#nick nelson

[istillwishforyouateleveneleven]

heartstopper is just the most important piece of media for me like the comfort is unparalleled

[belleandkurtbastian]

There's an alternate universe where Nick DOESN'T realise he's bi until quite a bit later... but still ends up falling in with a mostly-queer friend group during sixth form, and is your standard 'over-invested ally' trope.

Like, just generally, Nick is really good at reading the people he cares about. Some non-Charlie examples:

every Nick/Tara interaction

several Nick/Tao 'quiet' moments like the talk on the bed in Paris and the talk at prom in 2x08

the Nick/Elle moment in the Louvre

the scene in 3x03 where Isaac starts talking about aromantic fish and Nick picks up the subtext IMMEDIATELY

And he's the kind of person who once he's decided you're part of his inner circle, he will go to battle for you any day.

I think even if he hadn't met Charlie when he did, he would have found the strength to cut Harry and Ben out of his friend group in the near-ish future.

There's a realm where Nick's first interactions with people he knows are queer are when Tara and Darcy come out publicly and he feels drawn to them, to let them know he sees them and supports them. Or where he meets Michael before he meets Charlie, and clocks him. Or where he ends up sticking up for Charlie or James or Alfie when they're facing a hard time from other people.

I don't think there's a version of this where the person who starts this process for him is Isaac or Tori though, because I just don't think that someone being aro or ace is something that he would be able to clock before realising he's queer himself.

While I'm on the subject: I've had this loose idea of Nick as non-binary for several years now. I just think that Nick's entire story has a very strong tension between who he is as a person and what he thinks a 'man' is. It's a tension that is core to his character, and is reflected in his relationships with David and Stéphane and with rugby as a whole and his rugby friends.

I was going to explore this in a fic I never ended up finishing, about Nick's anxieties about having to come out as bi all over again at university bleeding into him having other realisations, but the canon stories have since moved on and I now think there's a world where this is a conversation he ends up having with Darcy.

[belleandkurtbastian]

Isaac: "What about the fish who don't fall in love with any gender? Do you think they're okay being alone?"

Nick: "I don't think they're on their own. They've got loads of friends."

I always forget just HOW quickly Nick replies here. Like, Isaac wasn't being particularly subtle, of course, but Nick picks up on what he means IMMEDIATELY.

[evaneedsalife]

We as a fandom need to talk more about Sarah Nelson and how much she must struggle with the conflict between Nick and David. Yes David says terrible things that she couldn’t disagree more with, but at the end of the day he is her son and she loves him even if she is disappointed in how he ended up. But she also knows she is hurting Nick by trying to keep some sort of relationship with David, because it means taking him in when he needs it despite how he berates Nick for his queerness and “softer” personality while he stays there. And not to mention Charlie, who Sarah absolutely sees as a son, and how David hurts him, both because of his comments directly to Charlie and because of how much it pains Charlie to see Nick distraught after almost all of their interactions. Once they are both out of the house it’s obviously far easier to keep her relationships with them separate, but I think she’ll always feel a bit guilty for still caring about David, even if that’s what a good parent does, because of how he hurts her other 2 sons.

[narliecaps]

[marleysechohauntsme]

Heartstopper / soulmate AU: The universe reveals your soulmate match in the weirdest ways possible. Nick Nelson suddenly channels his inner hyper-fixated Troy Bolton. The catch? His soulmate is deaf, meaning Nick is out here singing his heart out at Truham Grammar, and the boy he's destined for has absolutely no idea.

The Silent Symphony of Truham’s Troy Bolton

The Truham science corridor smelled like burnt copper from the chemistry labs and pure, unadulterated desperation. Nick Nelson was currently pinned against a row of dented green lockers, his face a vibrant, oxygen-deprived shade of magenta, aggressively belting out the chorus to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” He looked like a man who had survived entirely on energy drinks and panic since the previous Tuesday. Around him, a tight phalanx of Year 11 rugby players stood guard, looking equal parts deeply traumatised and ready to charge admission.

