*PLEASE READ THIS ENTIRE NOTE FOR IMPORTANT INFORMATION*
hello my friends!
welcome to the first chapter of Apparent!
I'm so excited to share my interpretation of Nash's story with y'all! Obviously, I did not write TIG, so I'm probably not gonna be completely accurate. However, I'm going to try to adhere as closely to canon as I can...without going back and rereading the series...I need more cute Grayson and he's kinda a jerk in the trilogy so I really think I'll prefer Gray's new series. we'll see what happens! I'll reread TIG if i need to :)
ok so clarity for this chapter:
This is split into four flashbacks detailing Nash's bonding with each of his brothers at different stages in their lives, as well as his relationship with his grandfather. I've included timestamps, although I don't know when Nash's birthday is, so I haven't included months like in book #4. They're all broken up, and if you don't see a timestamp at the beginning, then it's at the same time as the previous flashback, EXCEPT for the end of this chapter, which I've labeled present day. The majority of the story will take place when Nash is 16-18, with flashbacks as needed.
Please let me know if I represent Nash's character well and what I could do better! and as always I'd love more reviews on Perfect Forever :)
Thank you my friends! I hope you enjoy my new story!
peace out!
ten years ago
Six-year-old Nash Hawthorne sat at the top of the stairs, sulking.
Because Skye, only eight months pregnant, had gone into labor several hours ago. Which meant that Nash's little brother was arriving one month sooner than planned, and Nash had thought that he'd have at least four more weeks to process not being an only child anymore.
He didn't want a brother. The baby would take what little love Skye had for Nash, and he didn't think he could bear it if no one loved him. Nash was a kid who thrived on approval and acceptance, and if even his own mother didn't have time for him, he may as well cease to exist.
Nash sighed, flopping back on the marble floor as he waited for the call from Skye. Why did labor take so long? Skye had made her son wait at Hawthorne House, not wanting him to accidentally mess something up in the hospital. Nash was slightly resentful over this—he was a responsible enough child, and he knew enough not to break any medical equipment.
Finally, Nash's phone—yes, the six-year-old had a phone—and he picked it up, heart pounding. Even though he didn't want the baby.
"Your brother's arrived," came Skye's exhausted voice. "Annoyingly early, yes, but whatever. He's not particularly cute. Oh, and I named him Grayson. Grayson Davenport."
That wasn't very impressive.
Nash sniffed. "When are you coming home?"
"Two days. I'll see you soon, Nash."
She hung up.
Nash sighed. Grayson was a terrible name. And two whole days before Skye was home? Nash didn't know if he could take it.
The giant clock chimed 10 p.m., and Nash decided to go to bed. He got up and padded softly to his room, his fluffy-sock-clad feet making hardly any noise.
Nash was already in his pajamas, so he simply curled into bed, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.
He dreamed of a world where he was still an only child, where everyone he needed to love him did.
Two weeks later, Nash had still only caught glimpses of his baby brother. Skye kept leaving the kid in the nursery and locking the door while she went about her business as usual. Sometimes, the little guy would cry, and the sound tugged at Nash's heart—even though he didn't want a baby brother—but the door was always locked. Nash couldn't get in.
He was sitting on the window seat in his bedroom, trying to get through Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone—it was hard for someone who was only six, but this was an assignment from his grandfather—when he heard the distinctive shrill cry of his baby brother.
Nash sighed exasperatedly, looking around for a pair of earmuffs or headphones or something similar. But even after he put headphones on and turned up the music, he could still hear the heartbreaking cries.
Finally, Nash got up, taking off the headphones and setting them and the book on the window seat. Maybe he could pick the lock on the nursery door or something, just to shut the kid up.
But when he got to the nursery, the door was unlocked.
Nash gingerly pushed it open. There, in the corner of the room, was the crib, and baby Grayson—a ridiculous name for such a small child—lay inside, his tiny mouth open in a wail.
