When tears are running
Time didn't pass. It crawled.
Nick watched the afternoon light inch across his ceiling, the crack in the plaster shifting from pale gray to amber to something darker, something closer to shadow. The tears had stopped at some point. He wasn't sure when. His face felt stiff with dried salt, his eyes gritty and swollen, and his chest—his chest was a hollowed-out thing, scraped clean of whatever had lived there before.
The pillowcase was damp beneath his cheek. He hadn't moved. Couldn't, really. His limbs were heavy, anchored to the mattress by a grief that felt almost physical, a weight pressing down on his sternum. Adam's words played on a loop he couldn't shut off.
"We sometimes casually fuck together."
"Did we ever say we were exclusive?"
"It's just sad."
Each phrase circled back, sharpened itself against the inside of his skull, and struck again. Nick squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness behind his lids offered no relief. He could still see Adam's face—that terrible calm, the way his glasses had caught the morning light, the almost clinical precision of his cruelty.
And the worst part. The part that burrowed deep and made a home in the soft tissue of his heart.
Adam was right.
They'd never talked about it. Not once. Nick had built an entire relationship out of glances and touches and assumptions, out of late-night Chinese food and Friday afternoons in the library basement, out of the way Adam's fingers had traced his spine in the dark. He'd taken silence and spun it into certainty. He'd mistaken proximity for promise.
A fresh wave of heat pressed behind his eyes. No tears came—his body had nothing left to give. But the shame was there, hot and acidic, pooling in his stomach.
He should have asked. He should have said something. He should have opened his mouth and formed the words instead of waiting, always waiting, for someone else to do the work for him.
"You just stand there. Being quiet. Hoping someone will figure you out."
Nick's jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
He was angry. At Adam, yes—furious, in a way that felt almost too big for his body. But also at himself. The anger twisted together with the sadness until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, a braid of ugly feeling that sat heavy in his throat.
The ceiling crack offered no answers. The afternoon light kept crawling. Somewhere outside his window, a car horn blared. A door slammed. The city hummed its indifferent song.
Nick pulled the towel tighter around his waist. The fabric was damp against his skin, still clinging from the shower he'd taken hours ago—or had it been minutes? Time had gone strange, elastic and unreliable. He'd left Adam's apartment in the morning. It had been afternoon when he'd fallen onto the bed. Now the light was softening, the shadows lengthening, and he had no idea how many hours had passed.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. He didn't reach for it. Couldn't bring himself to look at the screen, to see another message from Marc asking if he was okay, offering kindness Nick didn't deserve.
"For what it's worth, I was really looking forward to tonight."
Nick pressed his face into the pillow. The guilt was a separate wound, smaller but sharper. Marc had been excited. Marc had bought tickets. Marc had promised no sweet popcorn, had remembered the seating preference, had sent fire emojis and three crying-laughing faces and—
And Nick had canceled without explanation. Had left Marc alone on a Saturday night when they'd been planning this for weeks.
But the thought of sitting in a dark theater, shoulders close, pretending everything was fine while the inside of his chest felt like a bomb site—no. He couldn't have done it. He would have fallen apart. Marc would have seen.
Nick didn't want Marc to see him like this.
Didn't want anyone to see him like this.
The knock came soft at first. Three polite raps against the apartment door.
Nick didn't move. His roommate, a business student named Theo who worked absurd hours and subsisted entirely on energy drinks and microwave burritos, was presumably home—Nick had heard the distant thump of music from Theo's room an hour ago, some EDM track with a bass line that vibrated through the walls.
More knocking. Louder this time. Insistent.
Muffled voices. Theo's footsteps in the hallway, heavy and unhurried. The click of the deadbolt. A low exchange of words that Nick couldn't make out, the cadence familiar in a way he couldn't place.
Then heavier footsteps. Coming closer.
Nick's door swung open.
He didn't turn. Didn't lift his head. Some part of him assumed it was Theo, coming to ask about something mundane—the electric bill, the trash schedule, whether Nick had eaten the last of the frozen pizza. The conversations of roommates, small and ordinary, utterly disconnected from the wreckage of Nick's afternoon.
"Nick."
Not Theo's voice. Deeper. Rougher. A voice that made something in Nick's chest seize with recognition.
He turned his head on the pillow.
Marc stood in the doorway.
He was wearing a dark green hoodie, the hood pushed back, his blond hair slightly mussed. His pale blue eyes were wide, scanning the room—the rumpled bed, the towel, the phone facedown on the nightstand, Nick's face still blotchy and swollen with tears. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, like he'd been running. Or like he'd been worried.
"Hey," Marc said. The word came out soft. Careful. "Hey, Nick."
Nick stared at him. His brain struggled to catch up, to make sense of Marc's presence in his apartment, in his doorway, in this moment that was supposed to be private. "What are you doing here?"
