Boys In Love [Solangelo One-Shots]

Keeper of Words, Keeper of Worlds

A journal made of paper scraps and scrambled words.

It is a heavy leather thing, nearly bursting with all of the fragments that have been pasted in. Sticky notes and odd corners erupting from the edges. A bookmark made from a red ribbon that is much too long; spilling from the center pages, trailing across the table, pooling against the floor like blood. A rubber band holding it all together, stretched nearly to the point of snapping.

Nico's fingers tremble– quake– falter– twitch, twitch, twitch against the cover. Snag against the rubber band. It finally gives, biting angrily against his skin. Nico hisses between his teeth as its covers thud against the table, pages spilling open.

Mouth trembling, eyes flicking, searching, diving across the arrows and symbols and diagrams and pictures. A twisting, hideous road map with no end in sight. He snarls angrily at the sight of it.

Surely, by now, it should all make sense.

"A god? A monster? A fable? Ley lines cross here... too much iron. No, no no... I can't go there. I do not want to be a man of war. Not again. Ares does not favor one man twice. That is why... after all..." Images flash across his vision, he shakes his head to rid himself of them.

Teeth chattering together, scarred hands painted with swaths of color flicking through pages. Fists slamming against the table again and again and again.

His palms skid across the wooden surface, eyes clenched shut in agony. "Athena, have mercy. I seek revelation. A spear of divine epiphany. Just a bit of hope... I seek..."

Stacks and stacks of tombs scattered around the room, spilling open, pages marked by anything that happened to be nearby–spoons, pencils, smaller books. Gutted pages are tacked onto the walls haphazardly, random sentences highlighted in glaring color. On the far wall, a mural born of divine inspiration is being overtaken by it.

"Mercy, Hades. Thanatos. I pray, I ask... Oh, gods. You have been so quiet. I don't..." His breathing is coming in rough and ragged gasps. "Why now? When I was so close? So... So..."

Slowly, he crumples down as if being pressed by an invisible hand, fingers clawing across the table, struggling helplessly to keep him up. His knees find the ground and his whole body tips forward, fingers still seized against the ledge, the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the tile.

"Who are you?" It's hardly a breath, a broken, helpless breath. Tears press against the back of his eyelids, building gradually. His fortification will not be enough to fend them off, not this time. (He supposes, not every battle can be won.)

Dandelion fluff brushes against his cheeks and falls onto his shirt. No doors or windows are open.

Several minutes pass and then, like a blessing, a flower blooming, his trembling lips slowly part. "Ah. I see... I see."

Head nodding, body flowing to the tides of unheard music. Fingers lurching from the table and palms cracking down against the cold floor. His arm lurches upward as if pulled by the wrist by a string and his hand clasps the ribbon dangling down in front of him, glinting.

"A chain, yes. To reality. I won't let go. I won't. You can trust me... Yes."

All of the air rushes from his lungs at once and then slams back against him, leaving him reeling.

"Thank you," he gasps, and unfolds himself, body stretching upward and head tipping back, tears slipping through his defenses. "Thank you."

-

He clutches the journal tight against his chest, rushing wind from the trains blowing past, buffeting his clothes and stinging his cheeks. The red ribbon is snapping and thrashing, tied so tight around his wrist it's almost suffocating. His hair flails wildly around him.