Chapter Text
Before he'd met Nico, the one thing that Diavolo longed for, more than anything else in the world, was to feel safe. Even if only for a moment.
He struggles to think of a time before Nico when he had felt safe. Even the very first memory he has is one of three men's hands digging harshly into his small, colt body, holding him back as he strained and whinnied frantically for his mother. His mother, who had been in her pasture, six men hanging off of her as she reared and cried out for Diavolo, desperately trying to lunge, to strike, to drag these men through the dust in an attempt to get to her colt. But she'd been unable to fight back against so many ropes and hands on her all at once, and Diavolo had failed to escape the grasp of the three men who dragged him away.
He never saw her again. He wishes more than anything that he had a happy memory of her to cling to, but he doesn't even have that. Just the image of her, wide-eyed and terrified, fighting as he was dragged away.
Diavolo had been thrown into a paddock full of a dozen or so other colts and fillies, ones that had been taken from their mothers, too. The separation had made them all frightened, as all of them were suddenly forced to fend for themselves without a mother to watch over them.
Foals in that kind of situation grow mean. Bitter. They had no other choice, really, especially in an environment like this one. The paddock was small, too small, with not nearly enough grass to keep them all fed. They resorted to fighting over grain to get the sustenance they needed, and since Diavolo was the youngest of them, only two days old at the time, he got the short end of the stick in terms of sustenance and the severity of his injuries.
By the time he was old enough to begin training, they needed six or seven men to hold him in place while they forcefully tightened a saddle around him. It felt like he was being crushed, and he'd fought against it, but they had all just tightened their grips, shouting at him to stay still. Someone else had shoved the bit of the bridle into his mouth so hard that it knocked into Diavolo's teeth, sending a shock of pain up his face. He'd jerked his head away, and that was when the man, the one Diavolo would come to know as the father of Cal, took out that blasted riding whip and began to beat him around the ears with it, over and over.
What Diavolo remembers most from that day was the pain; the cinch was too tight around his belly, his mouth and ears throbbed as they forced his mouth open and shoved the bit inside once more. They tied the reins to the stirrups, forcing his head to remain in a lowered position, before setting him loose in the pen. Diavolo had bolted, bucked furiously, reared up so high that he nearly fell over backwards, but he couldn't get the damn saddle off of him. Eventually, he'd been so exhausted that he finally gave up, his legs shaking as he stood in the middle of that pen, head hung low and coat caked in foamy sweat.
Training did not get any better from there. It was always the same man who trained him, too, a man who went by the name of Cal. When Cal had first begun to ride Diavolo, he'd given him the name of "Midnight." The name felt ill-fitting somehow, but then again, everything in life felt ill-fitting. Really, this was the least of Diavolo's concerns.
Mounting Diavolo took a whole other crew of men to get him into position. The first time Cal had swung up onto Diavolo, he'd slammed down on his spine, so hard that Diavolo had started forward, sharp and suddenly enough to send Cal free-falling towards the dirt, landing so hard that he'd seemed to become paralyzed for just a moment.
Diavolo still sees the expression Cal had made as he stood in his nightmares; the green eyes that had locked onto Diavolo with such a fury that the whole world seemed to go still. He'd stomped off, and when he returned, he carried what appeared to be a stick with a pair of leather strips dangling from the end of it. A whip, as Diavolo would soon become intimately familiar with. A cruel, stinging sort of thing.
Cal was merciless with that whip, too. He'd hit Diavolo with it hard enough to leave stinging gashes across his chest and shoulders. When he was riding and couldn't carry the whip, he resorted to leaning forward and boxing Diavolo's ears each time he misbehaved. It was always miserable, but Cal got particularly bad whenever his friends would watch him train. Cal loved showing off in front of his friends, and this usually involved hours of galloping, lots more beatings, and so much boxing of the ears that they would be ringing all through the night.
"Come on, Midnight!" he'd shout in that gleeful voice, seeming to delight in the way Diavolo's head jerked and seized with pain. "That all you got, big guy?! At least try to throw me off!"
Diavolo wanted to hate Cal. He did. But the truth was, he just didn't have the energy to. He couldn't. Not when feeding time consisted of fighting off angry horses who were just as hungry as he was. Not when he couldn't sleep without fear of something coming to take him in the night. Not when he ended every single training session soaked in sweat and barely able to stand.
It was night when it all finally came to a head.
Diavolo had been awoken from his restless sleep by the sound of yelling. Slurred and clumsy, like something was making their tongues thicken in their mouths. A few others in his field seemed to hear it too, because they all turned with pricked ears and flared nostrils, trembling with anxiety as the group of men grew closer and closer to the field, tripping over themselves and laughing so hard that they seemed to be in pain from it.
Diavolo recognized the men as Cal and his friends almost immediately. They'd chased him around the pasture until they could get him cornered. Cal had drunkenly thrown a bridle over his head, grinning wildly as they dragged him out of the field, and Diavolo hated that field, of course, he did, but as they pulled him away, snickering and crowing loudly, Diavolo had suddenly wanted nothing more than to go back to it.
