A/N: charlie's pov of his relapse in solitaire </3
(I know it's not exactly the same as the book, but I wanted to change a few things to add more to the story)
TW: self-harm, eating disorders
"Why are you dressed like Wednesday Addams?" Charlie asked as Tori trudged down the stairs. She was wearing a black dress and tights, which wasn't unusual for her, if it happened to be a Christmas day dinner party, but she had arranged her hair in neat braids, and her eyes were dark with eyeliner.
"Becky's 17th birthday party," Tori replied flatly, grabbing her bag and coat from the hook and pulling on her shoes.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "It's a costume party? It's the middle of winter."
"Well, I didn't decide to throw the party."
"Do you want me to come with you? I could ask Nick if we could go there instead."
Tori shook her head. "No, I'll be fine."
With no more words, she opened the door, stepped outside into the January cold, then closed it behind her.
Charlie sighed and went upstairs to his room to clean up before Nick arrived. He listened to Radiohead while waiting for the doorbell to ring. When it did, he knew who was behind the door and rushed downstairs to answer.
Nick scooped him up in his arms, hugging him tightly and spinning him around. "Hi," he said when he put him down.
"Hi." Charlie put a hand on Nick's cheek, then pressed his lips to his—their first kiss of the day. Nick's hands found its way to his side and snaked around his waist, drawing them closer together. When they pulled apart, they looked away, giggling and blushing.
Suddenly, a high-pitched voice came from the living room. "Nick!" It was Oliver. He ran to Nick and enveloped him in a hug.
"Oliver! How are you doing, buddy?"
"Fantastic!" Oliver left almost as fast as he came, disappearing back into the living room.
"Come on." Charlie grabbed his boyfriend's hand and pulled him up the stairs and into his room. They both flopped on to his bed.
"What's the plan for today?" Nick asked.
Charlie checked his phone for the time. It read 19:04. "We have awhile before I have to eat dinner, so we could spend it...." Charlie pretended to think for a few seconds. "Making out?"
"Ooooh, I don't know about that, Charlie," Nick said, sarcasm dripping in his voice and his face twisting up cutely. He pushed himself up so he could face him, and then placed an elbow on either side of his body, moving one leg over so he was straddling him.
He was so close to him that Charlie could see every individual freckle on his face, and he thought it was adorable. Nick's wide smile was also quite visible, and it made him smile, too.
"I mean, there are sooo many other things we could do. But because you asked, I guess I'll have to."
Charlie laughed, knowing full well that Nick would take any opportunity to make out with him. He grabbed Nick's face, pulling it down so their lips met.
___
45 minutes later, Charlie and Oliver were sitting at the kitchen table while Nick warmed up the lasagna. Charlie was aware of his leg bouncing, and he could feel his heart racing—but that was not out of the ordinary for mealtimes. He was glad that Oliver didn't understand what was wrong with him.
Nick came to the table with two plates, handing one out to each of them. He then returned to the island to grab the third—his own.
Oliver gobbled up his lasagna in five minutes, then raced upstairs to his room. Charlie and Nick said nothing until he was gone.
"Are you okay?" Nick asked finally, his voice hardly above a whisper.
Charlie nodded, still staring down at his plate. He didn't know what to say.
"Is something bothering you?"
He sighed, putting down his fork. "I don't know."
Nick said nothing, just continued eating his own lasagna, looking up at Charlie every few minutes. When he still didn't eat, he sighed once again. "Are you sure nothing is wrong?" he asked, his voice slightly agitated.
Charlie placed his fork down, still not moving his head. "Yeah, I'm sure. You really don't have to keep asking."
There was another awkward silence as Charlie continue to stare at his food, contemplating the pros and cons of eating it, watching the steam still rising.
"Charlie—"
"Nothing is wrong."
"Well, I can't help you if you won't talk to me." His voice rose above conversational volume.
