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Nico wakes to the sun in his eyes. It’s too bright, and it’s annoying, and Nico really wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but, as he’s mentioned, it’s too damn bright. It’s early morning, Nico’s face is directly in line with the light from the window—only the thin, gauzy curtains keep it from being entirely unbearable. The blinds are of no help; they’d broken last night, and now they’re stuck in a weird arrangement half-way down. They would’ve been all the way up, anyway, on a regular day, so it’s not worth contemplating for very long. Maybe when he gets up he’ll just rip them out completely, and then he won’t have to think about the fucking blinds anymore.
He really wants to close his eyes. He’s in that space between awake and asleep that feels like he’s on some really good drugs without all the negative side effects. He can’t close his eyes, though, because the sun is still there, just as it has been for the entire four seconds he has been awake.
Finally, as logic begins to surface, amidst the confusion and annoyance and everything else, he turns his head. The sun still bites, barely, at the corner of his eyes, but it’s much less ruthless. He could almost, mercifully, fall back into the land of dreams.
He doesn’t. The bed’s other occupant, funnily enough, is still asleep, and quite peacefully, at that. The blinds are, this time, at fault. They’re just low enough that the sunlight doesn’t hit Will’s eyes, and instead, the first rays clip across the smooth, freckled skin of his cheek and the soft golden waves of his hair. Nico’s heart kind of feels like it implodes, there, looking at him. The sun, filtered through their thin curtain, drips over him like honey, viscous and sweet and fuzzy around the edges. Will’s back is turned to him, which is odd, but not entirely out of the norm. They both move around plenty in their sleep.
The sheets rest at his hips, sliding millimeters closer to the dip of his waist with every slow breath.
Nico watches, for a while. Sleep still scratches at the surface of his brain, and his blinks are long, and slow, and he kind of feels like he’s drowning. Maybe in the same honey that paints Will’s skin even more golden than it usually is. It’d be a pretty fucking spectacular way to go, he thinks, if he weren’t so aware of how he isn’t dying. He’s good at knowing stuff like that.
Still, if he’s not actually dying, he has more than enough time to be enraptured, he thinks. There’s not really an option to do different; he’s captivated by the image of Will Solace, fast asleep and peaceful right next to him.
Will is a scant few inches away, and if Nico were to lift his hand, he could run fingers across his skin with no problem—but still, it feels as though there are miles between them, as though Will is an otherworldly image cast onto his eyes to make him want, as though Will is something untouchable, and Nico can only admire from afar. He’s been tempted, on occasion, to consider Will as a masterpiece—a pinnacle of human creation, something that should be revered and admired and loved. Masterpieces, though, belong in museums, and Nico cannot imagine being forced to surrender the feeling of Will’s hands in his own, the press of his knee to Nico’s, the warmth of his cheek in his palm, to thick, cold, impenetrable glass. He will keep him here instead, in their shared bed, in their shared apartment, in their shared life, and he will be selfish, because he will be the only one to admire Will in this light, this warmth, to trace over the curve of his shoulder with eyes that are never too tired to do so. No matter how early the sun wakes him.
He doesn’t touch Will. His fingers are cold, and Will, he knows, is warm. Further than that, though, he knows that the moment he does touch him, because it is inevitable, just as the sun will continue its journey in the sky, that Will will turn, roll, so that he is closer to Nico, closer to his touch, his presence.
But Nico isn’t done looking at him, in this light, at this angle, yet.
Will is soft, for the most part, peach fuzz across his arms and along his back and down his chest, and here, now, he looks even softer. He is more tempting than any bed or pillow might be right now, but still, Nico keeps his breaths slow, and does not move. The sun drips over him like liquid gold, along the dips and bends of the lax muscles in his back, the vertebrae in his spine. It highlights strength, curls adoringly over every square inch of warm skin. Nico could take the time to count each and every freckle there, map countless constellations like star charts, but he already knows them all by heart—the shape of a bow, a heart, a sun between his shoulderblades. The form of a lion, a tree, a storm across his ribs. The silhouette of a twisting vine, a serpent, a blade down his spine. A skull between the dimples in his back.
Nico reaches out. His hand hovers less than an inch above Will’s skin, and he can feel the warmth radiating off of him, as though there is simmering sun in his veins. Molten metal in his blood.
The coils of his hair are splayed out across the soft silk of his pillow, ambery-gold against black. He glows entirely against their dark bedding, a color Nico picked out, a set he bought, delighting in their texture against his fingers, the idea of what they would feel like to lay against, soft enough he can feel nothing except for Will’s warmth, his touch, his presence.