They had taken him to a spot behind the stables, one that was littered with construction equipment. They'd been rebuilding a part of the stables, and there were still stacks of wood everywhere, tools scattered about the dusty ground. Already, Diavolo had felt uneasy.
There was no saddle this time. Cal had just jumped up on Diavolo's back, spinning him in circles to keep him in place as he adjusted himself, letting out a loud belching sound before turning to his friends with a wild grin.
"So, what do y'all want to see?" he slurred, leaning a little on Diavolo's neck for support. One of his friends, Boone, had looked around the site, grinning maliciously before pointing to a stack of wood nearby. Confused, Diavolo had turned to look as well, but he couldn't see anything amiss about the wood.
When he heard that drunken laughter, he knew that whatever it was that these men wanted to do was not going to end well.
Cal had begun to lope him around in a circle, slipping and sliding as he did so, clinging to Diavolo's mane for support. He'd turned Diavolo sharply, heading straight for the woodpile. Diavolo had been confused; he'd tried to turn away, but Cal held him straight, and that's when Diavolo had panicked. He slid to a halt in front of the woodpile, so suddenly that Cal pitched forward and landed hard on his neck. The group of drunken men had burst out into raucous laughter, clutching their ribs and pointing at Cal.
"Stupid fucking horse-!" was the last thing Diavolo heard Cal say before he reached a hand up and boxed Diavolo's left ear, so hard that Diavolo's whole head jerked to the side with a squeal of pain.
That's when it all came together. The anger. The exhaustion. Most of all, the fear, so all-consuming and constant that Diavolo couldn't imagine a life without it.
He hadn't meant to hurt Cal. Really, he hadn't.
He'd just wanted Cal to get off of him.
Diavolo doesn't remember exactly what he did. Just that the laughter suddenly stopped with an abrupt, "Holy shit-" as Diavolo began to buck and thrash wildly, crow-hopping and reaching his head around to sink his teeth into Cal's pants, ripping off a chunk of fabric from it. Cal had hung on tight, had dug his heels in and hit Diavolo's ears over and over again, shouting for him to stop, and the pain just made Diavolo feel crazier, and he was certain that he had finally lost his mind, but it felt good to finally stand up to Cal, to finally do something other than take it.
At one point, Diavolo had bucked hard enough to send Cal flying over his head. He hit the ground with a sickening cracking sound, and then Cal was completely still.
It took his friends a moment to realize the severity of the situation. By the time the panicked shouting had started, Diavolo had already turned and begun to run, as fast as his shaking legs could manage.
They found him, eventually. Of course they did. But apparently, a horse that killed its rider was one that they no longer wanted on a farm such as this one.
So they sent Diavolo away. An auction, they called it. They put a number around Diavolo's neck and shoved him in a stall. Kept him locked in there for days, weeks… who could say. Diavolo certainly couldn't.
That was when he'd first met Nico.
The stall had an entrance with two doors, one on the top part of the doorway, the other on the bottom. Usually, they kept both closed, keeping Diavolo in darkness as he paced round and round, occasionally kicking at the walls and crying out in anger. If a customer came, they usually opened the top part to let them have a look, but Diavolo would always lunge at them, teeth bared and eyes wild, so none of them ever stayed. And when the door opened again, letting in the acrid light from outside, he'd let out a squeal of anger, charging at the door and snapping his teeth, but this time, the customer didn't flinch away.
There's a brief moment of confusion. Finally, Diavolo snapped his teeth just to prove his point before backing away again, pinning his ears and striking the ground with his front hoof to show this new man that he could hurt him if he had to. But the man— Nico, the man Diavolo would come to know as a sort of guardian angel— just tilted his head to the side a little, his teeth worrying the inside of his cheek as he quietly studied Diavolo.
"I toldja he was a mean feller!" the salesman laughed, adjusting his hat on his head. "We can't get anyone in his stall to clean it! He tries to kill the people who come in here. He killed his last rider, you know!"
Nico didn't reply to this, his dark and soulful eyes taking in the swarms of flies that had accumulated from days of not cleaning Diavolo's stall. His dark eyes traveled up over Diavolo's mud-stained coat, over some of the gashes still fresh on his chest and shoulders, before they finally landed on the number around Diavolo's neck. He lingered there for a moment, as if he were mulling something over.
"Look, kid," the salesman tries again. "I get this is the only horse you can afford right now, but I'd just go looking somewhere else, okay? There are a few pretty decent horses that you could haggle a price on around here, even! In fact, I know one of the guys who-"
"I'll take this one," Nico cuts in firmly. "You said five dollars?"
The salesmen blinked at Nico in surprise. Shook his head in disbelief before holding out his hand, accepting the bill Nico handed his way, before tucking it in his pocket and giving a tip of his hat.
"You let me know if there's any trouble getting him out of that stall," the salesman calls over his shoulder, though he clearly doesn't want to be involved with Diavolo any more than he has to. Good. Diavolo liked it that way.
Diavolo turned back to Nico, pinning his ears and baring his teeth again, but Nico wasn't even looking at him anymore. He just lifted the halter from its hook by the door, his eyes scanning over the stall with a look of disgust.
"I get it, big guy," Nico muttered. "If they kept me locked up like this, I'd also kill a man."