In this universe, soulmates were a statistical anomaly—a myth until your biology forcefully hijacked your vocal cords to prove otherwise. When you stepped within fifty metres of your match, your internal wiring completely short-circuited. For Nick, that meant turning into Truham Grammar’s very own, hyper-fixated Troy Bolton. He had been singing non-stop love songs for fourteen days, unable to control the urge until he officially acknowledged the bond with his soulmate. The glaring flaw in the cosmos’s grand design? His soulmate had absolutely no idea he was doing it.

Further down the hall, Charlie Spring navigated the crowded change-of-lesson traffic with practiced ease, his eyes locked firmly on a phone screen displaying a ridiculously complicated drum sheet music chart. He didn't look up when Nick hit a perfectly resonated high note that made a passing geography teacher drop his briefcase. He didn't notice the sea of school blazers parting down the middle like the Red Sea. Charlie was profoundly deaf. He had his hearing aids in, but the volume was turned all the way down to drown out the oppressive, chaotic din of teenage boys slamming locker doors. For the past fortnight, he’d noticed a strange, warm, vibrating thrum in his chest whenever he walked through of the halls of Truham, but he’d simply written it off as the school’s ancient, clanking central heating system acting up again.

As Charlie brushed past the edge of the crowd, Nick’s voice shifted gears instantly, pivoting smoothly from Frankie Valli into a deeply earnest, incredibly loud rendition of “Your Song” by Elton John. Tara Jones materialized through the fray, looking utterly exhausted, and thrust a bottle of room-temperature water into Nick's hand. Nick took a frantic gulp between lines, tears of sheer frustration pricking the corners of his eyes, and yelled-sang, "I don't know who it is! They must be taking a science GCSE! Every time I get near this block, my lungs just hijack my brain! I can't stop it!"

By Friday afternoon, Nick’s inner circle had officially reached their psychological limit. Christian, Otis, and Sai cornered the captain in the changing rooms right after period four. Christian announced they were staging a tactical intervention because Nick had sung 'All of Me' during their chemistry mock, and Mr Lange was threatening to give the entire rugby team isolation for deliberate psychological warfare. When Nick tried to defend himself but could only sing-song a Taylor Swift track in response, his own team physically hoisted the miserable, humming rugby captain by his armpits and dragged him out to the centre of the damp pitch. Tara, Darcy, and Elle stood at the perimeter gates with clipboards, ready to orchestrate a highly illegal, wildly chaotic soulmate census by marching every single student from the Year 10 and 11 blocks past him like a police lineup.

Charlie was enjoying a rare, blissful moment in the library when Elle practically ripped the book out of his hands, signing rapidly about the rugby team going completely mad and demanded he come witness the circus. Charlie sighed but smiled, grabbing his blazer and following her out into the cold afternoon air. In the absolute centre of the grass, Nick Nelson was currently shouting-singing “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran at the top of his lungs, looking entirely done with his own existence while a massive crowd of students cheered him on.

The exact millisecond Charlie’s trainers stepped off the concrete path and onto the grass, the universe shifted. The dull, familiar warmth in his chest exploded into a violent, magnetic pull that tugged right behind his ribs, physically lurching him forward. At that exact microsecond, the music stopped. Nick froze mid-lyric, his mouth hanging open in a comedic gasp. The sudden silence on the rugby field was so loud it made three separate people drop their phones.

"Wait, he stopped!" Otis yelled, his head instantly whipping around as he scanned the massive crowd. "Who is it? Where are they?" Christian and Sai began frantically spinning around, squinting at the dozens of students standing at the boundary gates, trying to figure out which random Year 10 or 11 block student had finally done the trick.

Darcy and Tara were frantically checking their surroundings, looking for the magical cure. But Nick wasn't looking at the crowd. He wasn't spinning around. His amber eyes were completely frozen, staring straight across the grass at the messy black curls and bright blue eyes of the boy who had just walked onto the perimeter.

