Chapter Text
He always fights to swim to the surface, though he already knows how this plays out. Knows he doesn’t have to try. He will wash up on the deserted shores of Liverpool, wake in the snow to completely white surroundings.
-//-
The falling snow is at once beautiful and threatening, completely erasing the world around him. Through the swirling flakes, he stumbles forward a few feet to find a car, gnashed against a roadside tree. Barely recognizable.
Nick approaches it carefully after calling out for help for the poor soul stuck inside, one arm hanging out the driver’s side window. He peers into the car through the smashed window; there is no one else. The only man inside is slumped over the steering wheel. He leans in closer to see if, by some miracle, the man is breathing. There’s a lot of blood, but Nick has seen enough crime shows to know that does not always mean the worst. He dare not touch the man’s head though, in case he inadvertently hurt him further. So he feels for a pulse at the man’s wrist, fingers the ripped sleeve of the sweater the man is wearing. It’s oddly familiar, reminds him of the first Christmas he spent alone with his boyfriend. He can’t see anything properly through the thick snowflakes swirling around him, but the locket of the necklace thrown over the steering wheel seems familiar too. He touches it lightly, turning it towards him. Sees the shape of the simple, silver cross. He blinks once, twice. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the locket next to the cross and sees the paper airplane, now with one bent wing.
He sinks to the ground with a broken, chocked wail, chest heaving with sobs and the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes as if he could unsee the nightmare in front of him.
His knees hit the icy ground and he jerks awake in a cold sweat, panting and clutching his sheets hard enough for the skin of his hands to feel taut. He’s on his back, panting heavily, looking up at the ceiling and hoping that this time it will be different. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels to the right of him for a reassuring hand, already knowing he won’t find what he’s looking for.
He looks to the right, past the empty space next to him, and to the alarm clock. It’s nearly eight in the morning; he might as well get up.
Fastidiously ignoring the other toothbrush and second set of razor and shaving cream next to his deodorant, Nick goes through his morning routine mechanically. Toothbrush, shaving cream, aftershave, two dips of cologne on the back of his neck.