WARNING: NickxEllis (Nellis) ahead. Also, involves suicide. If this bothers any of you in any way, shape, or form then do yourself a favor and please turn away. Thank you.
DISCLAIMER: Valve owns these wonderful boys, not I. But I do however, own this story.
'Time heals all wounds.'
Isn't that the old saying?
Isn't that supposed to be the saying that provides comfort and reassurance, in the hopes that when the time comes, that the mind and body will be free of all turmoil and despair? Relinquished of the insomnia and malnourishment that was brought upon from restless nights and a non-existent appetite?
Isn't it?
What a crock of shit.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Roared a highly agitated, rage-induced Nicolas, as yet another piece of inconsequential ceramic was hurled at nothing in particular, only to shatter into a million pieces beyond recognition against something that suddenly doesn't matter. That never mattered.
At least, not to him.
Not anymore.
This was the norm as of late, as of recently, as of now. To grab hold of an object unknown, inanimate or otherwise, and make sure its contents never existed. Snuffed of all components that made it so, and becoming the very thing it was in the beginning before detail was mixed; dust.
It does nothing to consolidate the burning of a once fiery heart turned cold.
It doesn't uplift the spirit of a hardened soul turned transparent.
It does little to ease the agony that currently blinds one's eyes from the world—
—Nick hesitates.
He snarls; a low, guttural, predatory sound not like him—not of him.
The world.
He mulls this over and over in his head. He tries his best to register what it meant; what it takes to comprehend such a complex word, especially to him.
Another item soon falls victim to his outrage as it joins its predecessor on the hard, cold ground. Becoming nothing but dust in the wind as the anger steadily increases.
Fuck the world.
You know what was his world? What he consideredto be his world? What devotion he pledged to his world? What he claimed as his world?
You know what he called his world?
One name.
One beautiful, mesmerizing, completely perfect name.
"Ellis…" A new voice, finally cracking as the anger reaches a peak that suddenly cannot be climbed over only to fall completely back into a low state of despair, says with a shuddering breath. Trembling knees threaten to kneel the body in a position of mercy—begging for the vessel to give up the ghost in sweet surrender—but only the unrelenting muscles scream in defiance at such an act of defeat.
How could he when a name that rang so true, sounded so easy for the tongue to pronounce, hang so hollow in the air that he couldn't ignore the multiple nicknames that accompanied it?
The muscles tire out, and soon the body gives in. Nick manages to catch himself against the edge of the couch until he is able to position himself back in the chair in which he was sitting before the smashing-fest began, sitting down with enough force to make the contents on the table behind it shake.
He was exhausted. How many days had it been now since he hid out at the hotel before coming home? How many minutes, hours, did he spend trying to piece together a broken heart that he thought he could mend—only to come back and figure it out to be irreparable?
He looked over at the contents that he placed there—minutes? Hours ago?—and seemed to mull over something different, something darker. How did it come down to this?
How did it come down to losing the one thing—the very thing—that he considered to be the only bright star in his miserable life? To be rewarded, per say, after all the shit he went through growing up and marrying a regret that led to divorce, and finding himself fighting for human existence in a world turned upside down—and discovering the one true thing that made him happy?
Every room reminded Nicolas of him. Every room had a certain scent, a certain memory, a certain place in his still-beating heart that screamed of Ellis. His ball-cap wearing overalls, his Ace of Spades, his racing champion, his naïve redneck of a kid, his good sport.
El. His lover and companion, partner and best friend. A southerner with a heart of gold, a smile that could melt a thousand hearts, with a voice so young heads turned at the sound, and with a God-like body that would make any man or woman swoon.
Taken. Away.
Just like that.
Coming home was the first mistake. Going into the multiple rooms of the silenced house was another; the family room was the first to make his heart ache, while the bedroom nearly became unbearable. Since it held the most memories, personal and private alike, it wasn't a wonder when the grief threatened to overwhelm a already vulnerable Nicolas.
Especially since the first thing he practically destroyed without thinking was a photo. The frame sat on the desk along with a few other items, staring back at him with cracked features. His own reflection mirrored how he felt; worn down and fatigued.
