Greg's mind had finally cooled down. His eyes had stopped leaking tears, his nose had stopped running, and his hands had stopped shaking. Though, as he walked up to the front door of his apartment, his whole body began to tremble as if he hadn't calmed down at all. A blinding and heart-stopping terror had gripped him, almost making him turn on his heel and bolt down the hallway. Could he face the man who was on the other side of the door?

He had to open the door. He could face his inner demons. Nick on the other hand …

All the lights were on, but no one was home. Greg softly shut the wooden oak front door behind him, glancing quickly into the empty living room. The couch pillows were still on the floor, where they had been thrown when Nick had jumped up from the couch, trying to escape from Greg … trying to escape from the truth.

The kitchen was also vacant, the sink slowly dripping a drop of water as Greg stood by the counter, holding onto the laminated wooden counter top, steadying himself.

Where was Nick?

He quietly made his way to the bathroom, and his sorry image caught him off guard. There were tearstains all the way down to his jaw; his large, chestnut colored eyes were red rimmed and exhausted looking. His hair seemed to be wilting before his very eyes. But the most noticeable change in his appearance was on his neck, above the open collar of his blue and gray sweatshirt. A bruise that had a stark contrast to his pale skin.

A hand shaped bruise.

Nick had actually tried to strangle him for a moment. In that one instant, everything seemed to stop. Time itself had slowed down as Nick's hand wrapped around Greg's neck, cutting off the flow of air into his lungs. An unnatural hatred had filled the Texan's eyes, his usually smiling mouth curling into a snarl. Greg could only stand there limply; his eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears.

The one person he truly loved could have killed him, and he wouldn't have put up a fight.

After everything they had all gone through, Nick was willing to lose another friend? Another person he loved and cared about?

All the people at the crime lab had lost a friend and a co-worker that day, but life went on. Nick couldn't hide from it, but he pretended that it had never happened. Warrick was dead and nothing could bring him back. No one could, but it seemed like the Texan thought that if he ignored it, everything would be okay. If he kept his feelings locked up inside, they eventually would fade away.

Nick hadn't tried to strangle Greg—he'd tried to stifle the truth, but the truth can never be silenced. Warrick was dead.

As if from far away, he heard the front door open softly and someone entered the apartment. Greg felt his breath catch in his chest, staring at the open doorway in the mirror. A minute later, he saw Nick shuffle into view.

The older man opened his mouth to say something, but all he could do was stare at Greg's neck. Nick's mouth opened a little bit more, all the blood retreating from his face. His eyes appeared even darker in the gloom of the bathroom.

"Oh God," the older man whispered, stumbling back into the lit hallway. "No …"

Greg turned around, facing the Texan. Nick's mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes going wide. He shook his head violently, his skin taking on a greenish hue.

The younger man felt himself shudder in anger, in fury, in hatred. Hatred of what Nick was doing to him. Hatred at his weakness.

"I'm so sorry," Nick choked out, crossing his arms, holding himself tightly. "Greg, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry," the younger man repeated flatly, taking a step toward Nick. "Sorry. That's all you have to say?" He jutted his chin up towards the ceiling, letting the older man get a better look at the damage. The Texan moaned, almost as if he was in physical pain.

"Please," Nick whispered, his body swaying, "please forgive me."

Greg took another few steps toward the older man, stopping an inch away from Nick's nose. "Why should I forgive you?"

The Texan swayed again, stumbling into the wall. His eyes were unfocused as he said, "Because I'm sorry." He fell against the wall, a picture of the CSI team dropping to the floor along with the older man. The glass shattered into a million pieces, littering the hardwood floor with glittering shards, sparkling like snowflakes on a bleak horizon.

Greg had no idea what to do. He just stood there, his neck throbbing and swollen, staring down at the man that meant everything to him. Nick had passed out, his face still a sick green color. His head was on his right shoulder and his arms were loosely held at his sides.

"Fuck," the younger man swore. When he had started that conversation with Nick on the couch, he had no clue it would end up like this. With him wanting to abandon the Texan, but he knew he could never do that.

He couldn't leave Nick. How could he leave the man he loved? The man he would do anything for? Even though … Greg softly touched his tender neck. It stung horribly and he withdrew his hand with a gasp.

Even though the Texan had lost control, Greg couldn't break up with him. All those things he'd said to the older man, he hadn't meant them. Hell, he'd been furious and scared out of his mind. Sometimes he'd just say things, not really meaning them, but maybe in the back of his mind he did actually want to leave Nick.

He looked down again, the horrible urge to kick the unconscious man rising up in him. A horrid feeling of disgust flooded through his veins, and he felt his lip curl. At that moment, he hated everything about Nick. He hated the fact that the Texan was too weak to communicate with him, that Nick was too weak to accept that his best friend was dead. That he was too weak to control himself.

The older man stirred, almost as if he had been woken up by Greg's harsh and cruel thoughts. He opened his eyes blearily, looking up at the man towering over him. A fearful look spread across his handsome features.

