks.” They shift awkwardly. “Charlie’s not mean.”

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“Who takes seven minutes to pee?”

Nick glares as he returns to the tiny room that they’re spackling. Several of the holes in the walls look like they were made by someone ramming a pencil into the plasterboard.

“Who times someone while they’re in the toilet?”

“Someone who’s fed up with picking up the slack.”

Slamming the little palate knife into the tub of plaster does nothing to ease the frustration Nick feels and he groans quietly.

“I don’t say anything when you vanish for ages at lunchtime,” he snaps.

When he turns around, Charlie’s lips are a thin line.

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“So, can I ask why you’re here?”

Nick risks the question when they’ve been sitting in vaguely companionable silence for at least an hour. Charlie has been sorting through a box of old receipts and invoices – discarding an increasingly large pile that are over seven years old – while Nick scrubs at the stains in one of the carpets.

As soon as he asks, Charlie pauses awkwardly.

“I-I keyed my ex’s car… allegedly.”

Nick raises an eyebrow.

“Is it allegedly if you got caught?”

Charlie’s lips move silently.

“Is it too late to plead not guilty?”

“You’re such a fucking cliché.”

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The floor is filthy. By the time Charlie’s finished going through all the boxes that were left in an alcove beneath an old stage in the big hall, his hands feel like they’ll never be clean again. In fact, his entire body feels like it needs a once-over with a Brillo pad.

Nick hauls himself upright – knees creaking from being sat cross-legged for so long – and pats down the front of his jeans before rummaging in his pocket.

“Here,” he says kindly, holding out a bottle of hand sanitiser. “Help yourself.”

Distressingly, Charlie feels a soft flutter in his chest.

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“You need to dig deeper.”

Nick frowns and slams his foot against the blade of the shovel.

“How deep do I need to go for fucking daffodil bulbs?” he snaps at Charlie.

“Why’re you moaning? I would’ve thought with those big strong arms this would be a piece of piss.”

“Yeah, well, this ground’s solid and it’s been hours.”

Behind them, an elderly woman who Charlie is fairly certain is here because she hit her neighbour around the head with a brolly, tsks gently.

“Oh, you two. My husband and I used to argue like that all of the time.”

Chapter Text

The heavens open just after lunch – conveniently about five minutes after the back door slams shut in the wind. It’s a fire door, with no outside handle, and Nick pries at it with his fingertips before he realises it’s useless.

When he turns, Charlie is standing there, damp and bedraggled; his curls flattened across his forehead. He’s wearing a jacket, but it’s flimsy and impractical.

There’s something about the way his lips are pouty and quivering that makes Nick’s stomach flip.

“Here,” Nick says, whipping his coat off and holding it up like a canopy above his head. “Get under.”