Locking the door behind him, Nash whispered, "Could you please be quiet?"
Grayson was not easily placated. He just screamed louder, his small body undulating in his light gray swaddling wrap.
There was nothing else to be done. Nash sighed again, then reached into the crib and picked up his baby brother, holding him gingerly. The infant wore a knitted gray beanie, underneath which soft, fine blond hair peeked out, and his cheeks were red and blotchy from crying.
"Shh," Nash whispered. "It's okay. You don't need to cry."
He didn't want a brother, he told himself again. But baby Grayson was so small and vulnerable, and if Nash didn't protect him, who would?
Grayson's wails died away into tiny whimpers, and he finally opened his scrunched-up eyes. Nash stared at them, mesmerized—the irises were a light, silvery gray, like pools of snow just beginning to melt under a cloudy sky.
"Gray," Nash whispered, and that was it.
Their fate was sealed.
He wanted to hold this tiny, warm infant forever, keep him safe from all the cruelty of the world. Nash had become a big brother, and he knew now that he wanted it with all his heart.
Gray was still sniffling a little, but Nash hefted him slightly higher and pressed his forehead gently against the baby's.
"I'll protect you," Nash whispered, Gray's breath warm against his face. "I promise."
He stood there for a long time, Gray snuggled into his chest, and all Nash could think about was how much love there really was in the world.
eight years ago
"Do it again!" the old man hissed, his ruler quivering above Nash's hands. "From the top!"
Nash swallowed, not wanting to disappoint his grandfather, and lowered his fingers back to the keys, the backs of his hands stinging where Tobias Hawthorne had slammed the ruler down on them just moments before.
The problem with Nash learning the piano was that he really wasn't good at it. At all. He might as well be playing with exceptionally thick gloves on—his fingers fumbled over the keys and hit every wrong note imaginable. Nash knew how to read music, and he was far from tone deaf, but his hands just didn't work on the piano.
Taking a deep breath, Nash started over, beginning to despise Johann Pachelbel and his stupid Canon.
He got through the first eight measures of the continuo alright, but when the right hand came in, Nash couldn't get his hands to sync up. He stumbled over the half notes—half notes!—and in trying to get them back on track, completely lost the timing in the left hand.
The ruler slammed down, and Nash bit his lip hard, curling his small hands into fists.
He's just trying to help you, he told himself, but his hands were stinging and it didn't feel like helping at all.
"Pathetic," said the old man, and Nash stared at the keys, tears starting to burn in his eyes.
"You are a Hawthorne," the old man snapped. "You are supposed to excel in everything you do. You are supposed to be a prodigy, and you can't even master a simple piano piece. I'm disappointed in you, Nash."
"I—I tried my best, Grandpa," Nash mumbled.
"Well, then, your best isn't good enough," his grandfather snarled. "I expect better from you."
"I can play the guitar," Nash said desperately. "I'm lots better at that then the piano—maybe I could do that for my skill."
"The guitar lacks the refinement and poise of the piano. It is a common country instrument, not at all suited to a young aristocrat like yourself."
"But we live in Texas," Nash pointed out. "Pretty sure that's the country, Grandpa."
"I will not tolerate snark, you insolent child!" the old man spat. "Now play it again!"
Nash raised his hands to the keys again, and he'd barely started the continuo when the ruler came crashing down again, hitting the backs of his hands with a sharp thwak and causing a dissonant chord to reverberate through the music room.
The old man was enraged. "Can't you do anything right, boy? What is wrong with you?"
Nash's lip trembled.
"You are a disgrace and a disappointment, Nash! I have raised you to be this prodigy, this genius, and yet all I see is failure!"
The eight-year-old burst into tears, which was something he rarely did for fear of being a burden on others, but Nash's hands were hurting and his grandfather was mad at him and he was pretty sure no one in the world loved him anymore, and so he cried, his skinny shoulders shaking.
