A Heartstopper Fanfic

Chapter 49: "Goodnight mum"

TW: Hint at suicidal ideation, flashback to Charlie when he was outed, and David Nelson 💩

Author's note: I believe that I've listed all of the possible triggers in this chapter, but if I've somehow missed one, please let me know! I don't want anyone to be affected negatively by anything that I write 💕

(Charlie's POV)

"Mum."

"Nicky, baby."

From the doorway, I watch as Nick allowed himself to be wrapped in Sarah's arms. It's a sweet sight.

Their relationship is so sweet.

When she begins to affectionately rub his back, shushing him as she does so, that's when he caves, and allows himself to completely unwind. Nick had held it all in for too long, and I knew that the only person who could help him to let it out would be his mother. His rock.

Scooping up Harry, a still chubby and adorable pug, I vow to let the mother and son duo in front of me have a moment. And so I snuck into Nick's childhood room, giving them the room to make tea and then chat in the living room. Nellie followed close behind me, perhaps she read my mind and agreed with my thinking. That, or she's in tune with my emotions as well.

(Flashback, third person POV)

"Does everyone know?"

When Charlie Spring was younger, if he was asked "If you could pick any superpower, which one would you pick?" the young and naive boy would always stumble over his words, ready to list all of the options. He couldn't pick, he never could.

Well, now he can.

If he actually could, he'd choose invisibility without a second thought.

"I wish that I could disappear." He now says to himself late at night, insomnia keeping him awake like always. On those nights, the nights that his body would ache from commonly recurring mistreatment, Charlie Spring would give anything to disappear.

On second thought, he'd even dare to think about doing anything to disappear...

Charlie's body slid down the wall behind him, slumping once he hit the ground. Over time, the bathroom floor had proven to be cold, but oddly comforting. He was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of life. As his head hung low, arms pulling his knees in, he couldn't ration going to his next class. It would just be yet another forty minutes of torment.

How many more of those time increments could he possibly take?

Every time that he's in class, or walking in the hallways, all that he can focus on is the whispering and the giggling, and the aching need that he always has to dig his fingernails into his forearm, as he fights back the urge to storm out of the classroom.

A need that feels and sounds a lot like withdrawal.

But causing a scene would only make everything worse.

And it would bring even more unwanted attention to him.

Disappearing is the only option nowadays.

Crying was ruled out a few months into the cycle of constantly being berated with objects and cruel words.

Until Charlie became Truham's example of what happens if you're gay at a same-sex school, the word "cruel" hadn't been so piercing. Its definition hasn't been so felt. It was now a lived word.