Nick didn't care about his friends or the rules. He broke into a full, desperate sprint across the muddy grass straight toward Charlie, leaving Otis and the others staring in bewilderment as they finally tracked the direction of his run. Charlie, seeing a massive, broad-shouldered rugby captain hurtling toward him like a runaway freight train, panicked slightly and took a sharp step back, raising his hands in a defensive, bewildered gesture.

Nick skidded to a halt a foot away, chest heaving, tasting the miraculous, beautiful weight of absolute silence in his own throat for the first time in two weeks. "It's you, thank God," Nick breathed, his actual voice deep and raspy. "I was about to start ‘it's raining men’ and I don't think my hamstrings could take the choreography."

Charlie blinked, watching Nick's lips move but catching absolutely none of the words. He pointed to his own ear, then pointed at Nick's mouth, shaking his head with a small, apologetic grimace, before signing, 'I can’t hear you'

Nick went entirely still. He looked at Charlie's moving hands, then at the small flesh-coloured moulds in his ears, and then it hit him like a physical blow. Charlie hadn't heard a single note. The last fourteen days replayed in Nick’s mind in fast-forward—all those moments he had been pouring his actual soul out into the crowded corridors, looking like a total maniac, while Charlie had simply walked right past, completely oblivious to the fact that the universe was screaming his name.

Charlie looked at Nick’s mud-stained kit, then up at his flushed, desperate face. He tapped his hearing aid, switching it back on with a faint click.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, his voice quiet, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Did you say... It's Raining Men?"

A massive, incredibly soft, breathless smile broke across Nick’s face. He didn't know much sign language, but he remembered the absolute basics from a primary school inclusion week. Slowly, deliberately, Nick raised his hands. He brought his right hand to his lips, moved it outward, and then brought both hands together, interlocking his fingers tightly over his heart to sign Soulmate. Charlie’s breath hitched. The phantom ache in his chest instantly dissolved, replaced by a profound, overwhelming sense of safety. Charlie smiled, a bright, dimpled expression that made Nick's heart flutter—this time, entirely on its own—before raising his hands to sign back, 'Nice to finally meet you. Please tell me you weren't the one singing.'

---------------------------------------------------------------

The Truham home game against St. Johns was supposed to be a regular, completely un-musical rugby match. Now that Nick and Charlie were officially a couple, the universe’s forced soulmate karaoke had been completely deactivated. Nick had his normal voice back, Truham’s was finally peaceful, and the rugby team was no longer living in constant fear of Disney showtunes.

Or so they thought.

In the second half of the game, Truham was leading by five points. Nick had just completed a spectacular tackle, sending an opposing player into the mud, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. He took a massive breath, puffed out his chest, and began belting out “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley at the absolute top of his lungs.

The entire pitch froze in a collective wave of absolute horror. The referee actually blew his whistle early, dropping his hands in pure despair, looking like he wanted to walk off the field and retire on the spot.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" Otis yelled from the backline, throwing his hands in the air. "I thought he was cured! I thought the curse was broken! Why is he doing it again?!"

"Did they break up?!" Christian panicked, his voice cracking as he looked wildly between Nick and the sidelines. "Is the universe glitching?! Someone find Charlie, quick!"

The St. Johns players stood there in utter bewilderment as the Truham captain sprinted down the field, completely ignoring the ball, running a direct trajectory toward the spectator stands while singing a deeply resonant, highly dramatic vibrato note. Up in the bleachers, Tao slammed his hands over his face in secondhand embarrassment. "Why is your boyfriend like this? I thought the nightmare was over!" 

The crowd was muttering in absolute shock, thinking the psychological torment had returned. Everyone was in a state of total, unmitigated panic.

Except for Charlie.

Charlie was leaning comfortably against the metal barrier, his hearing aids completely turned down to block out the roaring, frantic crowd. His entire face was lit up with a massive, dimpled grin. He wasn't panicked at all; he was practically beaming.