"Stop crying, boy!" the old man shouted, yanking Nash up off the piano bench and holding him by the front of his shirt. "Real men do not shed tears over trivial things! You must learn to curb your emotions, keep them inside—because when you don't, you are weak! Do you want to be weak?"
Nash shook his head, but the tears still streamed down his cheeks.
The old man's hand connected with his face, so hard that Nash would have fallen over if his grandfather hadn't been holding him up. The grip on his shirt released, and Nash stumbled back, his cheek burning, then turned around and bolted.
He barely saw the halls flashing past him, even nearly ran into Grayson, who squeaked and jumped out of the way. Nash ran blindly, his cowboy hat almost falling off, until he reached his room, where he slammed the door and flung himself onto the bed, sobbing into his pillow.
After fifteen or so minutes of soaking the pillowcase, a tiny knock came on the door, and Nash whispered a "come in."
Grayson toddled into the room, climbing onto the bed next to Nash. "Wha' happened?"
"It's okay, Gray," Nash mumbled into the pillow. "I'm fine."
"You don' sound fine."
Nash sighed, rolling over onto his back. "The old man got mad at me again. I was playin' the piano, but I got a buncha notes wrong and he hit my hands with the ruler."
"Am sowwy," Grayson said, scooting over on the bed and snuggling into the crook of Nash's arm. "You could play your guitar instead."
"He ain't like the guitar," Nash told the toddler, stroking his little brother's hair. "But it's okay, Gray. That's what he wants me to do, so I'm gonna do it."
"But you should do what you wanna do," Grayson argued. "I tink your guitar's pwetty."
"It's fine, kiddo. I'll play the piano. But thanks for tryin' to help."
Nash continued to stroke Grayson's hair, his fingers combing through the soft blond strands, and wondered how much longer he was going to do things just because people wanted him to.
Xander was crying again, the heartbreaking sound piercing through the fog of sleep. Nash rolled out of bed for the third time that night, rubbing his eyes and padding over to his baby brother's bassinet.
"Can't you be quiet, li'l bro?" Nash asked sleepily, glancing down at the infant. Xander's chubby cheeks were flushed an angry crimson, his face scrunched up as he wailed.
"You're gonna wake Jamie and Gray up, Xan," Nash whispered, picking the baby up and grunting slightly under the weight. Xander had weighed eleven pounds at birth, and now, at four months, he was tipping the scales at seventeen.
Nash sank into the rocking chair, sniffing Xander's diaper as the infant continued to wail. No, there was only the clean odor of baby powder—Nash had changed the diaper the last time he'd been awake.
"Just fed ya," Nash murmured, confused. "What's wrong, buddy?"
He tried everything he could think of. Xander was starting to teethe, so Nash retrieved a brightly colored ring from the dresser and placed it gently in Xander's mouth, but the infant just wailed louder, his little hands clenching into fists.
Next was a pacifier, but Xander spit it out, his cry rising almost into a scream. Tears dripped down the baby's cheeks, and Nash felt like he might cry too. What did Xander want? There had to be something Nash couldn't see.
He stroked his brother's soft, fluffy dark hair, which was remarkably long for a four-month-old. Of course, all the Hawthornes had been born with a lot of hair, but Xander's had to be the longest.
Xander had earned several superlatives with his birth—longest hair, highest birth weight, loudest scream. Nash of course didn't remember his own birth, but Grayson and Jameson had been very different from Xander—they'd weighed five pounds, ten ounces and seven pounds, three ounces respectively. Grayson had been a very quiet baby, only crying when he was sick or infuriated, and Jameson didn't cry so much as whimper.
Nash bounced Xander gently on his knee, hoping motion would soothe his baby brother, but the little guy just kept crying, his hands clenching the front of Nash's pajamas in a vice grip.
"I wish you could tell me what's goin' on," Nash said desperately. "How're we gonna make you be quiet, Xan?"