"I remembered your address. From that time you mentioned it. The building with the red door, right? Third floor?" Marc stepped into the room, his movements slow, like he was approaching something wounded. "You said you weren't feeling well. I tried texting. You didn't answer."
"So you just showed up?" Nick's voice came out harsher than he intended. Rougher. His throat was raw from crying.
"Yeah." Marc didn't flinch. "I did."
The room felt too small suddenly. Too bright. Nick was acutely aware of his own body—the towel, the damp hair, the evidence of his breakdown written across his face in red and salt. He wanted to hide. Wanted to pull the covers over his head and wait until Marc left.
But Marc wasn't leaving. Marc was crossing the room, his brow furrowed, his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. He stopped at the edge of the bed, looming over Nick with all that height and bulk, and for a moment Nick was struck again by how physically present Marc was. How solid. How real.
"It's not just not feeling well." Marc's voice was quiet but certain. "Is it?"
Nick's throat closed. He shook his head. Couldn't speak.
Marc's jaw tightened. Something flickered across his face—concern, yes, but something else too. Something Nick couldn't read. "Okay," he said. "Okay."
He didn't ask permission. Just lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He was close now—close enough that Nick could smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean, could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his knuckles were red and raw, probably from the gym or from gripping a bat too hard.
"Talk to me." Marc's eyes were steady on Nick's face. "Please."
"I can't." The words scraped out of Nick's throat. "I can't—you shouldn't be here, Marc. I'm a mess. I'm—"
"I don't care." Simple. Flat. No room for argument. "I don't care if you're a mess. I showed up because you're a mess. Talk to me."
Nick shook his head. Turned his face back toward the ceiling. The crack was still there. Waiting. Indifferent.
"Nick." Marc's voice dropped lower. Softer. "Please."
The word broke something open.
Maybe it was the way Marc said it. Not demanding. Not impatient. Just a quiet, steady request, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn't going anywhere.
Or maybe it was just that Nick was too tired to hold it in anymore.
"Adam," he said. The name tasted like ash.
Marc went very still.
"I went to his apartment this morning." Nick's voice was flat. Hollow. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, because if he looked at Marc's face right now, he'd shatter. "I brought him coffee. A matcha latte. His favorite. The door was open. He was—he was in bed with someone. Some guy from his seminar. Lee."
He heard Marc inhale. A sharp, quiet sound.
"And when I—when I just stood there, when I couldn't—Adam looked at me. He looked at me like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. And he said—" Nick's voice cracked. He pushed through it. "He said we were just friends who casually fucked. That we'd never talked about being exclusive. That it was my fault for assuming. My fault for not saying anything. My fault for being—for being quiet."
The word echoed in the small room. Quiet. The same word Adam had used like a knife.
"And he's right." Nick's voice broke fully now, splintering into something raw and wet. "He's right, Marc. I never asked. I never said anything. I just—I just assumed. I thought the way he looked at me meant something. I thought—" A sob wrenched itself from his chest, ugly and involuntary. "I thought I was special. I thought he loved me. But I was just a body. Just someone warm. Just someone who never asked the right questions."
The tears were back. Nick hadn't thought his body had any left, but here they were, sliding hot down his cheeks, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His shoulders shook. He pressed a hand over his face, trying to hold himself together, trying to contain the grief that was spilling out of him in messy, humiliating waves.
The mattress shifted.
And then Marc's arms were around him.
Solid. Warm. Pulling Nick against his chest with a gentleness that made the tears come faster. One hand settled on the back of Nick's neck, fingers threading through his damp hair. The other wrapped around his shoulders, holding him steady.
"I've got you," Marc murmured against his hair. "I've got you. It's okay. Let it out."
Nick did.
He cried into Marc's hoodie, into the soft green fabric that smelled like laundry detergent and cedar, cried until his ribs ached and his throat was raw and there was nothing left inside him but a vast, hollow exhaustion. Marc held him through all of it. Didn't speak. Didn't pull away. Just kept one hand on the back of Nick's neck and the other around his shoulders, his thumb tracing slow circles into Nick's skin.
When the sobs finally quieted, when Nick's breathing slowed to something like normal, Marc spoke again.
"Nick." His voice was rough. Tight. "Look at me."
Nick lifted his head. His face felt swollen, his eyes gritty. He probably looked like hell. He didn't care anymore.
Marc's face was close. Too close. His pale blue eyes were wet—not crying, but close. His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. And there was something else in his expression. Something that made Nick's stomach drop.
Guilt.
"Marc?" Nick's voice was barely a whisper.
Marc's grip on his shoulders tightened. "I need to tell you something."
The air in the room shifted. Charged. Nick's pulse, which had finally begun to settle, kicked up again.
"What?"
"I knew." The words came out like broken glass. "About Adam. I knew what he was like."
