Listened to: Maggie Gyllenhaal- "Just the Way You Are"
Nick was jerked out of his sorrow-filled reverie by the shrill sound of a horn blaring next to him. His head snapped up and he nearly jumped out of his skin and the sound. He looked into the car at a man who was tapping impatiently on his steering wheel. Behind the man, Nick could see the heads of two kids looking over their father's shoulder to see what was going on.
It took a moment for Nick to comprehend what the man wanted from him, but it finally clicked after a moment and he dragged himself up and moved out of the street. Nick barely made it to the curb before the man started to accelerate.
"Daddy, was that man crazy?" Nick heard as the car passed by. He sat down on the curb. Was he crazy? Nick doubted it, but he knew he was a complete and total wreck.
Nick put his head in his hands. He didn't even care about the fact that a man had so carelessly brushed him aside even though he was crying in the middle of the street in front of his children. What state society might be in right now was the farthest thing form Nick's mind.
"Greg…." He stood up and ran back into the house. He knew that he must not have been outside for too long because a car passed by his home nearly every five minutes and the one he'd just encountered must have been the first one, unless he was too out of it to notice one before that. Once inside, he could hear that the phone was ringing. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, but he picked up the phone anyway, out of habit.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Nicky, it's me, Warrick. I was just calling to ask you if now would be a good time to bring over those cds for Greg I was talking about earlier," Warrick said.
Nick sniffed and rubbed at his nose with his sleeve. He felt so helpless, like a baby, and he hated it. He briefly thought of the harsh words he'd spoken to Greg before his parents and grandfather had arrived. He could recall how angry Greg had been when he turned around and, underneath that, the wounded and hurt look that came through his unseeing eyes. His heart clenched. He closed his eyes. "Um, no. Now's not a good time, Warrick," he tried to say as evenly as possible. His efforts didn't sound successful to his own ears.
"Hey, man, you okay? You sound kinda off," Warrick said, sounding concerned.
Nick rubbed at his chest. He couldn't get the feeling in his heart to go away. He couldn't get the image of Greg being hurt by him out of his mind. Should he really? He deserved it, didn't he? He deserved to see the look of pain on Greg's face over and over again. It would serve him right if he was having a heart attack right now.
"Nicky?" Warrick said.
"Fuck!" He shouted. He'd made a mess of everything. If only he'd kept a hold on his temper, none of this would happened. Greg wouldn't have been hurt by him, he would have met Greg's parents and his Papa Olaf under better circumstances, and he could have possibly had the chance to win them over, in time. Greg would still be here with him. "I've screwed everything up! It's all gone so wrong." The last part was said so quietly that Warrick could barely make out what he said.
"What's gone wrong, Nick?" Warrick asked. "Does it have something to do with Greg?"
"Yes….shit! The look on his face…I may as well have hit him," Nick said.
"Whoa, whoa, back up! I don't understand what you're trying to say. Why don't you start from the beginning. Take a deep breath and tell me when you're ready," Warrick said.
Nick took a deep breath and told him everything that had happened. From Greg's roommate, to Greg's grandfather sucker punching him and dragging Greg away in a cab to fly back to Norway, it all came out surprisingly easy, like word vomit, the words just spilled out of him. They were still painful, nonetheless. By the end of it all, Nick was on the verge of tears again, but this time, he held them back, his anger at Greg's grandfather pushing to the forefront.
"Damn…." Warrick cursed. "Why does this shit always happen to you? Can't you catch a break?" Warrick asked to no one in particular. "Isn't there any way that you could stop them from getting on that plane?" He asked.
Nick ran a hand over his face. "I could try, but I doubt it. I already told you about the laws they have there in Norway. If I do anything, I could be persecuted. I don't think that Greg will go against those laws, either. He seemed pretty resolute when he told me that his grandfather could take him back home if he chose. That man seems to be ruling over his family with an iron fist. Greg's parents just stood by and watched the whole thing, like they were too scared to do anything, to go against the old man." Nick said, bitterly.
Nick could hear Warrick sighing over the phone. "I don't know what else to tell you. I'm not a lawyer, and I'm not an expert in international law. I hate to say it, but it seems like you're pretty much screwed for the moment." Nick groaned. "Don't go doing that, Nicky. Don't give up. Fight for him. I haven't seen you so happy with anyone since…well, ever. You two belong together. Don't let this one go. Don't let Greg go, do you hear me?" Warrick asked, sternly.
Nick nodded before he realized that Warrick couldn't see him over the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, I won't give up on him. You have my word on that."
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Three weeks later
Papa Olaf walking into his grandson's room. It was dark inside, and the air was stale. His nose wrinkled. He walked over to the window. He placed the tray that he was carrying on a nightstand nearby and jerked opened the curtains. The room was flooded with bright sunlight. He winced and turned his head away, his eyes having already adjusted to the brief darkness. He flipped a latch and opened the window. The essence of the ocean rode on the breeze that wafted into the room. He inhaled slowly, taking it all in. He looked out at the ocean through the bars outside of Greg's window. He sighed. He hated to have to put them there, but it was for the boy's own good. He kept on trying to get away, to get back to the U.S. and back to that man that had corrupted his mind.
