I've only seen Nash cry twice in all the years I've known him.
The first came when we were still teenagers, and I'd finally broken past that far-away look of his and convinced him to my bed for the hundredth time. Only instead of sleeping side by side, carefree as the children we once were, we were wrapped up in each others arms, whispering all sorts of things that should never be spoken by the light of day. All too quickly, with his nails dug into my back and my cock inside him, I confessed and he cried. He swore they were tears of relief, but regardless, I promised I would never make him cry again. I wouldn't be able to live through it.
The second time came when he'd returned from Central for the last time, with his wife and sons and hopes and dreams far behind him. I sat beside Nash and watched him that night, when he'd had one drink too few, enough to break him open, but not enough to dull the pain. He cried in the tavern, shaking and sobbing, going on about how he'd failed everyone. Asking who 'everyone' meant wasn't necessary. Those people were no strangers to me, even if I'd never met them...
A wife...children...he'd only ever mentioned a few others. But in the sort of detail that only Nash could ever muster, he'd explained them all to me through his letters in brilliant color...
By that time, my coffee table sat covered in his letters from Central. They made for a good mess, but by then, I'd memorized each and every one. He spoke of the libraries and the parks in the letter under a book I hadn't the patience to sludge through. His letter about his sponsor, found only if you dug through the old envelopes from its brothers, had warped and wrinkled edges, chewed on by Nash's youngest son.
His first letter, however, held a special place right next to my coffee mug. I've spilled a few drops on it already, and you can still make out a faint stained ring near the bottom, but the text remains untouched. Homesickness hit and hit hard for Nash, you could feel it even through his broken chicken scratch.
But when I watched him standing there by the train station, wearing that kicked expression and slump in his shoulders, I knew that simple -failure- couldn't drive him back. It was homesickness.
For a man so in love with the idea of change, the idea terrified him. Never the outgoing man, Nash always needed a kick-start to get along his way. I'd been the one to buy his tickets to Central, helped pack his clothes, mothering him along to the station, only to take him aside to kiss him in a way that a mother certainly wouldn't. So when he returned, I was the one who stole away his suitcase, and lured him back to my house, using the promise of a soft bed and a better glass of whiskey.
Far from drunk, he still stumbled home, his eyes wet and sleeve damp from trying to keep up with the tears. We couldn't return fast enough--each little hiccuping sob of Nash's felt like a knife in my chest. Each step we took without my arm around him was the twist. By the time the front porch came into sight, I couldn't breathe.
His suitcase dropped to the ground before the door closed completely. He'd buried his face against my neck before the lock clicked into place. I told him I loved him before came the sense not to. Nash had a family to return to. I'd kept myself from making stupid selfish demands for over five years, I didn't want to start then. But for a brief moment, Nash was mine again. All mine. The letters were useless now. The memories lingered, shoved aside and outdated. The real article stood in front of me that night--nothing else mattered.
Nash cried and begged for forgiveness, even though I told him that he'd done nothing worth damning him. I fixed a glass for each of us; water to calm his stomach, upset from his crying, and whiskey for myself, to calm myself before I could do anything I'd regret.
That night, we fell asleep on the living room couch, feet propped up over Nash's old letters.
I never saw him cry again.
I saw worry reflect back in his clear blue eyes, when I awoke with a headache from drinking more than I'd let onto. A few days later, he showed me amusement, when I'd been up a tree, trying to knock down the last fruits from a tree, cursing and swearing up a storm when I couldn't reach. He'd been shocked when I'd finally kissed him again, slow and deep like we used to. But that quickly melted away. When I whispered into his ear and took him back to my bed, for the first time in years, I got to see Nash completely unmasked. Broken past that far-away look of his, I made love to Nash for the last time, his legs wrapped around my waist, with my body bowed over his. With his nails dug into my back and my breath against his ear, I confessed.
This time, I couldn't see him cry. My eyes shut tight, just as his body clenched tight around me.
Nash went to work with Mugear not long after. He told me he wanted to make Xenotime a place worth bringing his children to. For once, I breathed a sigh of relief. Nash was here to stay...mine again. Even if he spoke of his children, those words would not be the only things upon his lips. Almost always within arm's reach, I could try to make up for lost time, kiss him silent, and steal his breath. He was going to stay because of what we shared--because he was afraid of change--because he could hold onto me and I wouldn't let him go.
Nash Tringham loved me.
I could have lived forever like that.
But in the end, who'd have thought... when Nash cried, I'd always thought it would kill me.
Instead, it killed him.