Delusional [a solangelo au] sequel to Psychopath

-How to wish-

Will's pov
Trigger warnings: mentioned hallucinations, mentioned Ed, mentioned SH scars, panic attack
-
(Day 32)

My feet were still wet as I walked down the hallway, a towel draped over my head. Each footstep left a track from the bathroom that was still leaking steam and making the apartment warmer than it already was. I turned up the heat too high, and I was already sweating, right out of the shower.

I pulled my fresh clothes over my damp body and made for the living room before the fog had cleared from the mirror. I was alone with Nico today. And Nico was... not doing well. At all. Ever since the Tylenol scare, he's been... struggling. I'd been trying my best, staying by his side the whole time, but the proximity since 'Tylenol Night' (or so I've been calling it) has sort of been driving us crazy. He needed me, so I stayed. But he needed space, so I made room. But we were bumping knees and breathing the same air every second of the day, since I've been skipping class, and an hour ago we both snapped.

It wasn't detrimental. He told me to back off. I told him it was my house. We both called each other annoying and went to different rooms. And then I showered, which cleared my head.

The fight didn't hurt.
Fighting Nico used to be world ending. I'd sulk, and blame myself, and curse him out until I had a headache and a stuffy nose and a craving for alcohol. And then something bad would happen, and we'd forgive each other. Because before the summer, everything was high stakes and tension so thick and solid a sword couldn't slice it. Things kept happening and we both couldn't handle it and then everything fell apart.

When we fought over the summer, it was one sided, and it was worse than being stabbed in the gut. Repeatedly. He would tell me he hated the sight of me, and I'd beg for his forgiveness, and nothing was ever solved.
Even though we had worked past that time in our lives, thinking about those fights stung like phantom wounds.

Now, fighting was trivial. Normal. It was mutual. It was a snap from both parties that took half an hour to settle over. And kiss better. It was finally... healthy. Even if we were both having a hard time, at least we weren't ripping each other to shreds, piece by piece. Until we were nothing but bare hearts.
Considering we were nearly always in each other's space, for Nico even more so, I think we've handled our emotions pretty well. Better than ever before, really.

I should probably still apologize, though, now that my hair was clean and my head was calm. Nico was having a worse time than me right now, brain wise, and might have taken the 'fight' harder than I had.

The towel dropped over my eyes as I entered the living room. I brushed it out of the way as I scrubbed at my scalp, soaking up the water that kept dripping under the neck of my shirt.

Nico was where I had left him. Sitting on the couch.

His knees were pulled up to his chest, held by his arms, and he was staring at the curtained windows behind the tv blankly. He was so still, he didn't even look like he was breathing. His eyes were glazed over and unseeing, jaw clenched and tense.

I stood at the mouth of the hallway, watching. Waiting to see if he'd turn. Or at least acknowledge my existence with a pointed turn away from me. But he sat, catatonic and unmoving.

Was this petty avoidance? I sighed, rubbing the towel roughly over my head before letting it drop around my shoulders.

I opened my mouth to call his name— to apologize first— but before I could so much as make a squeak, he flinched. And not a small jump like he'd been startled— his head jerked to the side like he'd been slapped, his arms tensing around his legs and his shoulders jolted.