Shiver

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Shiver

You shiver, it's windy today. All you could really see and hear are the quivering leaves on the swaying branches that surrounded you for maybe miles; you haven't really had the courage to go this far before. Despite your slow and steady steps, the world is still spinning around you, nymphs of green, yellow and pink swiching pass, causing your clothes to snap gently. There's a small but big enough gape in the leaves somewhere above your head that allows sunlight to pour down into your vision, making it harder to even acknowledge anything. The same inquiries fill your head over and over again and nothing else. How? How was it possible? Why? Why did it have to be her? Why were the Fates so cruel? Why was time still ticking and how was Spring still in bloom? Why was there still sunlight—light? Why did Apollo continue to drive that damned chariot across the sky? Shouldn't he care, too? How come the world was still going on as it did most days? Not only you, but the rest of the world should be dark and cold and lonely, because didn't they notice that she was gone? Your best friend was gone and you couldn't do anything about it. 

Of course you'd seen deaths before, you were a demigod: it was expected. Not everyone lived so long—how long were you going to live? But she wasn't a demigod... your thoughts are cut off by a loud bark. Was that her? You spin around anxiously to the noise as a shadow races across your eyes, so close that you get pushed onto the ground.

"C'mon Mrs. O' Leary! Faster!" Your failed attempt of getting away (because how were you supposed to run when you couldn't even get on your feet?) is cut short when you hear that voice. That voice, that too familiar excited shout. Still, you are terrified as the sun is actually covered in shadow and cold prickles up your finger tips to your spine, sending a visible shiver through your body that won't stop. Your eyes focus slightly as whatever it was slows down and the black streaks become two solids staring back you. The more humanoid figure lets out a chuckle as realization creeps up on both of you and you can finally make out an average-heighted teengaer dressed in all black with shaggy yet adorable long hair, a slick three-foot sword at his side that's also black; the only color on him is the glinting silver chain hanging off his pants, the whites of his converse and the dark green dancing skeletons on his tee-shirt, and the skull ring of his namesake. Nico di Angelo.

Nico carefully walks toward you with Mrs. O' Leary, the hellhound, beside him. The last time you saw Nico di Angelo was more than a month ago, and it had only been a brief wave to each other's directions. The memory of used to liking him makes you blush a little but the cold replaces your cheeks quickly. He looks down at you with a tiny frown but amusment is in his voice when he says, "Holy Zues, you must be cold." Nico swiftly swings the black hoodie off of his arms and onto your shoulders, gently pulling out your hair from underneath. His hands brush across your neck and face as he does this, sending more shivers through you that aren't from just the cold. His hoodie immediately warms you, and not so much to your shock, so do his hands when he brushes away strands of hair from your face, his own fringe falling into his eyes.

He smiles at you, proud that he could help, when you shiver less and you return the smile gratefully. Nico thrusts out his arm—the other hand supporting his weight on his knee—offering you a hand to get up. Faintly, you think, I'm not dying just yet, as you appreciatively take his hand and jump up, finding it easier to stand. You shiver once again by his warm touch. 

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I guess you can put the first part in terms of pretty much anything. In my case, I was thinking of my dog that passed away in Janruary. And actually, I'm a pretty at-peace-with-self kind of person so I didn't ask myself those questions, I was accpeting; but hey, emotion, right? I might continue this one-shot and make it a two-shot (or a three-shot, or a whole story if I actually nuture it) but nmeuwh. Also, please inform me of any grammar or spelling mistakes, and sorry if the later part of that feels less descriptive than the earlier parts: I'm tired.

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