He was gentle things that Nick didn’t allow himself, happy things that Nick couldn’t find on his own.
Nick’s hands knew gunpowder stains and the inside of stiff gloves. His held weapons and warmth equally, and knew how to let go of the former and hold tight to the latter, when the day was over.
Nick didn’t know how to capture love, and he had always filled himself with too much of it.
And all of this and more, was why—
Was why Nick—
Oh, well. He was gone now. Nothing much mattered now.
Nick went to bed and dreamed of breathtaking places he’d never been and of a quiet voice that used to fill his ears and mind and heart. The voice told Nick to keep fighting, to not accept failure, to remember what he believed in. The voice told Nick that it loved him, and Nick fell asleep counting back the days since he had last said it back. He would catch the gray beginnings of sunrise.
Nick stared at the empty sheets beside him and saw dark blood spreading like shadows through thick clothes, heard harsh words hissed out over the low sound of train tracks that would echo in every corner of his mind until Nick drew his last breath. Nick thought about how many decades, years, months, and seconds had gone by, and regretted.
Regret, because Nick never told him anything that meant anything real. Regret because Nick never realized that his optimism was the only thing that had kept him in motion with every new morning. Regret, because Nick never held his hand with the same sweet, unwavering gentleness that he did his.
So many things could have been different. They could have been happier. He mapped out a million ways, built a spider’s web—a bit more courage here, a small sacrifice there. Whole worlds of new beginnings and little joys and blood-earned callouses turned soft in the face of peace.
When Nick was having better days, in the time after he lost him, he would sometimes be able to admit that they would have never worked out happiness, and that they had never, ever, been fated for anything more than they got.