He is entirely devout, he realizes in the light of the early morning, in the warmth of Will, even as his brain is still mostly-asleep. He would do anything, bend the very laws of nature if it meant he could stay there, so at peace and so free in his admiration and adoration, for a few moments longer. He is well-versed in the unnatural, as it is, can feel the pull of the shadows beneath their bed and the subdued ones that lay across Will’s skin—over his eyes, cast by their shitty blinds that he could not be more thankful for, at this moment, and across his lower half, obscured by black silk, and in every curve and divot of skin, muscle, bone.
He feels Will this way, through the shadows—uses them like an extension of himself, to feel the shape of his form, to feel skin without touching. He can feel the beat of Will’s heart in the shadow that rests over his neck, the slow and steady thump-thump, thump-thump that sounds like a lullaby. He imagines threading his fingers through Will’s, entirely encapsulated in shadows beneath his pillow, feels how they slip between each knuckle, how they rest in the creases of his palm, denser and thicker.
He is jealous, suddenly, of the shadows he claims as his own, of how they can touch Will like he wants to, and how he can only pretend to, through the projection they bring back.
He is not jealous, suddenly, as he realizes he can touch Will.
The burn in his arm, the one he’s held, hovering over Will, is nonexistent—he could stay here for hours, days, for eternity, but still, he finally lets it fall, to press the width of his palm against Will’s ribs.
He would swear, on so many things, that their hearts beat together.
The effect is instant—he can feel Will’s chest rise and fall, the stutter in breath as he turns, first his torso and then his head, to face Nico. He doesn’t wake, not yet—and Nico doesn’t have the heart to do so himself, because he’s still selfish, and he wants to observe Will just a little bit longer.
Even with the movement, Will’s curls are still spread about on the pillow. Perhaps moreso, now, stretched out to form an unruly halo of sunbeams. Able to touch, now, he runs his fingers through them—his hair is coarser than the silk sheets that make up their bed, but he’s glad. His fingertips have trouble with texture, sometimes, but he can feel every ringlet and wave with ease. Spun gold, in his hand, between his knuckles.
Will’s eyelashes rest gently against his cheek, and Nico’s thumb moves to smooth against the thick eyebrow above, so prettily shaped that Nico’s tempted to press his lips against it in an imitation of a kiss, just to feel him so close. The time for that will come later, though, when Nico is just a bit more awake. For now, his eyes follow the slightly crooked curve of his nose, the soft bow of his lips, the edge of his jaw. His fingers follow, ghosting over the shell of his ear, down to the sides of his neck, his collarbone. Shadows form in little pools, protected from the sunlight by the shape of Will, in the hollow of his throat and the dips in his collar. His shoulders are bare, and free of shadows, so Nico’s hand ventures there, next, his thumb swiping across smooth skin and he pretends he can feel every flat freckle and smattering of sunspots.
Will is so pretty, like this, that Nico finds his gaze being drawn up, up again, to jump from freckle to freckle there instead, across the bridge of his nose, to closed eyes. He knows what they look like, of course, he’s spent so many hours gazing into them, marveling in their beauty, sneaking glances and staring unabashedly in turn, learning how to decipher every emotion that hides behind crystal blue and stormy sapphire. He wants to see them again, though, always does, to watch them flutter open, to find him, clouded with sleep, as recognition does not push away the easy contentment that comes with waking in their soft bed, in their cool apartment, with Nico right next to him. It’s rare that he wakes before Will, and for this reason alone Nico does not fall back asleep—to see that easy, unfaltering happiness that leeches into him when the blanket of slumber falls away, to see that first crinkle of crow’s feet to start their day. It’s precious to him, as though he could hold glittering diamonds in the palm of his hand in the shape of Will’s smile.
His fingers dance along Will’s waist, instead, over ribs like the ivories of a piano, as though he could force the early morning sunlight to stay, so that he could paint Will in it forever.
He could’ve been an artist in another life, he thinks, but only if Will were there too, to be his muse, to be painted and sculpted by Nico for eternity.
The thought is banished, however, as Will’s eyes finally open—there is no paint in the world that could compare to the sparkling, boundless, breathtaking blue there. No stone that would allow him to capture the shape of his lips as he opens his mouth, shifts just slightly towards Nico, and whispers, “That tickles.”
Nico’s own smile could never compare, he knows, and feels nothing but joy. Will’s voice is low, deeper than it is when he’s properly awake, and it sends shivers down his spine.