A few days earlier, while hanging out in Nick's room, Charlie had mentioned something fascinating. Even though he couldn't hear the specific pitch or melody of Nick's voice he could always feel it. Whenever Nick sang near him, the low acoustic frequencies radiated through the air, and straight into Charlie's chest. He could literally feel the physical, rhythmic heartbeat of Nick's affection.

So, Nick had decided to weaponize it for a bit of mid-game flirting.

Instead of being trapped by a soulmate curse, Nick was using the music entirely on his own terms. He held the final note of the chorus, letting the deep bass of his voice vibrate powerfully against the metal stadium railings right where Charlie was standing.

Charlie just laughed, entirely ignoring the chaotic meltdown happening all around him. He could feel the deep, rhythmic hum of the music pulsing right through his sneakers, buzzing all the way up his spine like a warm hug. It was a secret language built entirely out of pure acoustics and absolute adoration, completely invisible to the panicked spectators.

He looked down at Nick, who was standing on the muddy grass, covered in dirt, looking up at him with pure, unadulterated devotion in his amber eyes. Charlie raised his hands above the barrier and signed quickly, 'Show off.'

Nick finished the song with a dramatic, entirely unnecessary bow, winked at his boyfriend, and then sprinted back onto the pitch to finally chase the ball—leaving a thoroughly confused referee, an incredibly relieved rugby team, and a stadium full of deeply stressed teenagers in his wake.

[heartstopgleek]

Letters in Harmony - Chapter 4

First Impressions

Summary: They have their pairings. Now they have to figure out how to introduce themselves. Are first impressions all that they are cracked up to be. How much of themselves will people reveal in their first letter?

Rating: General Audiences.

Read on A03 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/89181721/chapters/239653311

----

The first line took Charlie almost half an hour.Not because he didn’t know how to begin, but because every beginning seemed to reveal something about him. Dear Kurt felt too formal. Hi Kurt felt too casual. Hello from England sounded as though he were writing a postcard rather than introducing himself to someone who, until yesterday, had been nothing more than a name printed on a slip of paper.By the time he reached his third attempt, the evening light had begun to fade across his bedroom floor.His history textbook lay open beside him, abandoned after approximately six minutes of pretending to revise. The bin beneath his desk was slowly filling with discarded drafts, each one containing some variation of the same sentence before it had been crossed out in frustration.A knock sounded softly on his bedroom door.“You’re allowed to come in,” Charlie called.Nick stepped inside carrying two mugs of tea, his hair still slightly damp from showering after rugby practice. He took one look at the pile of crumpled paper covering the floor and smiled.“How many?”Charlie sighed dramatically.“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nick handed him a mug.

“I’m guessing these are your letter attempts? Surely it can’t be that hard?.”

“I’ve written three different openings and scraped all of them.”

Nick glanced at the blank page on the desk.

“You’re writing to a person, not applying for a job.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Is it?”

“You’d probably write one draft and be done.”

Nick looked genuinely offended but laughed it off.

“I would write at least two.”

Charlie laughed quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing a little.

Nick sat on the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment.

“You don’t have to tell him everything,” he said eventually. “He’s a stranger.”

“I know.”

“So just tell him something true.”

The words lingered in the room after Nick had spoken them.

Something true.

Charlie looked back down at the page.

That, at least, he could do.

The following afternoon, the English classroom had been transformed into an unofficial writing room.

Mr Ajayi had left the door open during lunch and told the exchange students they were welcome to work there if they wanted somewhere quieter than the canteen. Almost everyone had turned up.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, carrying with it the sounds of students talking outside on the field. The room was calmer than it usually was during lessons, filled with the scratch of pens across paper and the occasional rustle of envelopes.

Tao was staring suspiciously at his page as though it had personally offended him.

“I’ve been looking at this sentence for ten minutes,” he announced.

Elle didn’t look up from her own letter.

“You’ve also been drawing in the margin for ten minutes.”

“It’s called presentation.”

“It’s called procrastination.”