The phone rang. He scarcely made out the annoying sound before the answering machine caught it, and even then, he wasn't paying much attention to whom was calling. Merely keeping his eyes focused on a cracked image from a time long ago.
"Hey Nick, its Ro."
Rochelle. How did he forget she existed? Did she even exist at all? Why was she calling?
"I know you're home and probably about knee-deep into another bottle of Bud…"
Bud? Ah, Budweiser. Yes. He seemed to recall downing one, or two, possibly three. Only the bottle that shared his interest in staring was that of something much stronger, along with an empty shot glass that sat right beside it.
"…since I just missed you after the funeral, so I'll just say what I need to until you either pick up, or cut me off."
Immediately he swiveled around in the chair and snatched the phone off its cradle.
"O-Oh, Nick?" Her surprised voice spoke in his ear. "Nick? Sweetie, you there? Say something if you can hear me."
He didn't respond. Instead he lightly tapped the bottle of vodka with a fingernail, making the glass ting.
"Okay," she said softly as she accepted the sound in confirmation. "Since you haven't hung up on me yet, I guess that means you're interested in what I have to say."
Oh this was going to get good. He could already tell, however clouded with grief and indifference he was feeling, that the loving 'mother' of the group was calling to check on her 'son' and offer words of encouragement.
"Nicolas, sweetheart, please stop beating yourself up. We all know what happened and believe me when I say that it's been hurting all of us just as badly." He closed his eyes. She couldn't possibly know how 'badly' he'd been feeling. "We all loved Ellis in our own way, and I never would have thought that he would go in the manner in which he did. But Nick, darling, listen to me when I say that it's not your fault. You hear me? It's not your fault. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, could have predicted that an accident like that could occur. Don't continue blaming yourself for letting him go that morning. It won't do you any good."
That morning. His breath hitched in his throat—that morning.
"Nicolas, please." Now her voice was slowly beginning to strain as he refused to speak. "You have friends who love you and want to help you in your time of need. I only ask that you let us help you heal. You need to stop beating yourself up and drowning your sorrows in alcohol and solitude—it isn't healthy! Dammit Nicolas, it's been nearly two months!"
The rage that was ebbing away soon returned for his eyes snapped open and gave new life to his grief-stricken form. He stood so suddenly out of his chair that the noise it made caused Rochelle to quietly gasp. He slammed a palm down on the table and opened his mouth to retort an insult to get her to go away once and for all—
—and yet he couldn't. He didn't know what to say; his last words were spoken in anger at an object he didn't care for and as far as he was concerned, he was done voicing his defiance at an incident that took away the only thing he truly ever cared about. Who needed words to repeat what was once said and go back to trying to make sense of something that cannot be undone?
"Nicolas, baby…" He could hear her resolve falter and the tears that were no doubt streaming down her pretty face. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want her remorse. He wanted Ellis back, although he knew that was something she could never grant. "Please say something. Please let me know that you're there and listening…"
He reached down and yanked out the phone cord from the wall, ending the conversation he didn't want to hear—didn't need to hear—just as Rochelle was starting to say something else that was considered 'helpful.'
Two months she said. Two months? He needed to get this straight: it had been itwo months/i since he lost the love of his life?
Punishment.
That's what this whole ordeal felt like to him once he sat back in the chair and returned his gaze to the picture frame. He was being punished. Punished for the life in which he led with the dirty deeds to back it up. His divorce was only a fraction of that, and the apocalypse he took as a clean swipe of his past in order to start his life anew—with someone that was helping him turn over a new leaf. A second chance.
And now he was gone.
Two months?
Suddenly the bottle didn't look as appetizing. Nor the still-lit cigarette in the ashtray that he was sure he was puffing on sometime earlier. Two months and here he was thinking that he had only been back for…a week? Was his mind so poisoned by the drink of choice that time did indeed slip him by?
Is that how much Ellis meant to him?
Is that how much time had passed that he tried to get his life back?
That he tried to move on?
Two fucking months since it happened and still nothing changed?
How long after was the funeral?
The funeral…
She said she just missed him after the funeral. But it didn't make sense; if Ellis had been gone for two months, and the funeral it seemed took place recently, or so she indicated…
What. The. Fuck.