He sat in the rocking chair for a full hour, giving Xander stuffed animals, a bottle, changing his diaper even though he didn't need it. Nothing seemed to work, and Nash whispered a short, frustrated prayer to the heavens.
"Hey, God, Xan ain't goin' to sleep, and I really wanna go to bed. If you could send me a sign or somethin', that'd be great."
No miraculous pillar of light streamed into the room, no heavenly messenger appeared, but a thought did come to Nash's mind—Xander always seemed happy when he played the guitar. Nash couldn't go get the instrument right now—it was in his room, and he couldn't leave Xander—but there were other ways to make music.
So Nash held Xander to his chest, still stroking the baby's hair, and started to sing in a husky, quiet voice:
May you see God's light
On the path ahead
When the road you walk is dark
May you always hear
Even in your hour of sorrow
The gentle singing of the lark
When times are hard
May hardness never turn
Your heart to stone
May you always remember
When the shadows fall
You do not walk alone.
The song was a lullaby Nash had heard on a playlist once, getting through the first chorus before the old man had turned it off. But as soon his grandfather was out of the room, Nash had gone to the computer, sat, and listened, amazed at how the music made him feel—like his soul was drifting through a mist of stars, clouds slowly dissipating as he floated towards a light.
He kept singing, gently rocking back and forth in the chair, and finally, finally, Xander's eyes closed and he put his thumb in his mouth, his little chest rising and falling evenly as he slipped into sleep.
"Thanks," Nash whispered to the sky as he gently placed Xander back into his bassinet and climbed into bed.
He cocooned himself in the soft navy blanket and gazed through the window, framed by gossamer curtains, at the haze of stars hovering over the quiet, rolling plains.
The night was calm and peaceful, wrapping him in a blanket of silver dust, the starlight trickling down like honey, the echoes of his lullaby still echoing in his ears, and so Nash fell asleep.
seven years ago
"C'mon, Jamie! You can do it!" Nash cheered as the four-year-old wobbled down the driveway, the bike unsteady beneath him.
Nash was, internally, incredibly worried. Jameson, though very physically coordinated, was extremely reckless and liable to attempt dangerous stunts on the bike he was only just learning to ride without training wheels.
"Ith Jamie gonna cwath?" Xander asked, tugging at Nash's flannel sleeve.
"I hope not," Nash sighed, watching Jameson turn in a shaky circle. "I don't wanna have to patch up anyone else today."
"It wasn't Xan's fault," Grayson complained. "Jamie knocked him over."
"I know. That kid's gotta learn to be more careful."
"Hey, Nath," Xander whispered, his lisp evident. "Tho what if we put thome wocketh on Jamie'th bike an' he could fwy wike a pwane an' maybe we can paint fiwe on 'em do ya tink he could go higha dan da woof?"
Nash looked helplessly at Grayson, who shrugged. Xander's toddler dialect could be very difficult to understand.
After deciphering it in his head—something about putting rocket boosters on Jameson's bike, maybe?—Nash hesitantly replied, "Yes."
Xander's face split into a grin. "Dat'th tho cool, Nath—I'mma go thtart, okaythieth?"
He toddled up the front steps, panting, and dragged the heavy front door open, not bothering to close it.
Nash sighed. "We've really gotta work on that lisp. I can't understand a thing he's sayin'."
"You're one to talk," Grayson pointed out. "Your accent's almost as bad as his lisp."
Nash ignored him and called out, "How're you doin' there, Jamie?"
"Good!" Jameson yelled back as he rounded the curve of the driveway and pedaled swiftly toward Nash and Grayson, the bike starting to shake more violently as he coasted down the slight incline. "I'm gettin' lots faster!"
"Slow down!" Nash shouted as Jameson nearly fell over. "Jamie, you've gotta brake!"
"How do you brake?" Jameson wailed, his wheels spinning faster and faster. "Nash! Help!"
"Squeeze the levers on the handlebars!" Nash instructed. "Or ride into the grass and jump off!"