Across the room, Darcy had somehow acquired a set of coloured pens and was decorating the border of their letter with tiny stars, planets and what appeared to be a cat wearing sunglasses.

Tara looked over.

“You know they’re judging you on the writing, not the artwork.”

“They’re judging me on everything,” Darcy replied solemnly. “I’m giving them a complete experience.”

Sahar had headphones resting around her neck while she scribbled a list of songs onto a separate sheet of paper.

“I’m including a playlist,” she explained when Imogen glanced over.

“In a handwritten letter?”

“Exactly.”

Imogen smiled.

“I accidentally wrote two pages.”

“Accidentally?”

“I didn’t realise I’d written that much until I turned the paper over.”

Nearby, James was quietly folding a completed page while Isaac continued writing with remarkable concentration.

“How are you already finished?” James asked.

“I had ideas.”

“You always have ideas.”

Isaac looked up briefly.

“That’s true.”

Christian wandered over to Charlie’s desk carrying his own half-finished letter.

“I’ve somehow written about rugby, my little brother and the fact that British weather is a scam.”

Charlie smiled.

“That sounds like a good introduction.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

Christian looked relieved.

Harry was sitting by the window with his chair tilted back precariously, his letter untouched.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes,” Tao replied.

“It’s still true.”

“Have you actually started?”

Harry looked down at the blank page, sighed dramatically, and uncapped his pen.

“There. Happy?”

“Immensely.”

Charlie looked back at his own letter.

This time, the words came more easily.

Dear Kurt,

I’m Charlie. I live in a town called Kent in the southeast of England, which is less exciting than it sounds. I’m seventeen, I like books, music and running, and I’ve already rewritten this first paragraph three times, so I hope you don’t mind if I’m a little awkward.

He paused.

Then, almost without thinking, he continued.

By the time Mr Ajayi announced that lunch was nearly over, Charlie had filled two pages.

He read them through once, folded them carefully, and slid them into an envelope.

Kurt Hummel.

The name looked unexpectedly familiar in his own handwriting.

For the first time since the exchange programme had been announced, Charlie found himself genuinely looking forward to the reply.

Thursday afternoons at McKinley High were usually reserved for rehearsal.

Today, however, the choir room had been transformed into something quieter.

Instead of vocal warm-ups and choreography, New Directions had been given the period to write their first letters to their British pen pals. The usual energy of the room had softened into a thoughtful silence, interrupted only by the occasional laugh, the scrape of chairs across the floor, or the sound of someone asking for another sheet of paper.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of light across the piano and the rows of desks that had been rearranged into a loose circle. The room felt strangely different without music filling it, as though the absence of singing had made everyone a little more aware of themselves.

Kurt had come prepared.

Of course he had.

He had chosen cream stationery with a subtle blue border that he had been saving for an occasion that felt important enough to justify using it. Somehow, writing to a stranger in England seemed to qualify.

The page in front of him was still mostly blank.

He had written Charlie’s name several times before deciding that his handwriting looked too dramatic and starting again. The discarded attempts were lined up neatly beside him, which somehow felt even more embarrassing than if he had simply crumpled them up.

Blaine glanced over from the desk beside him.

“You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re overthinking.”

“There’s a difference.”

“There really isn’t.”

Kurt rested his chin on his hand, staring at the blank space beneath Dear Charlie.

“I don’t know how much of myself to put into a first letter.”

Blaine considered that for a moment before putting his own pen down.

“You’re writing to a person, Kurt. Not an audience.”

Kurt looked at him.

“I know.”

“So write the way you’d talk.”

“That’s a terrifying suggestion.”

Blaine laughed softly.

“You’ll be fine.”

For a few minutes they wrote in companionable silence, interrupted only by the faint scratching of pens across paper. Kurt noticed that Blaine seemed unusually focused, his handwriting steady and confident as it moved across the page.

“You’ve already written that much?” Kurt asked.

Blaine looked down at the letter.

“I think so.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“What are you writing about?”

