good set of shoulders, somebody's brother
He's self-conscious about it in a way he never used to be, his accent all wrong in his mouth. Nick likes to tease him about it, the way he talks, the little bit of Pittsburgh that comes out sometimes. Like when he's getting coffee.
The girl at the counter is kind, counting out his change. She looks a little bit like Lucy. Same friendly smile, same messy bun that Lucy likes to wear around the house. Somebody else's sister maybe, a little bit of home so far away. But he will get there soon enough.
The smell makes him want to throw up anyway.
It feels worse now, the farther he gets from his own apartment, north towards the Maryland border. Even the fucking Sheetz he's stopped at, a couple miles outside of Frederick, feels like goodbye. A friendly argument they'd had. Another thing he'll probably regret.
He doesn't think he'll keep the coffee down.
Right. Seatbelt. Right turn. Another stretch of highway markers north.
His phone is buzzing in his pocket. Another text from Nick, he thinks. Hopes. Dreads. Fuck.
He should have never left. He should have never let it get this far.
But he's an idiot; he wants it. The voice inside his head says to go back.
The way Nick rambles, half asleep. The way he humors him, sometimes, at stick and puck. It felt entirely too easy. A little bit too real.
Except it-- he feels a phantom twinge deep in his ankle. He knows he can't. He needs this. He needs the time to clear his head. Away from Nick and his fucking infectious enthusiasm and his smile and his stupid fucking jokes, there on the couch, half-slumped together watching hockey.
And Nick is going to look at him and know, whenever he gets back. He can't avoid the team forever, but--
The traffic has congealed on 70. He really should have tossed the coffee, the smell's spread through his car now. It doesn't smell as nice as that fancy kind that Nick keeps buying. But maybe it's the company too, the way that Nick--
He smacks on the radio button. There's been an accident somewhere near Ashton, apparently. The weather forecast says it's going to rain. His phone's gone off two times, but he can't check, at least not when he's driving.
That's what he tells himself at least. It's the snail's pace traffic and not the inevitable texts from Nick that he still hasn't answered and isn't sure he will, as awful as he knows he's being. He wants to though. Fuck.
He wants to wake up there again, in Nick's stupid red and white bedroom, and watch him drooling on the pillow, disheveled and warm and probably mumbling about missing receipts or something. If he grips the steering wheel any tighter, he's probably going to break it.
But Nick's gonna be decent about it. The same way he was when-- Well, that thought's worse than the coffee.
That was the worst of it, though, how small and resigned about it he'd sounded, a mess at the ER. But he'd been hurt and it just hadn't been the time and he'd just let him think--
God. He scrubs at his face, the fucking traffic and the news and the coffee forgotten. How could anyone not want him? Jesus fucking Christ. It's pretty much the only thing he knows.
He isn't sure he wants him to be decent though. He wouldn't deserve it. Not even if he takes the next exit and turns back. It's still been weeks of silence after...
But he's written and deleted about a million texts, his fingers sweaty on his phone screen. He knows he should call him at least. He knows he needs to stop being selfish and end it. He knows he really doesn't want to though. He really wants to turn around.
But he can't do that now, undo the weeks of silence, go back to the morning of the party. Go back to how Nick smiled at him, loading the car. That stupid volleyball game. And everybody fucking knew. Fuck.
Gail knows, though, that awful greedy voice inside him says. The same one that told him to kiss him. Gail obviously knows and doesn't care. He's pretty sure that Young Greg wouldn't either. And Nick... he's not exactly in the closet. The team is fine with it. They're fine. Sure, some of the guys can kind of be dicks sometimes, but not about that. No one's been weird or talking shit or...
But he's not Nick. He can't. As much as he wants to, he can't. Maybe it's all in his head now, but his ankle itches. The tendons twitch when he tries to flex it, careful to stay on the break.
He can't. And it'd be good to go home and remember. Why it's a terrible idea.