Nick's tone caught Charlie off guard. Nick's narrowed eyes and pressed lips were foreign on his face. "I'm sorry. I just don't know what's wrong with me."
"WELL I DON'T KNOW EITHER, CHARLIE."
Charlie thought his voice was loud before, but he was wrong. "Why the fuck are you yelling at me?"
"BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT TO DO ANYMORE. I CAN'T HELP YOU IF I DON'T KNOW WHAT GOING ON WITH YOU." Nick seemed to flinch back a little from his own words, but it could've been Charlie's imagination.
"That's not my fault." Charlie tried hard to remain calm, but he knew his voice still sounded angry.
"WELL IT'S NOT MINE, SO WHOSE IS IT?"
That accusation hit Charlie like a ton of bricks. It was like all his insecurities were coming alive right in front of him, his nightmares becoming realities, his worst fears emerging.
Those were the words he never thought he would hear from Nick Nelson—his boyfriend, his best friend, his rock.
Charlie was so stunned he hardly heard Nick stand up and leave the kitchen, disappearing. When heard the familiar slam of the front door, he knew he was gone. At that moment, the tears flowed. He broke down, shakily pushing away his lasagna and sobbing into the cold, hard table, head in his hands.
"Charlie?" said a quiet voice. It was Oliver. He was dressed in Thomas the Train pajamas, and he had a teddy bear in his hands.
"Ollie, why aren't you in bed?" Charlie said as he swiftly wiped his tears.
"I heard yelling. Bad words."
He smiled sadly. "Yeah, but it's okay now. It's late. You need to get to bed."
"Why are you crying?"
"Nothing. I was just... thinking about sad movies."
"Like Dumbo?"
"Yeah, like Dumbo."
After a silence Ollie asked, "Can I watch an episode of Doctor Who before I go to bed?"
"Alright. But not the Weeping Angels episode."
"Okay." Oliver waddled back upstairs, oblivious—how Charlie wanted it to be.
Charlie felt the crushing feeling return—a dull emptiness. He cried again, and then he didn't. He checked his phone a hundred times, and each time there was nothing. After a while, he felt his feet carry him to the kitchen drawer, where all the cutlery was found. He took out a steak knife—the sharpest one there. He pushed a china cabinet in front of the door.
He whimpered as the blade sliced through his arm, replacing faded scars with fresh blood.
He knew it was wrong. He knew that this was the worst thing he could do in this moment, but he couldn't stop himself. Even when he finished, and there were at least a dozen cuts, it still wasn't enough. He rinsed off the knife in the sink, then placed it in the dishwasher. Then he looked down at his arm and saw the blood was dripping on the floor, so he grabbed tissues to wipe off the blood, then wiped the floor, and placed them in the garbage.
Suddenly, he felt a staggering urge that he had never experienced before. He looked around the kitchen, overwhelmed by all the cabinets and drawers and compartments. As if being controlled by someone else, he slowly opened all the doors, pulling out everything he could see. When all that was left was empty cupboards, and the fridge and freezer were barren, he started organizing everything.
He put the red cans and bottles and boxes on the island. The yellow on the floor. The blue by the window. After sorting everything by color, he began arranging them in their respective piles based on height and size.
He must have been doing it for an hour, because he heard the ending theme from Doctor Who, then loud footsteps coming downstairs.
"Charlie, can you tuck me in?" Oliver asked in his soft voice as he fiddled with the kitchen doorknob.
Charlie didn't know what to say. "Ollie, I'm sorry buddy, I can't right now. You'll have to tuck yourself in."
"Why's the door locked?"
His voice was so innocent-sounding... it almost made Charlie cry again.
"It's nothing Ollie. Please go to bed." Charlie felt his voice finally break, and he hated himself for it.
He heard him run away and let out a sigh of relief. He almost felt like he heard voices, but assumed he was imagining them. His trance overtook him again, and he continued with his feat, organizing and re-organizing, over and over, until his hands were cramping.