Diavolo snorted loudly. He pressed against the back wall as he started to pace back and forth again, but Nico didn't seem fazed by this; he just kept his voice even and his eyes downcast, like everything was okay. Like Diavolo was something other than the angry, frightened creature of aggression he was.
"I want to get you out of here," Nico said, slow and steady. "But you're going to have to come to me." Slowly, he opened the lower door, and Diavolo let out a squeal of fear, raising slightly on his hind legs to strike at Nico, but strangely, Nico didn't step into the stall. Just stood in the doorway, fiddling with the halter as he waited.
Diavolo kept himself pressed to the back wall. Kept striking at Nico, kept lunging before backing away again, but Nico didn't step into Diavolo's stall. Didn't even look up at him. He was waiting, Diavolo realized. Waiting for Diavolo to come to him, like he had all the time in the world to do so.
That was the first time Diavolo had felt some kind of safety. Small, of course, still surrounded by wariness, but there nonetheless.
For the first time, someone was giving Diavolo a choice.
And so, Diavolo had chosen to go.
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There were many things Diavolo loves about Nico Di Angelo.
He loves the way that Nico talked to him; low and even, sometimes with a hint of laughter in his voice if Diavolo was doing something funny. He loves the way Nico always seemed so careful of him, like he was constantly watching for signs that Diavolo needed a break, needed food or water or rest or any other number of things. He loves that he could ask Nico for things, whether it be for a sugar cube or for something to be done a different way, and he didn't have to worry about whether Nico would hit him or get angry. Not to say that Nico was never angry, but he never took it out on Diavolo.
When Diavolo was with Nico, he knew that someone was watching out for him. That he could finally rest, could finally be at peace.
At least as much as he could be with his traumatized mind and soul.
But Diavolo wanted to be that for Nico, too. He wanted to be someone that Nico could rely on, someone that Nico knew could protect him if need be. He'd tried to show it as often as he could, but now…
He just felt so helpless.
It's dark outside, the stars twinkling above them, but Nico isn't looking at that. No, his eyes are on the fire, distant and intense all at once. His chin is resting on his knee, his hand fiddling with a card of some kind, flipping it absentmindedly between his fingers, and Diavolo can smell the rising emotions in Nico: the bitter anger, the ever-growing sense of fear and panic, the quiet undercurrent of longing that permeates everything.
He's been like this for so long now.
And Diavolo doesn't know how to help him.
Diavolo approaches slowly. After a moment of hesitation, he presses his nose to Nico's shaggy mane, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent that he's come to recognize as home; soft and earthy, laced with a hint of smoke. Nico doesn't smile, but he brings a hand up to rub gently at Diavolo's face, pressing his forehead to Diavolo's cheek when he lowers his head further. Diavolo nickers softly, nudging Nico's shoulder with his nose in a desperate attempt to convey his thoughts to Nico.
I'm here.
Oh, Nico, I'm here.
What's troubling you?
Please tell me. I want to help.
Let me help you.
He doesn't know if Nico is picking up on those thoughts. He hopes he is.
"Hey, big guy," Nico mumbles, his voice exhausted, forehead still pressed to Diavolo's cheek. "Can't sleep either?" Diavolo snorts in reply, and the corners of Nico's lips twitch upwards. "Yeah. Makes sense." Diavolo can hear his jaw crack as he yawns, and he steps back as Nico slowly rises to his feet, turning to face Diavolo. "I'm not the one keeping you up, am I?"
Diavolo doesn't know what he's saying, not really. But there's so much pain in his voice, so much aching that Diavolo can feel it in his ears, which still hurt even after years of gentle treatment from Nico. Nico's still clutching that card, too, the one with a familiar-looking cowboy on the back, grinning lazily and raising a pistol. He's been clutching that card a lot lately. And Diavolo doesn't know why.
Again, he tries to communicate with Nico. Tries to send his thoughts to his guardian angel, tries to reach him somehow.
I'm here.
Oh, Nico, I'm here.
What's troubling you?
Please tell me. I want to help.
Let me help you.
Nico's eyes are going watery.
So Diavolo steps forward and hooks his head over Nico's shoulder, letting his eyes slip shut as he rests his weight against it. Nico makes a grunting noise, but he doesn't try to push Diavolo off of him. Instead, he brings his hands up and wraps his arms around Diavolo's neck, pressing his face against it and taking a deep, shuddering breath.
It takes a moment for Diavolo to realize that Nico is quietly crying into his coat. He's overcome with the urge to pull back, to nicker and nuzzle Nico's cheek, his hands, his chest, but he forces himself to remain still. Nico needs this, Diavolo thinks; Nico needs him.
So just as Nico had that day in Diavolo's stall, Diavolo stands perfectly still. He lets Nico decide when to pull away, and it seems that Diavolo was exactly right about what Nico needed because he stays there for a good, long while, his hands smoothing a gentle trail down the sides of Diavolo's neck.
Nico is his guardian angel, yes.
But Diavolo gets the feeling that Nico needs one, too.
And after all the small and large things alike that Nico had done for him over the years to make Diavolo feel safe, it's the least he can do to try and offer Nico that same kindness.