Today was the day, wasn't it? Judging from the way he was dressed he would say so. Instead of wearing the normal black attire, he was clothed in the similar get-up he wore when he first met the other half of his heart so long ago. It took sometime after when he was able to get his mind back on track to hold a funeral, and to build up the courage—if not the guts—to go dressed into something entirely different. Not black for grief. Not red for defiance.
But white. White for the purity El saw in him. The very color that he was constantly told by him that really brought out the smug bastard in which the younger fell for.
The gun that sat in front of him was a reminder of that, including something else; some other details that were slowly coming back to him.
Today was the day he was to join him. If it took nearly two months for Nick to finally hold a funeral because of his selfishness, and have the rest of the gang see the mechanic one last time before being buried underground, then something else within the depths of mind knew that this was it. There were no more second chances.
The gun represented the rest of the chips that were ready to be placed in the pot. While the bullet, he figured, represented the final card that would win the hand. This was no ordinary game of roulette—the one bullet that rested in the chamber was meant solely for the one who put it there. This was it.
This was the final plan.
The last game.
He picked up the loaded weapon to release the safety, only to place it back down again.
Jesus Christ what the fuck am I doing? He thought as he buried his face in a hand. What the fuck was he doing?
Simple. He was ending it. He was going to end his suffering as agreed upon sometime before the final funeral arrangements. Ellis died and took with him the last pieces of Nick that still existed. No matter what Rochelle tried to tell him, the Nick that was rescued and had started life anew with the hope of turning himself around was long gone.
Especially when he got to see the fire dwindle out of a certain pair of sapphire beauties. The emerald pair had the misfortune of being witness to a sight that could not be undone; to a horror that dared shatter a carefully protective world. Needless to say the gambler's night life was filled with nightmares beyond mercy, for the mind's eye was forever etched with the images of twisted cruelty and ironic metaphor's that fed Nick with a taste of his own medicine. Poetic justice for leading a life such as his that unspeakable punishment crept up without warning.
The bullet was to be his last laugh.
And yet he found himself questioning motives that were set in place.
But still he found reasons to remind himself why he was doing it.
Nicolas no longer will be able to enjoy the embodiment that consisted of Ellis. The laugh that he adored, the smile that showed off his pearly whites, the puffy lips that made his kisses ever so delicious and delightful, his muscled and toned body that he enjoyed holding either in the privacy of their bed or out in public when they dared defied the nature that was of them…the sounds he would make when they joined, as two beings acting as one as their unbridled affairs would speak volumes along the walls of their sanctuary.
Ellis was his reward. Ellis was the light at the end of the tunnel. Ellis was his heart. Ellis was his world. Ellis was his.
A strange sense of calm enveloped his being. Not so much elation, but a certain lightness as if an unknown entity was trying to change his mind. That by focusing on the best parts he would find the will to push beyond the barrier of suffering and find that strong spot that was buried deep inside him. You're with me now, aren't you? Okay, then. Hang onto the edge of your seat and watch the master at work.
Swiftly he snatched up the metal piece and puts on his best poker face. Readying himself like a pro for when the roulette wheel would land on the color that would mean victory, and he would take all the earnings from the pot.
He could see it now; as the ball began to roll along the multiple numbers that was either sitting in a slot of red or black, the gun was slowly being raised to take its position. It didn't matter which number the ball would make its final resting place on, for every one of them was a winner and Nick no matter what was going to come out on top. He could already feel a bouncy Ellis sitting beside him, giddy in the hopes that they win something big.
It's slowing down now. The ball is losing momentum and the moment is almost at hand. Just a few more seconds and soon it will all be over. Ellis is clutching onto his arm with such ferocity that Nick almost growls at him to let go before the blood loss sets in and his arm falls off.
Nicolas waits patiently as he closes his eyes and waits for the number and color to be called as his finger now rests on the trigger. Emerald and sapphire gems lock gazes just as the former slips a band of unknown color onto one particular digit, making the latter realize how much he is truly worth.
The croupier calls it out and Nick takes in a deep breath as he pulls the trigger, kissing Ellis fully on the lips as his good luck charm empowers his unfaltering winning streak for the last time—
—only to have the familiar scent of Ellis' cologne invade his nostrils.