trash angels (as long as the wrong feels right)

by RichelleBrinkley

If Nick Kontellis was a shiny blue ribbon impeccably rosetted, Bradley Henshaw was the bar of cheap, mass-produced chocolate given out at the end as a consolation prize.

Title: trash angels (as long as the wrong feels right)

Author: RichelleBrinkley

Word Count: 8,348

Rating: T

AN: A huge, HUGE thank-you to my beloved TPI Spiral Squad, who remind me every day that we really are all trash angels, and in the end that's all that matters. I can't thank all of you enough for your support and words of encouragement over these past few months. Thank-you for your patience, thank-you for your tragic AUs, thank-you for making me more upset about Tom Moysten than I've ever been in my entire life. A special thanks to Tibby, you are an absolute angel for checking up on me constantly whilst I was writing this fic, believe me when I say it couldn't be done without you.

The wildly talented Amanda has made two fanmixes for Bradley/Nick, you can find them linked on my profile page.

Last of all, my sincerest apologies to Emily Rodda. I write this because I love your characters, even if it may be interpreted as the opposite.

Disclaimer: I do not own Raven Hill Mysteries. If I did it would be significantly more trashy.

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How it starts off is simple.

How it escalates, however, Nick Kontellis cannot describe as similarly.

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-Present day-

Bradley is laughing as Nick curses colourfully, shaking his sopping wet hair from his eyes. In the pouring rain, it has come free of its gelled confines and now sticks up in a messy disarray—which, somehow, Nick still manages to make look cool.

"Order for me, please," the dark-haired man mutters to him and Bradley grins, shrugging out of his jacket and helping his boyfriend out of his. He hangs them both on the coat rack by the door before making a beeline for the counter, fumbling for his wallet. His fingers brush against something else in his back pocket and he swallows hard—it is a box; a simple, square box, black velvet with a silver trim—and suddenly, Bradley is overcome with anxiety as the soft material brushes against his fingertips.

"One medium drip, please, and—" Bradley takes a deep breath, "—One quad ristretto, large, half-sweet, non-fat vanilla latte with a half inch of water, extra whip and a shot of Courvoisier. And a bagel. Thank you," he tells the barista with a strained smile, wiping his clammy palms on his pants and trying in vain to calm his breathing, which is suddenly coming short and shallow. From the corner of his eye, Bradley can see Nick sitting at their usual booth, vehemently trying to smooth down his dark hair. He bites back a chuckle as Nick struggles with and frowns hard at a particularly stubborn spike.

Collecting their order and giving the barista a nod of thanks, Bradley carefully navigates himself to the window booth Nick is sitting at. Their booth. The booth he'd been sitting at that fateful day one year ago when Nick Kontellis had strutted in and been given the wrong coffee order—and Bradley, his nose buried deep in the daily paper, had only noticed him because the arrogant bastard had sneered and threatened to sue the shop because they had run out of goddamn Courvoisier. Needless to say, the establishment had not been short on it since.

Bradley could have gone back to his newspaper. The front page that day had boasted a particularly interesting article of a convicted murderer's court trial.

He could have sunken deeper into his seat to avoid Nick spotting him. They might not have had seen each other for ten years at that point, but he and Nick had never had the best history. Bradley still remembers those bloody fistfights and that one cockroach-filled muffin with a shudder.

But there was something about Nick Kontellis that he could not ignore. Maybe it was the impeccably tailored suit, shiny complementary cufflinks and the subtle—but no doubt scrupulously picked out—silk tie. Maybe it was the fact that, even ten years onward, the guy was still wearing a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses and a smirk.

Whatever it was, something that day had made him raise a hand and call "Kontellis!" across the semi-crowded restaurant.

Quite frankly, that was the best decision of Bradley Henshaw's life.

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-Imperial Coffees, two years ago-

"Kontellis!"

Nick turns, venti coffee in hand (a single long shot half-caf hazelnut cappuccino with cinnamon on top, and free because of the fuss he had made about the missing Courvoisier), raises a single dark eyebrow, and slowly saunters over to where Bradley is sitting, his heart beginning to race because he is seeing Nick Kontellis for the first time in ten years, and boy did he look good.

"Whadayya know. It's you, Henshaw." Nick stares at him. At least, Bradley thinks he does. He can't quite tell what Nick's eyes are looking at from underneath those dark lenses.

"May I?" The handsome man gestures to the chair opposite him, and Bradley leaves perhaps slightly too long a pause before managing to stutter out a rather breathless, "Of course."

Nick sits down in what is perhaps the most graceful manner Bradley has ever seen any man manage to do so, and when his former dark-haired rival turns to him and leans in slightly, Bradley can smell his cologne—it is spicy and expensive and it makes Bradley's mouth water and his head spin.

He wishes Nick would take off his sunglasses. Bradley cannot help but feel incredibly small in his presence, not helped at all by the fact that he was dressed today in a rather wrinkled T-shirt, and jeans which were both faded and fraying at the hems. Bradley knows he is by no means unattractive—in fact, he has been told many times that he pulls the dishevelled look off well. But sitting here in this moment, looking even more so slovenly next to Nick—Nick in his perfectly pressed Armani suit and equally expensive Italian leather shoes—Bradley kind of wishes the earth would open up beneath him and swallow him whole; if Nick Kontellis was a shiny blue ribbon impeccably rosetted, he was the bar of cheap, mass-produced chocolate given out at the end as a consolation prize.

