Solangelo Oneshots

20 (s)

By malkuthe

Trigger warnings: contains smut

Nico sat on a fencepost at the end of the farmland that had been left to him after his father's untimely death no more than a year and a half ago. He did not want to look back on that time, but when everything in the farm reminded him of the family he'd lost, it was difficult at times and almost impossible at others.

Mournful notes drifted from the wooden flute that Nico held to his lips. Behind him, much of the farmland that had lain fallow since the last winter—the last time that he had had help with the management of the farm.

The song Nico played was a lilting and grieving one. It was difficult not to grieve. The solitude of being a lone farm boy on a property much too big for one man to handle, much less a boy just on the cusp of becoming one, was almost crushing.

Nico was at a loss for what to do. He hadn't known where to go or whom to talk to for the longest time. "Bianca," he whispered, to no one in particular. The notes from his flute fell silent. "I wish you were here," he said.

Nico's mother had died when he was young, and his father had been supportive since then. Only, his father had gone out on a hunting trip, but had never returned with the friends that had accompanied him.

Nico suspected the story was dire and gruesome. No one had dared speak it in front of him. He supposed they thought he was young—much too young for all the losses that he had already endured in his short life.

The loss of his father had been hard on Nico and his sister, Bianca, but they had managed. They had finished the harvest, just the two of them, working as an efficient team. They had built up a stockpile that lasted them—him—the winter. Only, in their haste to gather food, they had neglected to attend to their other needs.

Without firewood, and with little medicine to go around, it had only been a matter of time before one of them fell ill. It was only Nico's misfortune that it had been Bianca that took sick. All the effort that he put into keeping her alive was wasted when he left to find medicine.

Nico had succeeded. He had found what he needed, only too late. Bianca had asked him not to go, but in desperation, he had insisted. When he had returned no more than half an hour later, Bianca was as cold as ice. The fire in the hearth had died, and with it, so had the life in Bianca's eyes.

The memories were painful, and they tugged at the strings of Nico's heart. He placed his lips upon his flute again and played the one lament that he knew. As the lilting tunes floated through the still spring air, tears began to fall from the sides of his eyes.

---------

The day's work had been hard—much harder than Nico had ever anticipated. It certainly didn't help that melancholy hung about his shoulders like a leaden weight. Truth be told, he was more than ready to lay in bed and sleep the night, as well as his sorrows, away.

However, Nico knew better than to go to sleep on an empty stomach. His days—now, more than ever—started earlier and ended later. It was farcical to not face them with a good dinner and a hearty breakfast in his belly.

Nico nearly jumped out of his chair, so startled that he dropped the piece of bread he'd been swirling around in his stew into the bowl. There was a loud slopping sound and a splash as some of his dinner spilled over onto the wooden table. There had been a soft knocking at his door—well past sundown.

Warily and not without arm, though Nico doubted the efficacy of the heavy wooden stick he carried, he went to his doorway and opened it a crack. Much to his surprise, what he saw wasn't a group of soldiers come to collect taxes. What he saw wasn't even unpleasant. It was exactly the opposite, in truth.