“Sorry,” he replies, and stills his fingers. Will stares at him for a while more, the shadow of the blinds shielding his eyes from the sun, blinking slow. Nico’s fingers twitch, and then pull, dragging them closer together, over soft silk sheets, until their legs are tangled once more, Nico’s toes against Will’s calf and Will’s arms tucked against Nico’s chest. The shadows between them shrink and waver, the sunlight hits Will’s eyes.
“Hi,” Will whispers, with a small, giddy smile like it’s a secret. His gaze drifts to the window, and Nico stays quiet, watching him watch the sun rise. He marvels, watching Will wake, so slowly, so peacefully, wrapped in his arms like there’s no place he’d rather be.
“Why’re you awake?” Will asks next, and those beautiful eyes are back on him, in the space between one blink and the next. Nico’s toes curl. “It’s early,” he continues, as though Nico doesn’t have a perfectly good reason right in front of him.
“You’re pretty,” Nico says, by way of explanation, but it’s oh so worth it when Will’s smile grows like he can’t control it, when his cheeks flush that baby pink they’ve been missing.
“Ain’t you a flatterer,” Will replies, grin widening further, and Nico would melt if he wasn’t already a puddle of sleepy goo. Will’s fingers spread against Nico’s chest, and he can feel the warmth from them, seeping into his bones and his lungs. Nico’s free hand is numb, trapped beneath him, but he pulls it up anyway, to clumsily rest over Will’s, over his heart.
Will is still smiling at him, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, so Nico replies, “Am I, if I’m telling the truth?”
Will considers this, eyes twinkling, and nudges his face into his pillow. They are so close together, now, that Nico can feel it dip beneath his cheek as well.
“You’re a dork, is what you are,” he eventually proclaims. He’s shifted, a bit, and Nico’s ankle is trapped between his calves. Nico wiggles his cold toes and keeps staring at Will, who squirms under his gaze, but that smile is still pulling at his cheeks, and his fingers are still settled on Nico’s chest. Nico hums, something they both pretend is an answer, and pulls him even closer. They’re sharing the same air, now, face-to-face. Will still looks half asleep, even blushing and smiling as he is, and deep in his bones, Nico feels the same. Nonetheless, something like joy spirals through every one of his nerves, through his bones, muscle fibers, veins—quiet contentment, soaring exhilaration, everything in between—when Will closes those last few inches to kiss him. He’s warm, in a way he never really thought was possible, from the inside out, from the outside in, everything, everywhere, all at once. It’s delightful, wonderful, and it makes him hold Will closer, tighter.
When they pull apart, and Nico opens his eyes once more, the sun almost seems brighter, stronger, but the only warmth he feels is from Will, the hand pressed against his chest, the lips millimeters from his own.
“You are,” Nico whispers, only his second proper sentence of the day, “everything.” It comes from him unbidden, slips from him in the peaceful ease of the morning, but it is no less true.
It’s Will’s turn to hum, this time, and his brilliant blush grows redder. He almost glows, for real, not just an exaggeration of Nico’s admiring mind.
“You’re still a dork, and a half-asleep one, at that,” Will whispers back. An excuse, a deflection, but it only makes Nico want to repeat it again, and again, and again, until Will knows that he has sole possession of Nico’s heart, of his soul, of everything that keeps him alive—but he will wait, until they’re both properly awake, so that Will has to find a different reason to protest. He will assuage that excuse, as well, and the next, and the next, for however so long it takes.
“What time is it?” Nico asks, instead, because he can’t take his eyes off of Will long enough to find the digital clock on his bedside table.
Will yawns as he pulls away to turn his head and look, and Nico traces down the curve of his jaw with his eyes and his fingertips, down across the stretched tendons of his neck, until his hand rests on Will’s chest, in a mirror image of the one above his heart.
“A lil’ past five,” Will answers, turning back around to bury himself in Nico’s chest, to press his forehead against the underside of his jaw, his cheek against his shoulder. Nico can feel it in the thin skin of his throat when Will speaks again: “And I ‘unno about you, mister, but I’m going back to sleep for a while longer. No sense in gettin’ up this early.”
He glances over at their shitty blinds, still letting in the sunlight. He has Will tucked against him now, using Nico to block the light from bothering his pretty eyes, and he considers that to be more than enough of a bribe. He decides, merciful that he is, that they will live to see another day.
“You’re right,” Nico replies, easy, quiet, and turns to duck his face in Will’s soft curls. “No human being needs to be up at this hour.”
Will laughs against him, but Nico’s already slipping back into that weightless state, anchored only by the warmth of Will at his side, and together, they drift off back to sleep.