Blaine hesitated, then smiled.

“Do you want me to read part of it?”

Kurt nodded.

Blaine cleared his throat with exaggerated seriousness.

“Dear Nick,”

He glanced up briefly before continuing.

“I’m Blaine, and I live in Lima, Ohio. I’m seventeen, I spend an unreasonable amount of time singing, and I’m writing this from my school choir room where everyone else is also trying to figure out how to introduce themselves to strangers.”

Kurt smiled despite himself.

“I don’t know what kind of person you are yet, but I hope you don’t mind that I’m probably going to ask a lot of questions. I’ve always liked finding out what makes people laugh, what music they listen to, and what places feel like home to them. If you ever come to Ohio, I can at least promise that someone here will make you sing at some point.”

Blaine lowered the letter.

“I haven’t finished it.”

Kurt looked at him for a moment.

“That’s… really good.”

“It’s honest.”

“That’s the part I’m struggling with.”

Blaine folded the page slightly between his fingers.

“I think maybe Nick and Charlie are probably just as nervous as we are . You don’t have to impress Charlie, it’s just a first letter.”

Kurt looked back down at his own blank page.

Maybe Blaine was right.

Maybe the point wasn’t to sound interesting.

Maybe the point was simply to sound real.

Around the room, the rest of New Directions had settled into their own rhythms.

Rachel was already halfway through a second sheet of paper.

Mercedes walked past and glanced down.

“How many pages?”

“Two.”

“Rachel.”

“What?”

“This is the first letter.”

“I’m simply being thorough.”

“You’re writing Imogen a novel.”

Rachel looked down at the page.

“…I can probably remove the paragraph about my preschool musical career.”

“That’s a great place to start.”

Santana was writing with surprising concentration, occasionally crossing out entire sentences before beginning again. Every few minutes she would pause, stare out of the window, then return to the page with renewed determination.

Brittany was drawing stars around the edge of her envelope.

“She likes stars,” Brittany explained.

“You don’t know that,” Santana said.

“I have a feeling.”

Sam was carefully copying the names of several songs onto a separate page.

“I’m making Sahar a playlist.”

“You’ve never met Sahar,” Finn pointed out.

“I’m getting ahead of the friendship.”

Artie was enthusiastically describing a film he thought Isaac might enjoy, while Tina was writing much more slowly, pausing every so often to look out of the choir room windows as though trying to imagine what Kent might look like.

At the back of the room, Quinn folded a completed letter and smoothed the envelope carefully with the palm of her hand. She had rewritten it twice before deciding that honesty sounded better than perfection.

Puck was still staring at a blank page.

“This is impossible.”

“It’s a letter,” Finn said.

“I know.”

“You literally just write.”

Puck looked at him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Eventually, even Puck began writing.

Kurt looked back at his own letter.

He stopped trying to sound impressive.

Instead, he wrote about Ohio in autumn, about his dad, about music and fashion and the strange comfort of the choir room after everything New Directions had been through. He admitted that he tended to overthink things and that he hoped Charlie wouldn’t mind if his handwriting became increasingly dramatic halfway through the letter.

When he finished, he realised something had changed.

The letter wasn’t perfect.

But it sounded like him.

He folded it carefully and slid it into the envelope before writing Charlie Spring across the front.

The name looked elegant in ink.

At the front of the room, Mr Schuester collected the envelopes one by one, stacking them carefully into a cardboard box that had somehow become surprisingly important.

By the end of the period, twelve letters from Ohio sat neatly together.

Across the Atlantic, twelve letters from Kent had been placed into another box.

Neither group of students knew what the other had written.

They didn’t know which jokes had been included, which confessions had almost been crossed out, or which small details would become the beginning of entirely unexpected friendships.

As evening settled over Ohio and the first stars appeared above Kent, two sets of letters began the same journey.

One from McKinley High.

One from Truham and Higgs.

And somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, twelve conversations quietly began.

[whovianpirate]

it's you!

despite everything, it's still you.