"I hate you," Greg snarled at him. He ignored the look of intense pain that entered the Texan's eyes. He ignored the feeling that was in his own heart. Instead, he turned around and walked stiffly into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Out on the deck, Greg sat with his back to the light blue siding of the apartment building, his eyes gazing out over the Las Vegas skyline. He could see a Rampart Hotel in the distance, the lights flashing and winking at him, brightening up the already cloudless, velvet night sky. A couple fire works went off closer to the strip, the sounds muffled by distance. Greg could see green screamers shooting up into the air, red and blue flowers exploding in huge bursts across the sky, and a couple of magenta twirlers spinning around, blocking out the heavens.

He heard the sliding patio door open, but he didn't turn to look at Nick as he sat down against the railing, right across from him. The Texan's eyes were expressionless, his face unreasonably calm as he stared at the younger man.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his voice quiet, soft.

Greg swallowed painfully. All he could do was shrug … he didn't know what to say anymore, what to think. What to do.

Nick nodded as if he had expected that response. "I can see it in your eyes, Greg. You're considering it." He looked down at his knees, his hands clasped between them. "I wouldn't blame you if you actually meant it. I—I deserve it."

"Yeah, you do."

Nick looked up abruptly when he heard Greg's muttered words, a crushed look on his face, but soon his expression was calm again. "I understand. I completely lost control, and I'm sorry. I know that me saying it over and over won't change anything, but your neck will heal, right?" He glanced at the younger man's exposed neck, a hopeful glint in his eyes, almost as if he wasn't sure of the truth behind his words.

"My neck will heal. It's everything else that's broken."

The older man hung his head, and Greg could see that he was trying to stop his shoulders from quaking. Once again, Nick was hiding his feelings, hiding his emotions.

"I can't believe you," Greg hissed violently, his head starting to pound. "It's as if you completely ignored everything I said to you before. That's so like you—you only focus on the physical aspects of something."

The older man's eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly. That look of bewilderment only made Greg's head throb harder, his anger flaring up again.

"Why do you only think of what you can see?" the younger man growled. He jerked the zipper up on his sweater, the collar covering his skin. "You can't see it anymore. Does that mean it's not there? Does that mean that there's nothing wrong?"

"Greg, what—"

"Just because you can't actually see our relationship breaking doesn't mean it's fine! When I said everything was broken, I didn't mean the blood vessels in my neck," Greg said, forcing himself not to start yelling again. He had to remain calm.

"But I—"

"Nick! Listen to me, please. Can't you forget about that for a minute? No, stop," Greg said, holding up his hand, silencing Nick. "Let me talk, since you seem incapable of doing that."

The Texan leaned back against the railing, an affronted expression on his face, but he didn't speak.

The younger man lowered his hand (he was surprised it wasn't shaking, as it always did when he got stressed or upset) and took a deep breath, thinking of what he wanted to say. "It seems like everything changed tonight," he mused aloud, his eyes gazing past Nick and out at the skyline, a few yellow fireworks shooting up into the sky. "Everything went out of control tonight, but it was going to happen eventually. It had to, Nick, since you won't let yourself grieve."

Greg's gaze drifted downwards, surprised to see that the Texan's dark eyes were focused on him intently. They stared at each other for a moment, and the younger man almost felt as if there was a barrier between them. Finally—a physical reason why they couldn't communicate, but this divider was weak and they both knew it.

"The funeral was the only time that you let yourself cry. You used to get so emotionally wrapped up in cases, but you would come home and let it out. You wouldn't bottle it up. Remember Cassie? After you went to the hospital to see her that first time, you came out and cried on my shoulder for probably an hour. And yet you can't cry for Warrick, your best friend. You won't allow yourself to. You can't do it."

Greg held up his hand again, knowing that Nick was about to say something. Probably something argumentative, by the determined and hard look in his eyes, those eyes that looked pitch-black in the twilight.

"No, Nick, let me talk. You haven't allowed yourself to grieve, and it's taking its toll on everything. It's affecting our relationship. Haven't you always told me that I can tell you anything? That you'll always be there for me?"

"I am—"

"No, you aren't," Greg told him firmly. This stopped Nick dead in mid protest. "You aren't there for me. How can you be there for me when you can't even be there for yourself?"

"That makes no sense," Nick said loudly, balling his hands into fists. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Greg rubbed his temple, praying for patience. Praying for some way to make the Texan see what he was doing to their relationship. "You're hurting yourself by not allowing yourself to grieve. This hurts our relationship, Nicky, because you're a part of this relationship."

The older man didn't say anything, he just stared at Greg with a strange look on his face, his silhouette lighting up with vibrant colors from the strip every so often. The younger man could feel the barrier shifting on un-solid ground.

