At her first words he groaned a sigh, his head tilting back on his shoulders as he pleadingly contemplated the skyscrapers looming above them. Would she not just fuck off already? What did he have to do? He\'d been nice, he\'d told her he\'d be fine, he\'d been polite then firm, he\'d tried to run away from her and still she hounded him like a bitch. He stared at the light-fogged night sky and thought about what he could do next, her words a rhythmic jumble he let slide right over his skin and away.
He didn\'t want to hear anything she had to say. Especially when she started talking about her people. The closest he\'d ever come to having the type of fucking people she was blathering about was his father\'s father. He\'d been a product of the old ways and had begun teaching Nash when he was very small, but that had all ended when he\'d died. Nash had been four and his father, in the midst of fighting with his wife every night about money, their house, car payments (or whatever the fuck they\'d had to haggle over like starving mongrels finding half a hamburger in the street), hadn\'t taken the death well. That was pretty much when the drinking started, and Nash\'s mother left a year or so later, poisoning an already-sour Comanche soul for good.
"No," Nash grated, coming to a stop and turning to face her, not caring that they were in the middle of the footpath and his voice was loud enough to draw attention to them. "I don\'t miss my \'people\'," he sneered, "I can watch guys get drunk, kick their dog and have them punch me in the head right here too, if I want!" he yelled, the blackness of his abusive childhood welling in him, drawing a fist from his pocket and pounding it against his own skull a few times for emphasis.
He didn\'t feel any pain from it, but it did make him blink and a very sudden, raw silence welled in the wake of it. He realised he was leaning towards her, his face angry, his body furious and he straightened away, putting a little distance between them again with a heavy sigh. His fist opened and he ran it over his scalp, scratching the back of his head and then grasping the back of his neck, his posture now uncertain. "I don\'t wanna\' talk about it," he said quietly, his words more of a plea than a command, the sentiment echoed in his eyes. "It\'s... in the past. Just let it go, alright? Please just... leave it. Alright?"
Tiredly, he turned, intending to walk away from her and continue on his way home, knowing there was sorrow in his eyes, feeling the happy cloud of drunkenness curdling instead into a stale and bitter aftertaste. He never wanted anyone seeing him when he was like this; it\'d pretty much never happened with anyone except Wade. And now some random Cherokee chick that didn\'t know when to leave well enough alone. Great. Maybe this was why he hadn\'t scored tonight... although, he was pretty certain she\'d caused this mood.
She, with her familiar-looking features and her too-positive words. Her reminders of home when he wanted none. He sighed again as his arm dropped down and he tucked his fingertips back into his jeans pockets, looking around at the scenery and trying to find comfort in the cold, emotionless face of the city.
