the broken window and the pretty blue sky

[hearnospeakno]

This is a medical emergency. I need alcohol. I will pay you back.

This is what you may find held up to you on Nick Andros' palm, if you seem like the kind of person who might buy a guy a beer on credit. If you're not, or he just hasn't gotten around to you yet, Nick is the skinny guy hassling people in the Smoking Room.

It's been one of those days.

Nick doesn't like this. He's paid his own way for years, and he's been buying his own drinks since he was first able to bluff his way into a bar. But he's not going to steal, and he hasn't carried cash since--he doesn't even remember when he stopped thinking about having money in his pocket. It's been a while.

If this is whatever comes next, Nick has some pointed questions to ask whoever runs the place about why he gets a room free, but not a drink. (Nick's experience with hotels doesn't extend to the kind with minibars, so he didn't think about going up there first. He's honestly not thinking much.)

He's not begging. He's done that before, and it left a sharp, slippery taste in his mouth like sweaty pennies. Whatever is going on, wherever this is, Nick is asking for a loan, not a handout. It might be a stupid thing to be hanging onto, but under the circumstances--

Under the circumstances, Nick just wants a break. Five minutes to sit, drink a beer, and try to reconcile this bustling, beautiful place with what came before.

(He indulges in enough bitterness to think that isn't very fucking likely, but hey. He can dream.)

Comments

[digyourman]

There had been moment there, unsteady but comforting, where Larry had thought he might just be able to hold himself together despite the bald and ugly face they were two suddenly staring down. The center would hold, maybe, just this once, the denial of the past couple of weeks gone sluggish but still serviceable. It told him he was okay, that he was a Zen fucking master, and that the reunion in the bar notwithstanding, he could be something solid for somebody else for once in his miserable life.

The last thing Larry had ever wanted, though, was forgiveness from Nick Andros, regardless of where the fault actually fell.

He was weeping then, too, a desperate and interminable helplessness welling in his chest, pressing against his lungs and squeezing the feeble muscle of his heart, a physical pain that he wished came from anger so that he might have some hope of channeling it some way other than grasping onto Nick's thin shoulders and just fucking holding on for dear life.

[hearnospeakno]

Nick isn't quite sure how he ends up burying himself in Larry's shoulder (and what a turn of phrase; and he needs to stop, he needs to stop right now) and he doesn't care to know. It feels like safety, and like home, and all the parts of Boulder that let him become something more than he was when he walked into Shoyo.

No one is particularly strong in this room, Nick realizes, because they have a goddamn right not to be. He's all right with that, for the first time. He's all right with letting go, a little, just to know that they are not in this alone.

His age has always been a number, and just that. Nick has taken care of himself since his mother died, one way or another. It's not an uncomplicated thing, to let himself cry in sodden silence. But there has been so much time spent dry, years of it, and he feels every short year of his life now.

It doesn't last. It can't. These sorts of moments don't. What does happen is that Nick eventually lets go, pulling a sleeve over his hands to dry his eyes, and smiling in a wounded but indomitable way as he scratches: Missed me?

[digyourman]

A laugh erupted from Larry's throat, breathless and good, and he grabbed gracelessly for Nick again, pressed a sloppy but enthusiastic kiss to the messy hair over his temple. He couldn't remember if he'd ever hugged Nick before today, thought he must have at some point amongst all their tiny triumphs and little sorrows in that time working together, because the particular musky scent of him was nearly as familiar as the room they were sitting in. A wave of homesickness swelled up and got swallowed down again as Larry sat back, squeezing Nick on the back of the neck.

"You got no idea, buddy," he replied with his own smile, the levity strung between them easy but fragile, something to be handled with care. There was more to say, so much more, but it could wait. They had time, more time than either of them probably would ever fathom.

[hearnospeakno]

It reminds Nick of Rudy, all in a rush, and all the things Nick has tried not to let himself feel since people in Boulder seemed to decide he deserved to be a leader. (It was Sue who told him he got the loudest applause, since Nick couldn't judge by hands alone. And that's something he'll remember in a better, softer way.) He wants to be taken care of, even if it's just for a moment. His eyes flutter shut when Larry squeezes the back of his neck, and Nick looks as young as he is when he opens his eyes.

Young, and achingly earnest: You're stuck with me now.

It's a promise, in it's way.