"How have you been, Henshaw?" Nick asks him placidly, his fingers gently drumming against the recycled paper of his coffee cup; Bradley has to force his gaze not to linger.

Instead, he clears his throat and tries to sound calm. Calm and collected, two things he was very much not feeling right now. "I've been good," he tells Nick, making to wave his hand dismissively. But to his surprise, the other man stops his gesture mid-way by curling those damned fingers around his wrist.

"You haven't. I can tell. I know lies when I hear them, Henshaw."

Slowly, Nick unclasps his fingers and instead reaches up to (finally) rid himself of his sunglasses. He folds the frames carefully and places them into an expensive leather case he pulls from his suit pocket, but Bradley doesn't notice this because he is too busy staring at those dark eyes suddenly revealed, boring into him, no longer hidden behind a tinted barrier. Nick Kontellis' gaze is as hypnotic as it is unfathomable.

Bradley shrugs, still trying his best to look dismissive. "Really, I've been fine," he insists, ignoring Nick's sceptical look. "In fact; I just got promoted at work last week. I'm the coach of the state rugby team," he explains when the other man raises an eyebrow.

Nick lets out a short bark of laughter. "After all these years, you're still bossing a team of dimwits around. I should've known."

Bradley grins good-naturedly. "Hey, my days of leading a bedraggled team of imbeciles to war against another equally incompetent team really taught me some valuable career skills," he jokes, relieved when Nick chuckles too. "Speaking of which, how are your bunch of crime-solving friends faring these days?" Bradley asks curiously, and Nick snorts derisively, taking his time to stir sugar into his ridiculously fancy coffee before answering. He adds exactly half a sachet of brown sugar and half a sachet of artificial sweetener into his fussy, hazelnut-half-cappuccino-whatever mess—Bradley almost rolls his eyes, but catches himself in time.

Finally, satisfied that his drink is perfect, Nick proceeds to lick the foam off the little wooden stick he'd used to stir in his stupid sugars (And Bradley almost has a fit. Surely Nick has to be doing this on purpose to drive him insane.) He then pops the plastic lid back on his coffee cup, takes a measured sip (Bradley has to tear his gaze away from the long column of Nick's throat) before, finally, turning his full attention to Bradley.

"My friends? Those idiots?" There is a slight sneer in Nick's voice, but even he cannot hide the unmistakable fondness in his eyes. "They're still the same despicable mess they were back in high school. Hell, maybe even more so now because they've gone and married each other off, believe it or not."

Bradley holds up a finger, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. "Let me guess... Zimmer III finally realised that feline companionship just wasn't cutting it, so he shacked up with the tunic-wearing brunette?"

Nick smirks, making Bradley's mouth go dry. "To put it indelicately."

"And Sunny... Is she with Moysten?" He tries to hide it, but there is no mistaking the thinly veiled contempt in his voice as Bradley sneers his old rival's name.

Nick shakes his head, grinning. "You'll never guess."

"Who, then?"

Nick takes a large gulp of his coffee, and Bradley snickers at the foam moustache left on the other man's upper lip. Nick just glares at him and wipes it off quickly with his serviette before continuing with his anecdote. "She's actually with Tiffany—Richelle's older sister," he clarifies when Bradley looks confused.

"No way."

"Really. It's true. Something about a game becoming—well, not a game anymore." Nick's dark eyes flash to his at the mention of the word 'game' and he grins devilishly. Bradley feels like hyperventilating on the spot.

He keeps going along his list. "Well, speaking of Richelle, who's she settled down with?"
'Don't say you've married her,' a voice inside his head chants, 'Please don't say you've married her. Let her be with Moysten or someone as equally ridiculous, just not—'

"Moysten," comes Nick's smug, drawling voice. "Of all the people she could have landed with that pretty blonde head of hers, she chose to fall in love with possibly the biggest idiot to walk this earth."

Bradley stares at the other man for a minute before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

"Moysten? That pretty blonde is with the bumbling clown that is Tom Moysten?"

Nick's lip curls. "They've been married for a year now," he says incredulously, as if he cannot quite believe it himself. Shaking his head, he takes another long draught of his coffee.

Bradley takes a deep breath.

"And what about you?" he asks off-handedly, trying his best to sound nonchalant. "Anyone special in the life of the great Nick Kontellis?"

Immediately, those impossibly dark eyes flash to his, and the other man seems to study him carefully as he swirls his remaining coffee around in its emblazoned paper cup.

"No," Nick says finally, and his voice is quieter, his gaze flickering downwards to the fake wood graining on the linoleum covering of their booth table. "I'm not tied down yet, I guess." Bradley tries very hard to ignore how his chest suddenly feels much lighter.

"I'll tell you what," he says suddenly, stealing Nick's napkin and patting down his own pockets to unearth a tiny pencil stub. Before he can lose his nerve, Bradley scribbles his phone number down messily on the slightly coffee-stained towelette. Then, the realisation of what he is doing hits him hard, and he gulps slightly as he clumsily thrusts the crumpled napkin towards Nick. "Call me. If you ever need anyone to—you know...hang with. If those friends of yours drive you insane and you want to talk to someone who isn't…well, one of them."

Nick raises a single, dark eyebrow, and Bradley feels his cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the expensive silver dials of Nick's by no doubt designer wristwatch. He is over an hour late to his coaching session with his team.