"You fighting yourself has turned into you fighting me. You're fighting the truth. You keep telling yourself over and over that Warrick isn't dead, because you can't deal with the truth …" Greg said slowly, hoping that his words were hitting the mark. He didn't know any of this for a fact, but he could feel that it was all true. He knew Nick—he knew what Nick thought.

"What you're feeling won't just go away if it's ignored. Pretending that Warrick is still alive won't bring him back. You have to keep living, Nick. Moving on means letting go of all of this. Letting go of the pain, letting go of Warrick …" Greg trailed off, letting his sentence drop as a particularly loud firework went off, showering the darkened sky with twinkling purple and gold stars, shaming the actual glowing balls of gas that were millions of miles away.

"I can't," Nick finally mumbled, wiping his nose. The younger man felt the invisible barrier waver slightly, its weight displaced. In his mind's eye, he could see the barrier (an old, red brick wall) leaning to the right a little bit.

"Why can't you?" Greg prodded gently, willing the Texan to keep talking.

"If … if I let go of everything, that would mean he's actually … dead. He's gone, and he's never coming back. I don't want to feel the pain of his death. If I … if I don't feel it, then maybe he's not actually gone."

As Greg stared into Nick's pain filled eyes, he felt his own body shudder for a moment. That innocent, childlike reasoning shook him—that kind of answer came from a grown man? It was almost like a child playing hide and seek, shutting his eyes and saying, "If I can't see them, then they can't see me."

"That's not the way the world works," Greg whispered gently. He wanted take Nick's hand in his own, but he didn't. Even though there wasn't actually a wall between them, the younger man felt as if there was still something blocking them from reaching out to each other. Not just emotionally, but physically as well.

Nick shook his head and looked away. "I know."

"But you did feel the pain. You felt the loss, but you just pushed it farther away. Forcing it away made you feel even worse, didn't it?" the younger man asked, leaning closer to the Texan. He had to keep Nick talking.

The older man nodded as a couple of tears leaked out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. With a bang that was masked by an exceptionally loud sparkler, the wall between them crashed to the ground. It was gone, but it could be rebuilt in a heartbeat …

"Nick, please …" Greg leaned closer to the older man, opening his hands beseechingly. "Please talk to me. I might not be able to help you, but I'm here to listen. You're the only thing that's been keeping me alive for these past months, and lately …" He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Before he could continue talking, Nick had picked up where the younger man had left off.

"And lately it's as if I'm the thing that's killing you, right?"

Greg only nodded. Nick looked down at himself in disgust.

"All those times when I would be lying in bed, waiting for the tears to come and they never did. All those times when I'd see a picture of Warrick, and I expected myself to cry or something and it never happened. I was always surprised, yet I knew exactly what I was doing. I was shoving my feelings down, living as if I didn't even have them. And then I'd lash out at you when you were only trying to help me," Nick muttered, shutting his eyes.

The younger man hesitantly reached out to touch the Texan's knee. The older man gently put his hand on top of Greg's, applying a light pressure. His thumb and fingers wrapped around Greg's chilly hand, holding on.

"Did you mean it?" Nick suddenly asked, opening his streaming eyes and gazing steadily at the younger man. It took Greg a minute before he could figure out what the Texan had meant.

"I could never hate you."

The older man's mouth trembled violently, his nostrils flaring. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, still clutching at Greg's hand. He took a shuddering breath and said, "I wish I was stronger. I wish I had been stronger for you."

The younger man turned his hand over, palm up, his own fingers curling around Nick's warm hand. Another burst of light from the strip lit up the Texan's outline, the colors taking a minute to fade from Greg's eyes. "I know, Nicky," he finally responded, his voice low. "But saying that won't solve anything."

The Texan's face paled, and his hand trembled slightly. "What do you want me to do? I thought you wanted me to talk to you, and I did. I am."

"That isn't enough."

Nick's fingers twitched. "Are you … leaving me?"

"I love you, Nick," the younger man finally told him, "but unless you talk to someone, a professional, I can't be with you anymore. I can't go through this again. Unless you talk to someone, it'll just keep happening. I can be here to listen to you, but I can't help you. I can't help you in the way you need me to."

Nick's grip tightened on Greg's hand. "I'm sorry that this happened," he whispered hoarsely, wiping his eyes again. He sniffled once and was silent.

"I know you are, and so am I. I need you to be strong for everyone, Nick. You aren't weak. Admitting that you're in pain isn't being weak. I need you to do this. Not just for us, but for yourself, too. Please …" Greg said, his eyes brightening with unshed tears.

Nick regarded him for a minute, staring straight across the short, unobstructed distance between them and into the younger man's eyes. Eventually, he looked away and murmured softly, "Would you come with me?"

"Of course," Greg answered immediately.

"I couldn't do it without you," the Texan confessed softly, his grip still tight on the younger man's hand.

"We'll both go. We'll get through this, Nicky. Together."

"Are you sure?" the older man asked, more tears issuing out of his eyes.

"One hundred percent."