Jameson seemed too terrified to stop, instead coasting rapidly toward his brothers with a squeak of terror. For a moment, Nash thought Jameson might miss them, but at the last second, the bike's front wheel caught on a crack in the concrete, and Jameson swerved sharply.
"Outta the way, Gray!" Nash yelled, tackling the five-year-old to the ground as Jameson's bike spun onto the grass, pitching him off.
Nash raised his head, sure that he'd gotten grass stains all over himself and Grayson, and looked over at the fallen bike, the front wheel of which was still spinning. His gaze traveled over the grass to Jameson, who lay curled into a ball, his shoulders shaking.
"Aw, Jamie," Nash murmured, getting up and walking over to his little brother. "Where does it hurt?"
"My knees," Jameson whimpered, swiping at the tears starting to trickle down his round cheeks. "An' my face."
Nash gently helped his brother sit up, glancing over the raw scrapes on Jameson's skinny knees and the smaller one on his chin. None were bleeding excessively—all that was needed would be a few Band-Aids and some antibacterial ointment.
"Let's get you inside," Nash whispered, sliding one arm under Jameson's knees and the other under his shoulders. "Gray, you okay? Could you run to the bathroom and get the first aid kit?"
"I'm fine," Grayson said with great dignity, standing up and brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "And yes, I can."
He ran ahead of Nash and Jameson, hurrying up the front steps just as Xander toddled back outside, clutching two empty toilet paper rolls, which had hastily scribbled cutouts of flames taped to them.
"I got da wocket boothterth—" Xander stopped. "Did Jamie cwath?"
"Yeah," Nash told him. "But I'm sure he'd love the rockets, Xan. You wanna go get Jamie's bike and tape them on?"
"Don't mess it up!" Jameson called after Xander, his voice shaky but regaining strength as he continued to wipe away his tears.
Nash carried Jameson into the nearest bathroom, where Grayson waited with a first aid kit open on the counter and a damp washcloth. Nash murmured a "Thanks, Gray" and set Jameson on the counter, dabbing at his knees.
Five Band-Aids, some bacitracin ointment, and a sucker later, Jameson seemed ready to get back on his bike, jumping down off the counter and dragging Nash toward the door.
"You sure you're okay?" Nash asked as Jameson steered their course toward the entrance hall, Grayson hurrying to keep up behind them.
"Yep!" Jameson said happily. "Thanks you, Nash!"
Nash smiled at his grammar. "Sure thing, kiddo."
Xander was waiting outside, crouched by Jameson's bike, carefully taping the toilet paper rolls to the back. When his brothers exited the House, Xander leaped up, clapping his chubby hands together.
"Wook! I taped da wockets!"
"They might interfere with the wheels," Grayson said seriously, examining the pretend thrusters. "I'd recommend—"
Jameson leaped back onto the bike and pedaled down the driveway, yelling over his shoulder, "Race ya!"
Xander immediately took off, stumbling after his brother, and Nash looked at Grayson. "You gonna go, Gray?"
Grayson, his small chin held at a haughty angle, replied, "Grandfather says it's not dignified to run."
"Grandpa ain't here," Nash whispered. "And I ain't gonna tell him. Go ahead, kiddo."
Grayson stared up at him for a moment, then broke into a gap-toothed smile and darted off, his tiny legs pumping rapidly as he fought to catch up with his brothers.
Nash watched them go, sprinting over the golden drive in the Texas sunset, and thought about how incredibly lucky he was. Sure, Tobias Hawthorne might have been manipulative and controlling, but Nash would do anything for his little brothers, no matter what.
It really wasn't all that bad, actually.
At least, not yet.
present day
"Grandpa," Nash complained. "I really don't think suits…suit…me."
"Nonsense," Tobias Hawthorne said, tightening the belt around his grandson's waist—the suit pants were too big—to the point that Nash could barely breathe.