"I—I have to go. It was...nice seeing you again, Kontellis." Nick's gaze is still focused on the napkin with Bradley's hastily scribbled phone number.

"Uh, I'll just—" Bradley backs away slowly, inwardly cursing at himself for being such an idiot. Turning to hurry out of the coffee shop, Nick doesn't stop him, and when Bradley reaches the threshold and sneaks a glance back, the other man has put his sunglasses on again, and is leafing calmly through the pages of Bradley's abandoned newspaper.

Muttering under his breath, Bradley shuts the door of the coffee shop with a little more force than strictly necessary. The little bell chimes cheerfully, if rather maniacally at the force, and Bradley shakes his head, inhaling deeply in the crisp autumn air outside.

What on earth had he done?

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Nick doesn't call Bradley for months.

Three and a half, to be exact.

The crumpled serviette is tucked into a corner of his wallet, inconspicuous enough to be forgotten about, but not quite so inconspicuous that he might happen to throw it away by accident.

It is only on a freezing winter's night in mid-July that Nick finds himself completely and utterly alone, his friends all having made plans with their respective partners, and not a single sheet of paperwork to go through for his job.
To be brutally honest, Nick doesn't have a lot of close friends in his life. Certainly none closer than their little former crime-solving gang. Sure he has a few people he is friendly with at work—but on nights like these, his best friends Tom and Richelle having "borrowed" his credit card to fund a romantic night for themselves (oftentimes Nick will check his monthly credit card bill and shudder at some of the quite frankly wacky and definitely deliberate purchases made at stores with far-too-salacious names to be anything other than either Tom trying to rile him up, or other possibilities Nick doesn't even want to think about.) Nick finds himself in a rather painful solitude. It's a lonely life when you're single, arrogant and too proud to do anything about it.

Deciding to order takeout—a night spent curled in front of the television, watching a documentary about migration patterns of flying fish sounded good to him—almost, but not quite as good as spending it with his friends.

When the doorbell rings he hurries to answer it and tips the delivery boy generously, who hands him far too much Chinese food for one.

For the hundredth time, Nick notices the old napkin he'd folded meticulously and tucked into the corner of his wallet.

'Oh, what the hell,' he thinks.

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Bradley spends far, far too long staring in bewilderment at the phone in his hand even after Nick hangs up with an abrupt 'see you soon'.

Then, he spends far, far too long deciding what to wear.

What was one supposed to wear to see a former rival-turned-awkward-acquaintance for a casual meal at his house?

'To hell with it,' Bradley thinks, and settles on his faded jeans and a green hoodie. 'It's Nick. If the clothes don't do it, I'll find some other way irritate him sooner or later anyway.'

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Nick, Bradley soon finds out, lives in a luxurious apartment building tucked away at the very edge of the central city, and it is even more beautiful and horribly expensive than Bradley had ever imagined it to be. (Not that he had ever imagined it. Not once.) In fact, Bradley thinks, staring rather flabbergasted at the ten or so stories of white arches and pillars and poinsettias hanging from balconies—this had to be one of the most smug-looking buildings he had ever seen in his life—a blatant show of wealth and riches in the form of marble staircases and engraved door name plates. Bradley finds the one etched with 'Nicholas Kontellis' in pompous, curly copperplate script and pushes the little buzzer beside it.

"Nick?" he says a bit nervously, "It's me. Uh—Bradley. Henshaw? Bradley Henshaw, you kn—"

"Come on up," the voice at the other end says coolly. The apartment doors slide openly silently and Bradley finds his way to the elevator, punches the button for the seventh floor, and wrings his hands nervously as the elevator ascends.

Apartment 706H is at the very end of the landing corridor. Bradley tries in vain not to stare at the obvious decadence of the corridor, lit with crystal chandeliers and decorated with wildly-expensive looking artwork. Yet another reason to be nervous. Nick Kontellis is clearly a rich, over-indulgent brat. Although to be fair, it's no different to the way he was ten years ago.
Clearing his throat nervously, Bradley smooths down his hair and takes a deep breath; then he rings the Nick's doorbell, and rather than a loud buzz, it chimes melodically.

"Henshaw." The door swings open, and Bradley is momentarily taken aback by the appearance of the tall man standing behind it. So long had he been used to seeing Nick in tailored suits and dress shoes that the sight of him now, dressed simply in a thin woollen sweater and chinos makes him blink several times in uncomprehending surprise.

"Well, aren't you going to come in?" Nick drawls lazily, staring at him.

"Oh, of course," Bradley says, stepping over the threshold. "It's a...very nice place you've got here." What an understatement. Bradley gestures awkwardly to the fine furnishings of Nick's apartment; the space of which he is sure can fit his own home inside several times over. It is huge, monochromatic and, Bradley is surprised to discover, decorated with many large fish tanks lining the walls. They are filled with everything from ordinary goldfish to oriental koi, swimming silently through extravagant labyrinths of coral and reeds. He can't decide if it's calming or strangely ominous.

Nick sees him staring. "I like fish," he says, smiling at the large orange and white koi that is bumping its head against the glass, vacant eyes fixed on Bradley.

"You don't say," Bradley deadpans before he can stop himself. Nick stares at him again, as if disbelieving of his rudeness, but then the corners of his mouth twitch up in amusement. Bradley inwardly breathes a sigh of relief.

