"Near, far, wherever you are. I believe that the heart does go on..."
Any other time Nick would feel ridiculous about sitting on the middle of his living room floor blasting, and belting out, Celine Dion. But Juliette had said someday. She loved him and wanted to marry him someday. Just not today; when he could let her back in. Nick wondered when, if ever, that would be. There were tears building in his eyes, but he was determined not to let them go. He’d done enough of that listening to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.”
He’d been relentlessly staring at a photo of him and Juliette from last Christmas. He ran his fingers along the frame; it’d become sort of a soothing motion more than anything. It was like he could feel it – the overwhelming sadness slowly morphing into anger, rage. He cursed the photograph, or more so the woman in it. Then he let loose; he couldn’t hold it anymore. The photograph was sent flying across the room, the glass shattering when it met the wall. Nick stood up, stomping into the kitchen. He tore open the cabinet doors, looking for anything she’d left behind. There probably wasn’t much, he knew that. His eyes scanned the shelves. There: a coffee mug. He grabbed it from the cabinet and hurled it across the room. The smashing sound was satisfying.
Back to the living room he went. His breathing was heavy, almost panting. Rage coursed through his veins. Why was he so angry? She did say she loved him. She did say she’d marry him someday. But he was so adamant about having a concrete answer. It was either she’d marry him now, wear the ring he’d bought for her, pick out flowers and cake…or it was over – for good. Nick knew he was at fault for pretty much every problem in their relationship – he wouldn’t deny it – but love meant sticking side-by-side through anything, right? He clenched his jaw; hands were balled into fists. He searched the house for anything she’d forgotten, in hopes he could break it – just as she’d broken his heart.
Then he stumbled across the bottle of whiskey he’d stashed away. What a great idea that’d been, he thought. He smiled. Whiskey wouldn’t break your heart. Whiskey wouldn’t leave you all alone. Whiskey would warm you up when you needed it. Whiskey would make it all better.
The bottom of the bottle was getting closer. Nick tripped, tumbling to the ground. Juliette’s broken coffee mug broke his fall. He didn’t feel it. Whiskey’s good like that. He looked down at his hand with blurry, bloodshot eyes, and saw the blood. He watched the crimson goo flow from the three inch gash in his palm. He was amazed by it, hypnotized almost. He swore at his hand, told it to knock it the fuck off.
He rolled over on the floor; something pressed into his hip. Stupid phone. He pulled it from his pocket. He almost threw it, but some stupid little voice in the back of his mind told him not to. He sat there, staring at the phone, until he – completely on autopilot – dialed a familiar number.
“What is it now? Do you know how late it is?”
“Hello to you, too, Buddy.”
“Oh, dude, are you drunk?”
“As a skunk!”
Monroe sighed and shook his head. He hung up the phone and proceeded to grab his keys and head over to tend to his drunken friend. The blutbad cursed fate for throwing that stupid grimm into his life. He used the spare key Nick gave him and walked in to find Nick passed out on the kitchen floor. For a second, Monroe thought the worse. But then Nick jerked awake.
“Juliette did it!”
“Wha –” Then Monroe saw the broken mug and figured it belonged to Juliette and that’s what Nick was referring to. “You are an absolute mess, you know that right? And no blutbad in their right mind would help you.”
“Well, I guess ‘s good for me that you’re so weird.”
Monroe sighed, this side of irritated. “I’m going to let that one slide…for now.”
“Why’re you so good to me?”
“I keep asking myself the same thing. I have yet to come up with a good reason.” Monroe picked the drunk grimm up off the floor and carried him upstairs to the bathroom.
There was a washcloth next to the sink. Monroe picked it up, wet it, and tended to Nick’s cut. He kept shaking his head, thinking about how stupid the grimm was being. Monroe thought about his life before he reformed; all the drunken nights, the bruises, the cuts, running wild. He cringed. He knew Nick was nowhere near that, and there was no way Monroe would EVER let it happen either. He’d find a way to keep his stupid grimm safe. Monroe frowned at the gash as he covered it with gauze.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Nick shook his head.
“Let’s get you to bed, then.”
Nick leaned forward, resting against Monroe’s chest. It was sort of a thank you; it was all Nick could really manage right now. Hopefully when he sobered up he’d think to send Monroe a nice gift basket or something.
“Come on, you.”
Monroe lead Nick into the room and laid him in bed. He tucked the blankets around the grimm, who hummed – I guess that’s a ‘thank you,’ Monroe thought. Monroe shook his head one last time before sitting on down on the other side of the bed, watching Nick for the rest of the night.
“You owe me like 64 now,” Monroe whispered.