Nick went rigid. Marc's hands were still on his shoulders, but suddenly the warmth felt different. Suffocating. Trapping.
"What do you mean, you knew?"
"I mean—" Marc's throat bobbed. His eyes dropped, then lifted again, meeting Nick's with obvious effort. "I mean Adam's always been like this. With everyone. He finds someone. Gets close. Makes them feel like they're the center of the universe. And then he gets bored. Finds someone new. But he never actually breaks up with anyone, because he never actually commits. He just... drifts. Leaves a trail of people who thought they were his boyfriend and never were."
Nick's blood turned to ice.
"How long have you known him?"
"Since high school." Marc's voice was hollow. "We went to the same school. I've watched him do this. Over and over. The guys he cycles through—they're always the same. Smart. Quiet. A little unsure of themselves." Marc's hands tightened on Nick's shoulders. "Like you."
Nick pulled back. Marc let him go, his hands falling to his lap, his expression twisted into something that looked like pain.
"You knew." Nick's voice came out strange. Distant. "That night at the club. When Adam was at the bar. With that guy—with Lee. You saw them. You saw them together, and you—you pulled me away. You made me dance with you."
Marc flinched. "Yes."
"You knew he was flirting with someone else right in front of me. And you didn't say anything."
"I didn't know you then." Marc's voice cracked. "Not really. We'd just met. You were cold to me, and then we did shots, and then we were at the club, and I saw Adam with that guy, and I didn't—I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if it was my place. I didn't know if you and Adam had some arrangement. I didn't know anything."
"You could have said something." Nick's hands were shaking. The anger was back, red and hot, and this time it had a new target. "You could have warned me. You could have told me to be careful."
"I know." Marc's voice was barely audible. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Nick."
"You're sorry." Nick laughed. The sound was ugly. Bitter. "You're sorry. That's great. That fixes everything."
Marc flinched again. His hands were fists in his lap, knuckles white. "I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "After that night, when we started talking. When we started running together. When you recommended Fullmetal and we stayed up late texting about anime. I thought maybe you were different. Maybe Adam was different with you. Maybe he actually—" Marc's voice broke. "Maybe he actually cared about you. You're not like the others. You're smart, and you're patient, and you actually listen when people talk. I thought maybe you'd be the one who changed him."
Nick stared at him. The anger was still there, boiling in his chest, but something else was creeping in around the edges. Something that looked a lot like the guilt on Marc's face.
"You thought I'd fix him."
"I hoped." Marc's voice was raw. "I hoped you'd fix him. And I didn't want to be the person who ruined something that might be good. So I kept my mouth shut. I kept my mouth shut, and now you're—" He gestured at Nick. At the rumpled bed. At the tear tracks on his cheeks. "Now you're like this. And it's partly my fault."
Nick opened his mouth. Closed it. The anger was still there, but it was harder to hold onto now. Harder to aim.
Because he understood.
Marc hadn't known him. Not really. They'd been strangers at a party, thrown together by Adam's casual introductions. Marc had seen something suspicious and had made a choice—a choice he'd regretted, a choice he was clearly regretting now, but a choice Nick could almost understand.
He thought of Adam's voice. "You can't just exist in my space and expect me to read your mind."
Wasn't that what Nick had done? Assumed people would know what he wanted? Assumed Marc would somehow intuit that he needed a warning? Assumed Adam would magically understand that they were exclusive?
"You should have told me." Nick's voice was quieter now. The heat was fading, replaced by something heavier. Something tired. "Once we started talking. Once we became friends. You should have told me."
"I know." Marc's eyes were wet again. "I know. I wanted to. Every day. Every time we texted. The words were right there. But I was scared. Scared you'd hate me. Scared you'd think I was just stirring up drama. Scared you'd stop talking to me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't want to lose you."
Nick looked at him. At the big, broad-shouldered baseball player sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands in fists, his eyes full of tears he was trying not to shed. At the guy who'd shown up at his apartment because a text went unanswered. At the guy who'd held him while he fell apart.
"I don't hate you," Nick said. The words came out before he'd fully decided to say them.
Marc's head lifted. "You don't?"
"No." Nick exhaled. The anger was still there, a small, smoldering ember. But it was buried now, beneath layers of exhaustion and grief and something else. Something that felt almost like relief. "I'm mad. I'm really mad. But I don't hate you."
"Nick—"
"I hate myself." The confession slipped out before Nick could stop it. "I hate that I was so stupid. I hate that I just assumed. I hate that I never asked. I hate that Adam was right about me—I'm quiet, I'm passive, I just wait for things to happen instead of making them happen. I let myself believe something that wasn't real because I was too scared to ask if it was."
Marc was shaking his head. "That's not—"
"It is. He was cruel about it. He was awful about it. But he wasn't wrong." Nick's voice was flat. Empty. "I did this to myself."