"Come on," Nick beckons, and he leads the two of them down the hallway to the last door on the left. It is the game room, housing a large billiards table and possibly every single gaming console created by man, as well as some which looked to have yet been released. At Nick's invitation, Bradley settles himself on a large beanbag in front of the TV. It is showing ESPN, and a football game which Bradley is actually very interested in, but he ignores it in favour of turning to Nick, who is sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside him.

"So, why did you invite me here tonight?" Bradley asks curiously, somewhat distracted by how Nick still manages to look cool sitting on the carpet like a young child.

Nick shrugs. "I was bored. And the delivery guy dropped off too much Chinese food for one."

"I guess that's good a reason as any." Bradley nods, taking the proffered dumplings before snuggling deeper into his beanbag and looking around for the TV remote. He finds it and turns the volume up on the game.

"So, who's your bet to win?"

Nick rolls his eyes as if the answer is obvious. "Collingwood. Duh."

"Not a chance. Swans have this one in the bag."

Nick turns to him then, a cocky smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "Wanna bet, Bradshaw?"

"More than anything, Kontellis."

At this admission, Nick's smirk turns into the biggest shit-eating grin Bradley has ever seen on the guy. He soon finds out why because Nick says immediately, almost as if he's thought this through before:

"The terms of the bet are: if Swans lose, you have to eat an entire batch of cockroach muffins."

"What? No, NO, not a chance in hell. I thought we were over this petty childishness, Kontellis."

Nick rolls his eyes, "You pulled a face at my fish when you thought I wasn't looking."

"Okay, fair point," Bradley concedes, "But I really don't want to eat cockroach muffins. One was more than enough."

Nick looks bored. "Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

Bradley grits his teeth. "Fine. But if Collingwood loses, then—" suddenly, he realises the only thing that would make him even consider wagering with the possibility of a mouthful of cockroaches. Bradley takes a deep breath. "—youhavetogoonadatewithme."

"Pardon?"

"I said," Bradley forces himself to look into Nick's eyes and portray a shaky semblance of confidence. "If my team wins, you have to go on a date.With me."

Nick's shit-eating grin has dropped completely. He regards Bradley with a cool, calculating stare.

Finally, he nods, and holds out a hand for Bradley to shake. Bradley takes it, his heart hammering in his chest.

"You're on, Henshaw," Nick says.

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Bradley wins the bet.

He doesn't think he's ever been more ecstatic about the outcome of a football game in his entire life.

"Friday, six o'clock," he tells Nick smugly, revelling in the man's sulky silence and withering glares. "I'll pick you up. Wear a tie."

"Don't I always?" Nick mutters grumpily, and Bradley pats him consolingly on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Kontellis. I'll try my best to make this the worst date you'll ever go on." Nick smacks him over the back of the head.

"Ow! Why'd you—"

Nick grabs two handfuls of the fabric of his hoodie, and before he knows it, they're face-to-face and Bradley is breathing far too hard and not enough at the same time. Nick's eyes bore into his, hard and dark and mocking.

"Listen here, Henshaw. If I'm gonna go on a date with you, then it's gonna be the best fucking date of my entire life, so you'd better not screw it up."

"Uh—" Bradley stutters, rather stunned, "W-What? How'd you manage to turn this on me?"

Nick chuckles darkly. "Years of practise. When you're a teenager and face-to-face with a murderous criminal, you have to outsmart them.

"You see," he says, pulling up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal a jagged scar at the crook of his right elbow, "When you're a kid, you can't defend yourself physically. Not when you have crims twice your size wanting to beat you to a pulp." Bradley swallows hard, suddenly aware that his fists are clenched so hard his knuckles are white and his body is shaking. Something about the idea of the young Nick Kontellis fighting to escape with his life strikes a nerve deep inside of him.

Nick shrugs. "You have to learn to outsmart them. Convince them that it's not you, it's someone else they should be angry at. Or, at least, confuse them long enough for you and your friends to enact a daring escape plan far too risky and it's a miracle when you make it out alive."

"...I'm sorry," Bradley says finally, instinctively reaching out to put a hand on Nick's back. "You shouldn't have had to go through all that."

Nick shrugs. "It's fine," he smiles half-heartedly. "Besides, I think near-death situations are what kept Teen Power Inc. together. Almost getting killed on a regular basis reminded us that we probably would care—just a little bit—if any of us were to be baked into muffins."

"Not cockroach muffins, I hope," Bradley jokes feebly.

Nick smirks all the same.

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The second time Bradley Henshaw finds himself standing outside of Nick Kontellis' apartment, he is far less shabbily dressed than the first and infinitely more nervous.

This time, he doesn't hesitate. He buzzes Nick's apartment, and Nick's surprisingly non-staticky voice over the intercom tells him that he will be down in a minute. Bradley spends those sixty seconds furiously pacing the pavement outside and debating for the millionth time whether or not he should've brought flowers.

Then Nick steps out into the cool night air, and Bradley's mind jams for a second because Nick Kontellis in a dinner suit really is a sight to behold.

The man blinks slowly at him. "Aren't we going to go?"

"Hnnngh... Yes, yes, let's get going."

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Bradley takes Nick to a seafood restaurant. He figures the fish will put him in a good mood. Sure enough, he's right.

