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Charlie Spring had been staring at the same pair of socks for the past few minutes.
He was kneeling on the floor, in front of his sock drawer, which was still open, holding the same pair of socks in his hands. He got like this sometimes, not really passive, just lost in thought, in the noise of his head, where he just sat and existed and let his brain wander before something brought him back to reality.
That something being the eager slam of his bedroom door when his boyfriend of eight years came dashing into the room excitedly.
“They’re back together!” Nick cried, practically screaming. “I just saw it, Cynthia and Trevor, they’re back together!”
Charlie blinked, having barely registered what Nick was saying. “What?”
He looked over at Nick, who was still standing in the doorway, drenched in sweat. It was an early Tuesday morning, which meant that Nick had gone out for a run, hence his current fashion of sweaty, flushed skin and a soaked, baggy gym t-shirt that was somehow still tight-fitting. They had recently moved into their new apartment which was in the midst of a very downtown, pedestrian area, having sparked Nick’s newfound love of running.
Nick grabbed a towel from the bathroom and ran it through his hair before sitting down excitedly on the bed.
“Cynthia and Trevor are back together,” Nick said, as though it were breaking news. “I just saw it on my run.”
Cynthia was one of Nick and Charlie’s new neighbors, who lived a couple of blocks away and was a very nice lady, despite her boyfriend, Trevor, being a total ass. In the few months that they had lived here, Trevor had cheated on Cynthia (twice), fought with her in the grocery store very loudly (way more than twice), left, came back, broke up with her, et cetera, et cetera. This was all information Nick had gathered from various neighbors and from Cynthia herself, who would spill about Trevor at every neighborhood event.
Charlie put the socks down. “You saw them together?”
“No, but I saw Trevor’s car at Cynthia’s house,” Nick continued. “You know, the red honda? It was in her driveway. Like, in her driveway.”
"Okay?"
"No, like in her driveway," Nick said again, even though it made just as little sense the second time. "Like, not teetering over the curb, not half-in-half-out-half-assed kind of thing. It was pulled in. It was in her driveway. Like, in."
Charlie laughed. “And what?”
Nick sighed. “So they’re back together! I mean, duh!"
Charlie just stared at him blankly.
"Listen, if he was back to apologize, his car would have been on the street," Nick continued. "Okay, that's just etiquette. It's driveway etiquette. I mean, look, if anyone's gonna have the audacity, it'll be Trevor, but I feel like that's too much, even for him. But now they're back together, so he can park in her driveway again. I mean, I honestly thought she had moved on from Trevor! He cheated on her again ! But he’s back! I wonder why. I have to ask her next bingo night."
Charlie shook his head and laughed. “You’re such a gossip.”
“I am not!”
“Yesterday, you spent an entire hour telling me on why you thought your two coworkers were dating.”
Nick sighed dramatically. “Listen, there is way too much tension between Rosaline and Emily for them not to be hooking up. You should’ve seen it when they bumped into each other in the break room. Rosaline spilled her coffee. She was all like 'whoops! sorry!' and her cheeks were bright pink! I mean, Charlie, they were bright fucking pink. And then Emily, who was wearing a skirt⸺a skirt!⸺bent down to help her clean it up! And it was not like, a long skirt either, like it was short. I mean, it was cute! But, short. Really short. Like she was trying to impress someone at the office, someone like⸺oh!⸺Rosaline."
Nick looked really pleased with himself for a moment, before staring at Charlie, who was still on the floor.
“Why are you on the floor?”
Charlie stared at the sock drawer, which was still open in front of him, and the gray socks in his hands.
“I was looking for socks,” Charlie said.
Nick pointed to the gray socks in his hands. “Like those?”
Charlie held them up and pointed to the thin lines on silicon on the bottom, meant to give them grip on hard, cold floors.
Hospital floors.
He didn’t even know why he kept the damn socks, he hadn’t been to the hospital since he was a teenager, and the socks had since been shoved in his drawers, moved around for some reason like a weird souvenir of his teenage craziness. It wasn't something he wanted to carry around, really. He didn't need the socks to remember that feeling. That sick, sick feeling. It was nausea in a bathroom with nothing coming up, it was tunnel vision so dark he couldn't hear the words of anyone around him. It made him cold, even now, when he thought about it too hard.
“All my other socks are dirty,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Nick’s gaze softened. He reached in his own sock drawer and threw a clean pair to Charlie. He let his hands linger over Charlie, his fingers trailing behind in Charlie’s curls, scratching his head affectionately.
“Why don’t you throw those out?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You don’t need them anymore.”
He was right.
Charlie needed to stick to floors when he had been a constant flight risk. When he had been desperate to avoid his own mental illness that he kept running from it, when he was just a teenager with a brain he didn't understand that whispered sick strings of words right into his ear. He needed it when he kept fighting with his parents, and he was afraid of every plate in front of him, and he was reeling from a relationship with someone who didn't give two shits about him, or his needs. He needed it when he felt hopelessly, endlessly, lost.
He didn't need to stick to the floors that he cleaned himself. He lived in his own apartment now, with his boyfriend and love of his life, who was always down for innocent gossip and dramatic reenactments and botched kitchen disasters (Charlie refused to let Nick live down that one time he somehow undercooked pre-cooked chicken, if it was even possible). He didn't need to be afraid of his food that he cooked himself, with soft pop on the radio and Nick always nearby, hands on Charlie's hips and a loving smile over the shoulder. He didn't need to start his day in dreadful agony agony when he woke up warm, inches away from morning kisses and soft "good mornings."
His therapists, annoyingly, were right. It does get better.
Charlie had once thought that was utter bullshit.
Charlie threw the socks at the trash bin, but missed horribly, earning a laugh from Nick, who casually walked over and buried the socks in the bottom of the trash bin. Nick walked back over and gave Charlie a slow, tender kiss on the forehead.
“I love you,” Nick whispered. “And I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Is it just because you know I’m the only one who’ll listen to your gossip?” Charlie grinned.
Nick sighed longingly. “That, and your unmatched cooking skills.”
“Hey, you’re the one who messed up pre-cooked chicken! I mean, Nick, love, it was pre cooked!”
“Oh my god if you don’t shut up about that damn chicken⸺”
Charlie laughed.
“⸺it was one time! I’m improving!”
“Remember that one time you brought burned cookies to Carol’s christmas party?” Charlie continued, now giggling wildly.
“Oh my god ⸺”
“⸺and that one time you set off the smoke detector⸺”
“⸺okay that was you and you know it⸺”
“⸺and there was that time with the potatoes⸺”
“⸺ Charlie ⸺”
Charlie smiled and looked up at Nick, who was laughing infectiously despite the indignant look on his face. His hair was falling messily in his face, still covered with sweat, and he was looking at Charlie as though he were the best thing in the world, even though he had just been sitting on the floor, worrying so much about socks .
“I love you too,” Charlie said back, his voice now a whisper.
And he put on Nick’s normal socks. They were better than the shitty hospital socks anyway.
Nick reached over to kiss Charlie's head again. Because Charlie was better, too.