He turned away from the window and picked up the tray again. He walked over to Greg's bed where a huddled mass laid immovably on the far side of the bed, under the covers. He sat down on the opposite side of the bed. He sat the tray down near the foot of the bed.
"Greg, it's time for your breakfast. Time to get up," he said. The lump under the covers didn't even move. Only the steady rhythm of rising and falling breaths reassured Papa Olaf that there was in fact someone under there. He reached over and gently laid his hand on a portion of the lump that looked to be a shoulder. It was, and he gently shook it. He may as well have stabbed Greg there, from the reaction he got.
Greg jerked away from him so harshly that Greg himself nearly fell off the bed and the tray was only saved from it's meeting with the floor by Papa Olaf's steady hand. The covers slipped off of Greg and he tuned around to face his grandfather. He sat up. He was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness, but he willed it to pass. He tried to hide his weakness from his grandfather.
Papa Olaf didn't need to see Greg waver just from the strain of trying to sit up. He could see signs of just how far gone Greg was by the way the clothes hung off his thin frame, the bags under his eyes, and the sickly pallor of his skin. He'd lost so much weight since he'd been brought back home where he belonged. He hadn't been eating well, hardly at all. Papa Olaf had been forced to intervene with the servants and bring Greg's meals in himself, recently. A part of his heart ached to see his grandson in such a state, the rest of it was filled with resolve that he would make his grandson forget about his time in the U.S. At what cost, though? He pushed that question out of his mind.
"Good, Greg, you're up. It's time for you to eat." He picked up the tray in his hand laden with all of Greg's favorite breakfast foods.
Greg didn't make any move to reach for the food. Papa Olaf sighed. "Please, Hojem-"
"Don't call me that!" Greg yelled, although it came out as more of a croak. He didn't really speak much in his days at home. What was there to talk about? Every single topic that Greg wanted to discuss revolved around Nick, and even the mention of the other man's name was forbidden in Papa Olaf's house, so he stayed silent most times. "You have no right to call me that. Not anymore."
"I most certainly do have the right to call you that, young man. I gave you that name. That gives me the right. Stop being foolish and eat some of this food that I have brought for you. You need to eat something. You do not look healthy. Margrethe told me that you have not been eating again," Papa Olaf said, talking about Greg's personal servant.
"I would eat it if Nick fed it to me," Greg said.
Papa Olaf's hands tightened on the tray. "I told you never to speak of that name in my house!"
"Why can't I talk about the man I love?"
Papa Olaf's face turned an ugly shade of red. "Do not say that you love that perverted piece of filth, or I'll-" He started to yell.
"Or you'll what?" Greg yelled right back. "Forbid me from leaving the house? Already done that. Take away my passport? That was gone as soon as I stepped off the plane. Bar me up in here like I'm some sort of prisoner? I didn't think you'd go that far, but the proof is on the window."
Papa Olaf took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Greg was trying on his patience, which was already stretched dangerously thin. "Look, why don't you just take one bite? You could be causing irreversible damage to yourself."
Greg kicked the tray from his hands, sending it flying. Food spilled onto the bed, and the floor, and all over Papa Olaf. "I don't fucking care, don't you get that! I don't care what happens to me! If I can't be with Nick, then I sure as hell don't want to be here with you!"
Something inside of Papa Olaf snapped. He backhanded Greg across the face, hard. The force of it was enough to knock Greg from the bed and onto the floor in a trembling mess.
Greg sobbed, not only from the pain of it, but from the fact that his grandfather had struck him. He had never done that. Greg had never been hit before except for the time he had been attacked in the alley. Images from that night flooding back into him mind. The thing that stood out the most, was the sheer terror he felt in those moments.
Papa Olaf sat there, stunned, his lap covered with the remnants of Greg's breakfast. He stared at his hand like it was some sort of alien object attached to his arm. He turned and stared at the space the Greg had been sitting in only seconds ago. The magnitude of what he'd just done finally hit him.
"Oh, God, Greg!" He rushed over to the other side of the bed and over where Greg lay. He dropped down on his knees, not caring at the pain that shot up them from making harsh contact with the hardwood floor. Greg was facedown on the floor. He reached out to lift his grandson up. What he got for his efforts was a bare foot to his stomach, knocking him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. He scrambled back up when he could finally get some air back into his lungs. What he saw nearly broke his heart.
Greg was huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around himself. He was rocking back and forth. "Please, don't hurt me," he kept saying, in a small, weak voice.
Papa Olaf ran a hand over his face. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Greg. I never meant to hurt you like that. Please believe me," he said.
Greg seemed to ignore him. He simply kept rocking back and forth, holding himself, lost in his own world.
It was at that moment that a part of Papa Olaf began to realize that what he'd done to Greg might not have been worth it.
A/N: Oh, I wanted to pinch myself for writing this, but my fingers were too busy torturing Greg.
Question: Do you guys think that I should bring Sara back into the mix? Remember, she made a brief cameo in chapter seven?