Over their plates of grilled trout and zucchini salad, Nick surprises Bradley by shooting off question after question about Bradley's life, everything from his family to his hobbies, what his favourite colour was and who he thought would be in the footy grand final this year. What did he do after high school? Where was he planning to take his career? Did those cockroaches crunch when he bit into them?

Bradley answers the barrage of questions as best he can, wondering why on earth anyone as sophisticated as Nick Kontellis could possibly be so interested in such trivial details about someone as ordinary and mundane as himself. But Nick's interest is sincere, and he listens attentively and laughs in all the right places as Bradley recounts past anecdotes and makes jokes.

"I can't believe you'd bring up the cockroaches over dinner. Are you trying to put me off my food?"

"Please, Henshaw. I'd never be so callous as to do that." But he winks and Bradley rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

Dessert comes, a huge slice of fruitcake that Nick suggests they share—this makes Bradley blush slightly because sharing is such a coupley thingand sharing cream-topped sponge cake with Nick Kontellis is the last thing he'd ever imagined himself doing. Bradley gives himself a moment to revel in just how well this date is going.

Then, grinning at the man opposite him—who smiles crookedly back—Bradley grabs a spoon and digs in.

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"I gotta admit, you're a surprisingly pleasant date, Kontellis," Bradley confesses once their plates have been taken away and they sit sipping the last of their champagne. It is dark outside now, well past ten, but Bradley finds himself wishing that he could just stay in this restaurant forever, across from the enigmatic, dark-haired man who has piqued his interest more readily than anyone else he has ever known.

"You're not too bad yourself," Nick smirks, and his eyes give Bradley a quick once-over. Bradley feels his cheeks burn.

He feels like he should say more, should tell Nick just how much it means to him that he had agreed to this date. Apologise for their sordid past, explain how lost he had been when he was younger, how lost he felt he was still.

Bradley Henshaw is not an unhappy man by far—he has a steady job that he loves and a nice enough house in a not-too-shabby suburb. He looks good even when he's just rolled out of bed and hasn't showered for days—and his friends only pay him out most of the time for having eaten cockroaches, not all of the time.

And yet, sitting opposite who was possibly the most smug, charming, most-frequently-suit-wearing man on the planet, Bradley knows he has never felt quite as content as he does right now in this moment.

He wonders if Nick feels even a fraction the same.

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"Why did you want a date with me?" Nick can't help himself asking. He cuts Bradley off mid-anecdote, but the question has been on his mind all night and he feels like he is going to burst with the need to know the answer.

Bradley's smile falls a bit, and instead a frown creases his brow. Nick instantly feels bad.

Instead of answering his question, Bradley counters with one of his own. "Why did you agree?" he asks, and his voice is tight, defensive and—almost scared.

"I don't know," Nick says without thinking, "I didn't think I would lose."

"You know, if you didn't want to go out with me, you could've just said so," Bradley says acidly.

"I didn't want—" Nick stumbles over his words, mentally berating himself. Bradley is wringing his hands and his eyes are darting around the room. They focus on the exit behind him.

A second too late, Nick realises what is going to happen.

Bradley pushes back his chair and mutters, "I have to go." He pulls a few bills from his wallet and throws them onto the table.

Then, he leaves without another word.

Nick stares at the empty seat opposite him.

"God dammit," he curses and follows after his runaway date.

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Nick doesn't have to go far. In fact, Bradley is leaning against the side of his car, just across the street from the restaurant. Ignoring the crossing at the corner of the road, Nick walks straight through the late night traffic, earning him a few angry yells and honking of horns.

When he reaches him, Bradley silently opens the car door for him. Nick is confused.

"I thought you were mad at me."

"I am mad at you," Bradley says, and he sounds tired. Tired and sad. "But I realised you don't have a ride home. It's pretty late; you don't want to be out on these streets alone." The corner of Bradley's mouth twitches. "I don't think you'll want to dirty your suit fighting off potential hooligans. Come on," he jerks his head towards the car, "Let's get you home, Kontellis. Then you can be rid of me forever." Nick feels a sudden pang in his chest at his words.

Bradley is already opening the door to the driver's side, and for a moment, Nick considers getting into the car and letting Bradley drive him home without another word. For a second, he considers never seeing Bradley again after this entire ordeal. Nick has always been good with words; he's a smooth-talking, incredibly charming, successful man who looks good in a suit and rivals Richelle Brinkley in terms of being persuasive.

He's had bad dates before. Charm aside, Nick knows his personality can rub some people the wrong way. Most people, actually. He doesn't like to think about it, but it's probably the reason he's the only one of his friends still alone and unmarried. It's the reason why he'd agreed to go out with Bradley in the first place.

Nick knows the look of a lonely person when he sees one. He knows that look as well as he knows his own reflection. It's because the two are synonymous.
He's had dates throw drinks at him, yell at him, storm out on him—hell, someone had even keyed his car once because he'd been such a dick to them. But never has a date walked out on him and then offered to drive him home because of concern for his own safety.

There is something about Bradley Henshaw that makes Nick Kontellis feel uncomfortable under his own skin.

It's the fact that the man sitting in the car right now is so different from the spiteful, bullying boy he'd once known. It's the fact that deep down, Nick realises they're more similar than he ever could have imagined—two lost souls, horribly proud and desperately lonely.

It's the feeling he gets, the swooping sensation in his stomach every time Bradley smiles at him.

It's the realisation that Bradley Henshaw is now, ten years onward, an infinitely better person than Nick could ever hope to be.

