Retrouvaille (Nick & Charlie)

02

02

It has been years,

and it still hurts

when I think of you.

(r. m. drake)

(7 years ago)

He hurt.

The pain he felt had been excruciating. Thick, black tears gushed from his weary eyes, carved a path down rosy cheeks, and dried up for good, hitting the soft bedspread held in his trembling fists. From the innermost depths of his soul, disappointment had torn loose, bringing with it pure agony. His frame was being shaken by waves of sorrow as he unleashed miserable sobs under the cover of darkness.

It had not been his physical body that had been aching, but his cracked heart.

It felt heavy and wrong, bleeding out with no way to stop it.

Nick. Like mantra he had mumbled the name over and over to himself as he had lain in bed, red cheeks, and wet eyes, mourning the loss of his best friend. He hadn't died and yet Charlie wasn't sure it was any different.

His mother had simply packed Nick up along with his dog and moved all the way closer to his dad and older brother in damn America. The warning had been ridiculously last minute. The reason given was to make the farewell as short and painless as possible. Bullshit. Only two weeks before the flight, they had announced it to Nick and Charlie, leaving them in shambles.

Holding each other with hysterical tears straining their faces, the two had spent their last days together. Dreading that one day, where everything would change. In whispering, cracked voices, they had vowed to keep in touch, to come visit no matter what. Their friendship would persevere.

But keeping in touch had been harder than they expected.

Nick didn't own a phone, had no social media, or any online presence. It had been a stupid rule made by his father to "protect him". Charlie had always wondered why he didn't make some in secret, but he'd always gotten the response, he didn't need to, because the only person Nick did want to text with was Charlie and he did in fact see him every day. He preferred to talk to people face-to-face. What an old soul. Charlie had always made fun of him for it, although he secretly thought it was admirable.

So, with great effort and time, they had sent letters to each, just like in old times. With a cheeky grin grazing his lips, Nick had called it more 'personal' and 'romantic'. Charlie had blushed, called him an 'idiot' but nevertheless agreed to keeping in contact that way. A special thing to keep their friendship interesting.

He had smiled at Nick's scrawly handwriting, tracing his fingers over the crooked little blue hearts Nick always would draw next to his name. Pages and Pages of stories they'd written to each other. The latest school events, the hottest gossip. It had been unusual, different, and a little odd not to hear his best friend's voice but to only read his smudged, carefully written words. And with every letter he got each week, Charlie had been hopeful, it would be alright. They would be okay.

And then it stopped.

Days, weeks, months came and went. Each morning the glimmer of hope in his eyes had shrunk a little bit more as he walked to the mailbox, only to find it empty. The same disappointment over and over. Between one week to the next Nick had fallen silent.

He had written one, two, three more letters asking for any sign of like, any reaction, any response, or explanation. But he was only ever met with mocking silence. As if Nick had suddenly decided to be bored of him, to give up on him. As if he had forgotten Charlie.