After another 15 minutes, sat back down at the kitchen table. He glanced around at all the piles of food, beautifully arranged, but it still made him sick. The blood started coming back on his forearm, so he grabbed more tissues to wipe it off. He sniffled again, and the tears continued to fall. At one point, he looked at himself in his phone camera, and he saw himself—pale and dead. His eyes were red and watery, and he had dark purple circles underneath them. He put his phone away instantly.
Then there was a loud knock, and Tori's voice sounded from the hallway. "Charlie?"
Charlie said nothing, knowing that she caught him. He saw the doorknob turn.
"Open the door Charles. I'm not joking. I'll break the door."
"No, you won't."
There's a loud sigh, and then a bang as Tori slammed her body on to the door, attempting to force through it.
"Don't come in!" he shouted, and his voice sounded broken. "Don't come in here! Please!"
In a panic, he started moving all his piles of food, putting as much back as he could before Tori pushed the door open enough to squeeze inside.
"No, go away! Leave me alone! Get out!"
Tori looked almost as dead as he did. Her eyeliner was smeared, her face turned pale, her hair tangled, and her clothes rumpled. She looked Charlie in the eyes, then looked around the room, her eyes wide.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said, falling back into his chair and throwing his head back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."
Tori just kept staring at the various piles across the kitchen, her face encapsulated in horror.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Where's Nick? Why is he not with you?"
Charlie's heart jolted, Nick's words playing back in his head. "We argued," he whispered.
"What?"
"We argued," he said, louder. "He left."
Tori's worried face twisted into anger. He shook her head back and forth, pacing around the room. "That bastard. That stupid bastard."
"Victoria, it was my fault," he started, but Tori wasn't listening, instead pulling out her phone and tapping on it forcefully. Then she put it to her ear.
"Do you understand the severity of what you've done, you absolute prick?"
Charlie knew immediately that she had called Nick. He could hear his faint voice from Tori's phone, but he couldn't make out what he was saying.
"If Oliver hadn't called me, Charlie might have—" Tori didn't finish her sentence.
Charlie burst into tears again, putting his head in his hands and sobbing.
"What the hell do you think has happened? He's fucking relapsed. You left Charlie during a mealtime. You can't do that. You can't do that. You can't leave him while he's eating, let alone upset him. Didn't you learn that last year?" There's a quick pause as Nick responded. "I trusted you. You were supposed to look after him, and now I've walked into the kitchen and he's—I shouldn't have gone out. I should've been here. We're—I'm the person who is supposed to be there when this happens."
Tori finally removed the phone from her ear, then dropped it to the ground, making a startling bang. She walked over to Charlie and hugged him.
"I'm so sorry," Charlie repeated.
"It's not your fault," Tori said, squeezing him tighter.
Charlie said nothing, just cried softly into her shoulder until the doorbell rang 10 minutes later.
Tori looked Charlie in the eyes for a second, then removed her arms and left the room to answer it.
The silence was deafening.
Two pairs of footsteps sounded against the floor until they were in the kitchen, too. When Charlie met Nick's eyes, they were teary, just like his. He was still wearing the same clothes—his signature blue hoodie and jeans. A hoodie Charlie had stolen a multitude of times and never returned until Nick stole it back.
Charlie didn't know what to do. He stood up and walked unsurely towards his boyfriend, avoiding his gaze until they were face to face.
"Hi," Nick said, his voice gentle.
"Hi."
"Can I hug you?"
He replied after a moment of thought. "Okay."
Nick wrapped his arms around Charlie, resting his chin on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Char. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay—"
"No, it isn't. I hurt you so bad, and I'll never forgive myself for that."
Nick was crying too, Charlie realized. "I'm sorry too. I should've talked to you, told you what I was feeling."
"No, it wasn't my business. I just... I just hope you can forgive me. You don't have to—"
"I forgive you, of course I do."