"You are sixteen years old," the old man said silkily, straightening Nash's tie and stepping back. "A young aristocrat such as yourself does not wear the attire of the common folk."
"But I like it," Nash gasped, struggling to breathe and resolving to loosen the belt as soon as he was out of the room.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Nash ran a hand over his gelled-down hair. He felt exposed, almost naked, without his cowboy hat. His dark, messy hair curled up at the back and out over his ears, and Nash's sky-colored eyes looked dull and hueless against his tanned skin when paired with the dark suit.
"I look ridiculous, Grandpa," Nash sighed, turning to the old man.
"Don't be stupid, Nash, you look like a Hawthorne. Now—in the car."
Nash rolled his eyes, then immediately felt bad about it—he didn't want to make his grandfather mad—and scurried out of the room, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He stopped in the entrance hall and loosened his belt, sighing in relief as he drew in an unobstructed breath.
His Bugatti sat outside, already on and waiting. Nash would have liked to drive a truck, but the old man had staunchly refused, instead gifting Nash the Bugatti for his sixteenth birthday. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the car—how many juniors could say they owned a Bugatti?—but it felt too nice for his personal style.
"Let's go!" Xander chirped as Nash slid into the driver's seat. The eight-year-old was sitting in the passenger seat, with Grayson and Jameson looking rather disgruntled in the back—evidently, Xander had beaten them to shotgun.
Nash smiled. "Xan, you've gotta ride in the back."
"Why?" Xander whined. "I wanna sit up here with you!"
"You're too little to sit in the front, buddy. And no, Gray, you ain't big enough either. Y'all are gonna sit in the back, okay?"
Xander, miffed, climbed into the back and plopped down between his brothers, crossing his arms. Nash almost laughed at the sight of his suit-clad siblings with nearly identical expressions of utmost annoyance on their faces.
"You'll thank me when y'all ain't dead if we crash," Nash told his brothers. "Who's ready to go to Texas Roadhouse?"
"Me!" Xander squealed, his irritation forgotten. "Me me me me me!"
Nash backed the Bugatti out of the driveway, following his grandfather's Droptail onto the two-lane road leading away from Hawthorne House. A black escort car drove behind the Bugatti, an identical vehicle guarding the front of the Droptail. Nash was glad for the escort, as it protected him and his brothers, but he hated the thought of other people putting their lives in danger for his family—possibly losing them if there were a crash.
Heavy rain began to fall, splashing down onto the Bugatti's windshield, and Nash activated the wipers, a flicker of apprehension awakening in his gut. He hated driving in storms.
"What're y'all gonna have for dinner?" Nash asked, trying to keep his mind off the weather. "And don't you say just rolls, Gray."
"I suppose I'll have butter as well," Grayson said sarcastically, and Nash laughed. The ten-year-old was a remarkably picky eater.
"Everything they have," Jameson told Nash, quite seriously, while Xander chimed in with "Hot dogs! And rolls! All the rolls!"
Nash laughed, squinting at the road through the gathering storm as the pouring rain continued to obstruct his vision. In the rearview mirror, he could see Grayson staring out the window at the billowing clouds, undoubtedly fascinated with the color that had given him his name.
"The clouds are super pretty," Xander said admiringly. "Do you guys think—"
"Deer!"
Jameson's scream seemed to rip through the car, and Nash's eyes immediately locked onto the swift brown blur that had bounded onto the road, heading straight into the path of the Bugatti.
Nash jerked the wheel, and the car spun sideways, hydroplaning across the suddenly slick road. He failed to keep back a scream as the Bugatti fishtailed, the back wheels completely out of control as the car careened toward the side of the road.
They hit the slight incline where the pavement turned to grass, and Nash went weightless before a hard impact shook the car, then the total absence of gravity came rushing back, then a second impact sent his consciousness spiraling into oblivion—
Please let them all be safe, Nash prayed desperately before the darkness overcame him.