hiraeth

twenty-two

xxii. Nico

When Nico misses his boyfriend, he writes letters.

Some short, some excruciatingly long, but they always wind up piled in the corner of his quarters, unsent and unread. He hides them underneath heaps of hay meant for him to sleep on. There is solace (no pun intended), in the act of pretending he has a pen pal.

The dead don't visit him here. He's tried on multiple occasions, and one would think they'd like this place: it reeks of torture and gloom, but nothing ever happens outside of his routine of waking, eating, writing, and sleeping.

Today, he sits at the long table occupying the middle of the room.

Dear Will,

I'm losing my goddamn mind.

That's as far as he gets before collapsing his shoulders on the wood, exhausted. Because he's bored. Like, bash-his-head-against-the-wall-bored, and he means it literally. The cut on his forehead is itchy from the healing process.

She hadn't even batted an eyelash at his wound when he greeted her days ago, bloody and bruised. Didn't bother to patch it up or offer him gauze. It was fine. He pretty much hated her guts.

He rolls up and slides the sheet of parchment in focus, filling his lungs with fresh oxygen. He had bribed Theo, the guard stationed outside his cell, into finding him some writing tools. Admittedly, it hadn't been too difficult. Nico suspects the young man took pity on him, most likely owning to the fact that they both were miserable.

Today is August 9 (I think).

Did I already tell you that the Evil Lady visited last week? I don't think I did. Gods forbid I try to argue with her, because it's not like she's been keeping me here for well over a month now.

I'd like to think Dad is furious, and I kind of want to see him destroy her to pieces once I escape...wherever this is. Which will probably be never.

I'm very optimistic :)

Nico stops to dip his quill in ink again, the tip of the feather tickling his cheek. He hears the guard snoring and watches the wax of a candlestick drip into its cup, the flame flickering in a little, joyful dance. The opposite of how he feels.

I tried shadow-travelling when she wasn't watching, but of course it didn't work seeing as life apparently hates my guts. Just my luck, too. Remember how I used to complain about hearing the dead all the time? I'm starting to think this is some twisted karma coming back to bite me in the ass.

Anyhow, I don't have much else to report. Nothing of consequence has happened, and I'm really tempted to start a fire just for fun. Theo would get a kick out of it, I bet.

I hope you're safe. Don't laugh, but I miss hearing your voice...

Nico mulls over the last line before scratching it out, imagining how embarassing it would be to actually let Will read that sap out loud.

He can just imagine his expression, ocean eyes sparkling and cheeks tinted pink, golden hair bathed in a halo of summer light.

But at the end of his letter, he signs off like he always does out of habit, with the stupid hope he'll somehow receive the message through time and space.

I love you.

-Nico.

P.S. I think I might have communicated with an outside source the other day, but I'm seriously convinced I was just hallucinating. This is definitely the start of my descent into madness. Help.