They pulled apart, but Charlie remained inside his embrace. They smiled softly at each other, then Nick looked away, taking in the surrounding scene.
Charlie felt his heart sink again as he saw confusion enter his boyfriend's face, then sadness. He looked away, instead focusing on Tori, who was standing awkwardly at the table, looking unsure.
"We need to clean this up," Tori said finally.
Charlie opened his mouth, about to say no, but he stopped himself, knowing it had to be done.
All three of them began the long process of returning the kitchen to its original state. It hurt Charlie to see all his beautiful work being put away, but he pushed the thoughts away and continued to help. After 30 minutes, the kitchen was back to normal, and there was no evidence that anything had happened, other than the untouched lasagna on the table.
"Char, your arm," Nick said abruptly, concern in his voice.
He looked down, and his cuts were bloody again, oozing down his arm.
Tori was gone in an instant, off to fetch the first aid kit, which was conveniently located under the sink. She grabbed a few plasters, and with the care of an angel, she cleaned his cuts, then bandaged them. "All better," she whispered.
"Thank you," Charlie said, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Tori smiled sadly, then grabbed the cold plate of lasagna from the table and placed it carefully in the sink. Then she made three rounds of beans on toast, and they sat back down at the kitchen table.
Charlie stared at the toast, the uneasy feeling returning to his stomach. He picked up the fork, picking up a small piece of toast, and bringing it to his lips.
He couldn't do it.
Then he sighed and placed it down, closing his eyes tightly.
"Charlie," Tori said, her voice sharp. She was doing what Geoff had told her—be brutal.
Charlie sighed, taking the fork in his hand again and shoving the food quickly into his mouth, ignoring the lump in his throat. He glared more at his plate and bounced his leg until Tori prompted him again, and he choked down more toast. After an hour, he'd eaten half the toast, enough to satisfy Tori. She took their plates and dumped them into the sink along with the lasagna.
"You should probably get home," Charlie said to Nick. "It's really late."
"No, I'm staying with you," Nick said, grabbing his hand.
"Okay."
Charlie found his phone in the kitchen and checked the time. 23:36. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth and pulled on his pajamas. He gave Nick some spare ones that were much too small for him, bringing a small smile to his sunken face. Tori helped him make a bed for Nick on the floor, but he didn't want to tell her that they'd probably both end up squeezing on to his bed.
When they were all ready, Charlie laid down in his bed, looking at Tori, who was standing at the doorway. "I'm sorry," he said, though he had said it enough times.
"I know," replied Tori. "But I'm going to have to tell Mum and Dad."
"I know."
"I'll come back and check on you in a bit."
"Okay." Charlie studied her for a moment, perched in the doorway. She looked like hell. "Are... you okay?"
"I'm completely fine." She turned off the lights in his room, then closed the door.
When Charlie looked back at Nick, he was already looking back at him. "Are you okay?" Nick asked.
"I think so."
"Do you want me to come up?"
"Yeah."
Nick pulled his blanket off of him and crawled into Charlie's covers. He moved himself so they were face to face, and it made Charlie blush.
They had slept in the same bed before on the Paris trip, but this time it was in his own bed—and it felt different.
"It's not super roomy in here... sorry," Charlie said, giggling.
"I like being close to you," Nick said.
"Well in that case..." Charlie moved even closer to Nick, wrapping an arm around his body. Nick responded by laying on his back and pulling him on top of him, wrapping one arm around him to rest on his back, and he moved the other to rest his arm. Charlie pulled the covers over them.
"I don't know if I'll ever get better," Charlie said, but he didn't cry.
"You will," Nick said, giving him a squeeze. "This is just a little slip-up. That I caused."
"You didn't—"
"I did. But I know you'll recover from it—you have before."
"Okay."
Charlie wasn't sure if he believed Nick, but he was grateful for his words. He shifted so their bodies were even closer together—if that was even possible.
"I love you," Nick said.
"I love you too."