There's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he's about to lose all of this. Closing his eyes, Nick massages his temples and takes a deep breath through his nose. Then he walks around the car, opens Bradley's door and gently pulls the man from his seat and back out into the street.

"What?" Bradley is confused. "Don't you want a ride home?"

"I do," Nick reassures him, "But first thing's first.

"I'm sorry I said I those things about our date. I didn't think, and to be honest, I was too proud tell you the truth."

"Was?" Bradley prompts. Nick tries to smile, but the blood is rushing loudly in his ears, and he only manages a pained sort of grimace.

"I like you, Henshaw. More than I'd ever expected to like you, and more than I'd ever care to admit." Nick stares at the pavement beneath their feet the entire time he says this.

When his words are met with a full minute of silence, Nick swallows any remaining pride he'd had and looks up. Bradley is staring at him unabashedly, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide and liquid.

"Are you going to say anything?" Nick snaps, embarrassment and hurt making his voice harsh.
Finally, Bradley blinks and shakes his head slightly. He turns away and Nick feels his stomach twist. "Okay," Bradley says, but Nick can't see his expression.

"Okay? Is that all?" he demands.

"Yes," Bradley says, and when he turns around again, he is smiling tentatively and Nick swears he can feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest. "Okay," Bradley echoes.

"So...we're good?" Nick asks, a little confused.

Bradley takes a step towards him, until he is standing right in front of Nick. "More than good," he says. "Look up."

"What's up?"

"The stars."

And when Nick tilts his head upwards to look at the shimmering night sky, Bradley leans down and kisses him.

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"I'll drive you home," Bradley says after they break apart and both shuffle around awkwardly, avoiding all eye contact.

As Bradley turns up the radio and hums along rather tunelessly to seventies rock, Nick stares out the window and ponders the fact that Bradley Henshaw is now charmingly abrasive—as opposed to being just plain abrasive—and the man who sits beside him now is a mere shadow of the spiteful boy he'd once been. Gone are the hollow threats, the nasty smiles and the gang of cronies.

How easy it is to forgive him for the events that had transpired ten years ago. Looking back now, it seems like an age away when he and Tom had quarrelled with the Work Demons.

Nick wishes he could say the same about the death-defying adventures of the Teen Power gang. But, he figures, some things are meant to stay with you forever.

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It is almost midnight when Bradley finds himself standing underneath the stars yet again, this time outside Nick's opulent apartment building.

Usually, he would very much object to this. It is freezing, and instead of being out in the open and shivering uncontrollably, he would rather be inside, curled up on the couch or tucked up in bed with the TV playing softly in the background.

However, there is something very important he has to do.

As Nick rummages for his keycard, Bradley wraps his arms around his own shivering torso, trying to will himself to stop shaking. Clearing his throat, he waits until Nick has unlocked the apartment doors and stepped into the warm, empty lobby. It is only then that he turns to look back at him.

"Thanks for the date, Henshaw," Nick says. His words are polite, simple, and fiercely impersonal, but when Bradley looks at the man, his features half-shadowed from the muted, yellow light of the wall lamps, the corners of Nick's mouth curve upwards—just slightly—in a small, definitely cheeky smirk. That smirk says everything that his words do not.

Bradley finds himself smirking back. "You're welcome, Kontellis," is all he says.

Nick thumbs the button for the elevator, and the doors open immediately with a soft 'ding'. He steps inside, and Bradley realises he is missing the other man's company before the doors have even fully closed.

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A few days later he texts Nick, unable to help himself.

Any chance of a second date? —B

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Second dates turn into third dates, third dates turn into fourth dates, and before he knows it, Nick is being prodded on the arm by Richelle as she helps him pick out a present for his and Bradley's six month anniversary.

"Nick? Nick!" Richelle waves a hand in front of his face when he doesn't respond.

"Huh? What now, Rich?" he asks rather irritably, tearing his gaze away from a large fish tank on display in a shop window.

Richelle steps in front of him and crosses her arms. She fixes Nick with her 'you're-in-trouble' glare.

"Look, Nick," she narrows her eyes, "I know you're happy with Bradley and you don't want to mess it up. But you have got to tell the others about the two of you dating."

Nick sneers. "Like hell I'm gonna tell them. Can you imagine what Tom would say?"

"I'll talk him round," Richelle says dismissively, and shakes back her long, golden hair. It catches the afternoon light and a passer-by eyes her with interest. Nick glares poisonously at the man and he scuttles away meekly.

Richelle places a comforting hand on his arm. "I know it's hard for you. I can't imagine how you must be feeling, having to keep the person you love most in the world a secret from your friends. What?" she asks when Nick looks startled. "Don't tell me you haven't said 'I love you' to him yet? Oh, god," she rolls her eyes. "Nick, you're a disaster."

Nick straightens his tie and smooths down his hair in the reflection of the shop window. "A good-looking disaster, don't you think?" he purrs at his mirrored-self. Richelle hits him over the back of the head.

"I'm serious, Nick! I hate keeping your secret. Do you know how many times I've had to tell Tom the reason you're looking so happy nowadays is because they've recently discovered new species of sub-tropical angelfish?"

Nick wrinkles his nose. "No they haven't. I'd know if they did."

"Whatever. Tell the others, Nick. I know you think they'll take it badly, but really, what's the worst that could happen?"