"No." Marc's voice was suddenly fierce. He leaned forward, his eyes blazing through the lingering wetness. "No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to take his cruelty and turn it into truth. Adam manipulated you. He manipulated every guy who came before you. He knew what he was doing. He knew you thought you were exclusive, even if you never said it. He just didn't care."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've watched him do it." Marc's jaw tightened. "He finds guys who won't ask questions. Guys who are a little insecure, a little lonely. Guys who just want to be loved. And he gives them just enough to keep them hoping, and then he moves on. It's a pattern. It's always been a pattern. He didn't accidentally forget to tell you he was sleeping with other people. He chose not to tell you."
Nick absorbed this. Let it settle into the hollow space in his chest.
"He introduced me to his friends," he said quietly. "He took me places. He let me leave things at his apartment. Who does that if it's casual?"
Marc's expression flickered. "Adam does. Adam does all of that. He loves the performance. Loves playing the doting boyfriend. Until he doesn't."
The word performance landed like a punch. Nick thought of Adam at the party, moving between his friends like a conductor. Touching shoulders. Smiling wide. Orchestrating moments.
"He seems to orchestrate social moments with care, possibly using his gatherings to subtly push people together."
Nick had thought that about Adam weeks ago. Had noticed the way Adam guided conversations, arranged encounters. Had thought it was charming.
Now it just felt calculated.
"I was so stupid." Nick's voice cracked.
"You weren't stupid." Marc's hand found his shoulder again. Warm. Grounding. "You were hopeful. There's a difference."
Nick looked up. Marc's face was close—too close again. His pale blue eyes were steady, full of something Nick couldn't name. Full of something that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with grief.
"Why did you come here?" Nick asked. The question came out quieter than he intended. Almost a whisper.
Marc's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Because you said you were okay and I didn't believe you. Because you always answer my texts and this time you didn't. Because—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Because I was worried about you. I've been worried about you since the night of the party. Since that moment at the club when I saw you looking at Adam and that guy and I knew—I knew this was going to happen. And I couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop thinking about you."
Nick's breath caught.
The room was very quiet. The afternoon light had faded almost entirely now, the shadows pooling in the corners, the only illumination a soft amber glow from the streetlamp outside. Marc's face was half in shadow, half in light. His expression was open. Raw. Vulnerable in a way Nick had never seen before.
"Marc." Nick didn't know what he was going to say. Didn't know what he was feeling. The grief and the anger and the exhaustion were all still there, but something else was rising beneath them. Something that felt dangerous.
Something that felt like hope.
"I'm sorry." Marc's voice was rough. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I let you get hurt. I'm sorry I was a coward. I should have been honest with you from the beginning. You deserved that. You deserve—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "You deserve someone who doesn't play games. Someone who says what they mean. Someone who shows up."
Nick's heart was pounding. His skin was tingling everywhere Marc was touching him—the shoulder, the back of his neck, the place where Marc's thumb was still tracing slow circles. He was acutely aware of the towel around his waist. Of how little else he was wearing. Of how close Marc was.
"Marc," he said again. His voice was steadier this time. "What are you saying?"
Marc's eyes dropped to Nick's mouth. Lingered there for one heartbeat. Two.
Then he pulled back.
"I'm saying you've had a really shit day." Marc's voice was careful. Measured. "And I'm saying I'm not going anywhere. But I'm also saying—" He took a breath. "I'm not going to be another guy who takes advantage of you when you're vulnerable. You need a friend right now. Not—" He gestured vaguely. "Not anything else."
Something in Nick's chest cracked. Not painfully. Almost... tenderly.
"You're a good person." The words came out before he could stop them. "You're a really good person, Marc."
Marc's smile was small. Tentative. "I'm trying to be."
The silence that fell between them was different from the ones before. Less heavy. Less charged. Nick's body was still humming with proximity, with the memory of Marc's arms around him, but the urgency had faded. Replaced by something softer. Something steadier.
"I should probably put on clothes." Nick glanced down at his towel. "I've been wearing this for... I don't even know how long."
Marc laughed. The sound was quiet, but real. "Yeah. That might be a good idea."
Nick stood. His legs were shaky, his muscles stiff from hours of lying still. Marc turned toward the window, giving him privacy, and Nick pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt from the pile on his chair. The fabric was soft. Familiar. Comforting in a way he hadn't expected.
"You can turn around now."
Marc did. His eyes swept over Nick—the sweatpants, the faded shirt, the still-damp hair. Something in his expression softened. "You want food? I can order something. Or I can go. Whichever you want."
Nick thought about it. Thought about being alone in this apartment, the ceiling crack and the silence and the endless loop of Adam's voice. Thought about Marc leaving, walking out the door, disappearing into the night.
"Stay," he said. "Please."
Marc's smile widened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Okay," he said. "I'll stay."
