Ellis had left him alone only long enough to find them something to eat. He had spent five minutes reassuring Nick that he would be back soon—and although Nick believed him the first time he said it, he still found himself greedily wanting to hear it over and over. And so Ellis had promised him again and again that he would be back very soon. He must have only been gone for fifteen minutes.

Although Nick found himself strangely without an appetite, he ate anyways. The food wasn't great, but he didn't complain. He could hardly taste it anyways. All the while Ellis talked and rambled, stuffing mouthfuls of food in between a drawn out sentence that seemed to have way too many 'and then's' in it. Nick didn't mind though, he liked the brightness Ellis emitted… In a strange way, it reminded Nick of a beacon. Ellis was his beacon. If he kept his eyes on that light, didn't lose sight of it, maybe he could get out of this hell alive. Maybe… just maybe… So please, little light, just keep on shining, just keep on shinning and I'll keep holding on.

Empty plate discarded on the nightstand nearby Ellis fell backwards onto his bed. He let out a long sigh. "So, Nick?" He worked his hands underneath his head and looked to the other. "Do ya feel any better? Did playin' tha' piano help ya any?"

Nick blinked blankly at the other, his plate held in both hands, forgotten as it rested in his lap. Nick moved to speak, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He simply dropped his gaze from the other and nodded slightly, stiffly.

"Where'd ya learn ta play like tha'?"

Where? Nick blinked slowly. Where did he learn? Where…?

He must have only been five, maybe even four the first time he had pounded his little hands on the family's piano. His mother had quickly pulled him away from it and gently chided him—No, no, Nicholas, that's daddy's piano, we mustn't touch. He had cried and cried after being denied those pretty little noises. Then his father had come in, looked at him seriously and then lifted him up and onto his lap as they sat them before that beautiful black and white surface. Nick remembered how his father had pressed his fingers over his—and let him feel like he was playing those sweet notes himself. Nick could remember how he laughed and he laughed and he laughed—oh and how his father had smiled down at him, how he had just smiled so adoringly at him—

"Nick? Man, hey? Are ya all righ'? I di'n't mean ta make ya upset." Ellis was standing over the older man now. Nick didn't remember when he had started to cry. The mechanic gently tugged the others plate away and set it aside. "Hey, man… Ya wanna talk? Ya can tell me anythin' ya want. I'll listen."

"My father taught me," Nick blurted out.

Ellis blinked at him, a little confused. "Okay?" he said, trying hard to follow.

"The piano, I mean." Nick rattled his head, fighting to stay in control. "He taught me how to play. I loved it… But I didn't love him." Nick shuddered and reached up to hold himself tightly. He was shaking, maybe at the memories or maybe because the AC had kicked on, the reasons almost seemed irrelevant. "He was a miserable and mean man. The only time he smiled was when he was playing that piano. It was the only time I could tolerate him… I don't know why mom stayed. He was so mean. He was so fucking mean to her... to us." His hands came up to bury into his hair and he tore and tugged at it. "I was twenty. Twenty when I told him how much I hated him."

Oh how the memory came flooding back—standing there, screaming, hands at his sides as he yelled, just yelled his frustration at that stoic man that just stared back so indifferently.

"I told him how terrible of a person he was. I told him how awful he was, how cruel and heartless, how he always made mom cry, how angry he made me and how I hated him. God, how I hated him. He laughed in my face. He laughed at me when I told him. He told me I didn't know what I was talking about. How I needed to open my eyes and stop living in such a lie, stop living in such a twisted fantasy, Nicholas! You are no victim. Oh, and how mom just stood there—staring. Like she couldn't believe what I was saying. She never spoke a word of those things she had secretly confessed to me. She never mentioned the feelings of despair she would always sob to me during late nights. She never said a word! She just stood there!"

God, that was why he had left. That was why! That was it! Twisted fantasy? Is that what you wanted me to wake up from? Is what you thought? Is it? WELL? IS IT?

He had left behind everything—his adoring sister, his troubled brother, his lonely mother and his disgusting, evil, vile father. He had left that day, filled with so much rage he would have sworn it would burn a hole right through his stomach. He had hoped on the first train east and just rode and rode and rode. He had arrived on that platform in Chicago with nothing but forty-six dollars left and his house key in his pocket. He had thrown the key first chance he had gotten. He had known that he would never, ever, ever go back. And in that moment he had felt like he had been lifted of a great and terrible weight that had been crushing him his entire life... and he had cried with relief.

Years had passed, years and years of making money through gambling and using charm he had never thought he had had—it must've been that small town charm that those city folks fed into so easily. Shit, as a kid he could have conned God himself with those innocent smiles.

After many years he had perfected that charm. Eventually he could flatter the money right out of women's hands, talk men into handing over hundreds of dollars with a trusting smile—and when that failed, he had used a slight of hand to earn his winnings. And when that had failed, he would find some piano—somewhere, in a casino or a hotel and just play and play and play. Sometimes people would leave him money—call it pity or whatever—he didn't care; he knew beggars couldn't be choosers and so he would take it all. Often he was hired on the spot to come back and play. Sometimes he did, sometimes he just took the money and left. Either way, he just drifted and drifted and drifted.

He had fallen in and out of love once along the way and when that had crashed and burned, he then had sworn love off all together. No more! No more mistakes! I can't do it again, I can't handle it again. I can't go through that again.

More drifting, more gambling, more conning and lies had brought him here—to the south—where everything had fallen apart—the little world, his little fantasy, had been rudely destroyed when he found himself surrounded by a Green Flu outbreak.

And it was then he had to confine his trust with someone other than himself. He had to trust that these people wouldn't leave him for dead, wouldn't use him or backstab him. For the first time, in a long time, he had to put his life in someone else's hand—

"Nick? Nick!" Ellis shook the conman more insistently—and maybe because of how roughly he shook him, Nick seemed to snap out of it. He blinked up into Ellis face—and only one remained. "Nick. Tell me everythin'."

"Everything…?" Nick repeated, unsure. "I don't even know where to begin."

"At the beginnin'. Start there."

The beginning?

When Nick opened his mouth again he found words spilling out of it. They were words of confession; confessions of heartache from a life he had endured, confessions of feelings of despair, loneliness, regret... Feelings that had been suffocating and numbing him for so long. Feelings that felt so good and so terrible to speak about.

And as he sobbed out those confessions, Ellis held his hands tightly in his and just listened.

A/N: God, how I wish I could leave everything behind. Just wash my hands and be through. I so very selfishly burdened Nick's past with my present. God, how I would leave if I knew I had someone like Ellis to keep me from falling.

Thank you for the kind words and for the kind reviews. Thank you for being patient and for reading.