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"YOU'RE DATING BRADLEY HENSHAW?" Tom roars.

"Calm down, Tom!" Nick snaps. "It's not a big deal."

"NOT A BIG—"

"Tom, sweetie," Richelle coos, batting her eyelashes at him. She hurriedly puts herself between her husband and Nick. "Think about it. If Nick's dating Bradley, then that means you've finally gotten the better of him. I mean, what self-respecting individual would ever go out with Bradley Henshaw?"

Nick rolls his eyes. "Gee, thanks Richelle." Trust her to change sides in the middle of conflict.

The pretty blonde merely shrugs and turns back to her husband.

"Thomas Moysten," she says sternly, and Tom stands up straight, looking rather frightened. She may look like an angel, but of their group of six Richelle is definitely the scariest when she is angry.

"Yes, ma'am?" Tom jokes, but he sounds sheepish; Richelle seems to have scared him into calming down. Behind her husband's back, Richelle winks at Nick, who just shakes his head disbelievingly. This girl is a master at manipulation.

"Tom, don't you want Nick to be happy?" Richelle asks. She is the face of logic as always.

"Well, not rea—ow! Yes, yes, I suppose."

Richelle smiles brightly. "And no matter what, as Nick's best friends, we should always support his decisions, shouldn't we?"

"Hah! As if—ow! God, woman, you are violent." Tom glares at his wife and rubs his side where Richelle had elbowed him. She stares him down, raising an eyebrow. Tom sighs. "Yes, yes, we will always support Nick's decisions, even if they are stupid and beat us up when we were fourteen."

"Good." Richelle smiles prettily at him and kisses him on the cheek. Tom grins and his eyes get that soft, revoltingly puppy-like look Nick's come to recognise only appears when Richelle's around.

Behind Tom's back, Richelle once again winks slyly at Nick, who, in turn, rolls his eyes at her again.

At that moment, his phone buzzes with a text from Bradley, and Richelle nods to him as Tom nuzzles her hair. 'Go get him', she mouths over Tom's shoulder. Blowing her a kiss, Nick smiles fondly at his two best friends before turning to leave. His phone buzzes a second time as he is getting into his car.

Tell him you love him! —R

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"We should probably do something a little more productive than lie around watching a movie," Nick mumbles, but he snuggles in closer to Bradley all the same.

Bradley rubs his eyes lazily. "Well, what do you wanna do?" Frowning, he wriggles away from Nick, who is draped almost on top of him on the couch. "You've gotta stop using so much gel in your hair. It's getting my cheek all sticky."

"Sorry," Nick yawns, not sounding sorry at all. Bradley sighs, but smiles all the same.

"Seriously, what should we do?"

"We could go to the aquarium."

"For the last time, Nick, I can only tolerate so much of your obsession with fish."

"Fine," Nick pouts. "Let's go shopping, then."

"I'm driving."

"No, you're not."

It's Bradley's turn to pout. "You never let me drive."

"That's because you drive like a maniac," Nick protests, "You floor the gas pedal like you're in a game of Grand Theft Auto and you're trying to outrun the cops."

Bradley looks offended. "To be fair, I never get caught," he points out sulkily.

Nick rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"Let me drive!"

"Not a chance in hell, Henshaw. I'm not risking my life for you."

"I hate you."

"Such kind words, Bradley. I hate you too."

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"Do you really?"

"Of course I do."

"Are you sure?"

"With the burning passion of a thousand suns."

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"You don't really hate me, do you?"

"Of course I do—don't. I don't. Don't look at me like that, Bradley, you know I don't hate you.

"Stop it. Stop looking like a hurt puppy.

"God darn it. You complete idiot...I love you to the moon and back."

Bradley smiles smugly. "Of course you do. Now let's go to the mall. I'm driving."

"I lied, I really do hate you."

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Six months into their relationship, Bradley buys an engagement ring whilst Nick is distracted in a sunglasses shop at their local mall.

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Eight months into their relationship, Bradley moves into Nick's apartment with him.

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A year into their relationship, Bradley takes to carrying the ring around with him in his pocket—just in case the perfect moment happened to arise.

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-Present day-

"Here you go." Bradley sets the two coffees down on the table and pushes one towards Nick, who is staring thoughtfully out of the window.

"What are you thinking about?" Bradley asks curiously.

Nick hums and takes a sip of his coffee before answering. "You know, it's been a year since we ran into each other. Right here, in this very coffee house." Bradley swears his ears are ringing, he's so nervous and on edge.

"H-Has it?" he stammers, and Nick frowns in concern at his shaky voice, but before he can question it, the little bell over the door jingles and the rest of Nick's gang of crime-solving friends file into the café. Nick waves at them, then goes back to trying to look cool.

Bradley looks around in panic. There is no way he can propose to Nick if all of his friends come over and start chatting up a storm about their cats and tunics and whatnot.

"Oh look, today's paper!" he babbles almost hysterically, pulling the copy from a nearby table and shoving it into Nick's hands. "Will you just look at that article!"

"What?" Nick sounds confused, but his eyes start skimming the front page.

Bradley looks frantically over to where Tom and the rest of them are ordering their coffees. He thanks the gods that Nick cannot see him with the newspaper effectively covering his head and blocking Bradley from his view.

"I'll be right back," he tells Nick, "I'm just going to get some napkins."

"Alright," Nick mumbles absentmindedly, apparently actually engrossed in the paper. Bradley shakes his head fondly before hurrying over to Nick's friends.

"Psst," he hisses, trying to keep his voice down. God knows the questions Nick would ask if he saw Bradley going over to talk to his friends.

Tom looks at him and hisses back. Bradley shakes his head in disbelief. Sometimes he wonders what goes on in that guy's head. He glares at him before turning to the others.

"Hey, guys, I'm about to do something important and I really need you not to mess it up."

"Are you going to break up with Nick?" Tom asks a little too excitedly. Richelle swats him on the arm. "Sorry."

"No," Bradley looks around furtively. Nick is still reading his newspaper. "I'm about to propose," he explains, pulling the ring box from his pocket. Nick's friends gasp in unison, and Bradley has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"I knew it! Richelle whisper-shouts, a glint in her eye. "Oh, Bradley, he's going to be so surprised."

"That's what I'm counting on," Bradley says tensely, and levels them all with a stern glare. "So can you guys back off for a bit so that I can get down on one knee and ask the man I love to marry me?"

Liz makes a strangled noise of joy. "Of course!" she claps her hands gleefully, "Oh, wait till we see the look on Nick's face!"

Richelle is smiling radiantly. "We'll keep out of your way, Bradley. Now, go propose to our friend." She hugs him quickly before waving him away. As Bradley makes his way back to his and Nick's booth, he can see Nick's friends sitting down at a table close to theirs. If he wasn't nervous before, the added pressure of them watching makes him almost vibrate with nerves.

Nick doesn't emerge from behind his newspaper when he hears Bradley return. "A ship spilled oil in the Philippines. Think of all the poor fish."

Bradley can't see his face, but he can hear the frown in Nick's voice. His heart swells with love for the man sitting across from him.

"Nick," he says softly.

"Hmm?"

"About what you were saying before..."

"Huh? Oh, about today being one year since—"

When Nick looks up from his newspaper, Bradley isn't sitting opposite him anymore.

"Bradley? Oh..!" Bradley can hear a high-pitched squeak in the background. To calm his nerves, he imagines it was Tom.

His hands are shaking, but Bradley slowly pulls the ring box from where he had hidden it in his back pocket. He is already down on one knee. "Nick, about what you were saying before. I know it's been a year since we ran into each other, here in this very coffee house. It's been the best year of my life, and I owe that all to you." From around them, Bradley can hear gasps and muffled whispers from the rest of the restaurant patrons. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Nick, who is doing a spectacular impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. If Bradley wasn't so nervous, he definitely would've laughed.

"Nick, I know we haven't had the best history, you and I. But ever since I saw you from across this room, one year ago, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. Being with you has made me happier than I have ever been for a long time.

"Nick Kontellis, I love you with all of my being and I want to love you for the rest of my days.

"Will you marry me?"

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Well, today is certainly an interesting day.

Nick doesn't know how long he stares, dumbfounded, at the ring in Bradley's hands. His mind is uncomprehending, his jaw is slack and his heart seems to have fallen right out of his chest.

He should probably answer Bradley. Judging from the way his boyfriend's hands are shaking and the look of utter devastation that is slowly but surely etching its way onto his features, it has been too long since Bradley popped the big question.

"Nick?" Bradley says softly, and his voice is so gentle, so loving, even though Nick has basically denied his request for marriage by not responding for an inordinate amount of time.

Nick hears the blood rushing in his ears. His throat is so tight that he almost cannot speak.

But from the bottom of his heart, he knows his answer is, and was always going to be—

"Yes."

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Bradley feels as though the world around him has exploded in a riot of cheering, whistling and clapping as he breathes the biggest sigh of relief in his entire life.

Catching Nick's eye again, he'd looked away momentarily—everyone had when Tom had broken the chair he'd been sitting on by jumping up and down on it—he tilts his head slightly in question, and this time, Nick nods and smiles at him.

Feeling as though he is the happiest man on earth, Bradley slips the ring onto Nick's finger, where they both admire it for a second.

Then, Bradley pulls Nick up out of his seat, wraps his arms around his new fiancé's waist, and kisses him hard, to the sounds of Tom's yells and Richelle's squeals.

"You're engaged, Nicky!" he hears Tom crow loudly and the idiot starts singing some kind of song. Pulling away from their kiss, Nick picks up the bagel he'd been eating and lobs it at Tom's head. Tom catches it in his mouth.

"Thanks, Nicky!" he yells.

"Anything to shut you up, Moysten," Nick yells back, but he's grinning and when he turns back to Bradley, his eyes are shining and Bradley knows he couldn't be happier. "We're gonna get married," he whispers, and stares up at the ceiling in wonder.

Nick wraps his arms around Bradley's neck.

"Look down," he says.

"What's down?" Bradley asks, grinning widely.

"The man you're going to marry."

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How it starts off is simple.

How it escalates, however, Nick Kontellis cannot describe as similarly.

But how in ends—well, that's simple too.

It ends with a two men, however lost, being found.

It ends with two enemies falling in love.

It ends with Nick Kontellis and Bradley Henshaw standing underneath the blanket of stars in the shimmering night sky.

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"Look up," Bradley will say.

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Nick looks up every time.

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AN: Congratulations, you made it to the end of the trashiest piece of fanfiction known to man.

Seriously though, thanks for reading, it means the world to me.

Much love,

RichelleBrinkley xx