Waking up to music screeching in the inside of his head a half-hour before sunrise every single day is, frankly, hell. Especially when he has the day off. That’s the worst.
But there is, on those rare days off, one benefit — so good it might, although Will shall never in a million years admit it, make the whole ordeal worth it.
On morning shift days, he spends the first ten minutes after he wakes up with his face down into his pillow, praying for the sun to hit the Earth. His prayers have yet to be answered. He spends the next ten minutes sitting, bleary-eyed, at the edge of his bed, waiting for his brain to boot-up and imagining his neurons are making little dial-up internet noises to amuse himself. The final ten minutes before sunrise he spends sprinting silently around the cabin, trying to brush his teeth and put his shorts on at the same time and generally failing at being a person.
Mornings are not fun.
But on his days off, he can afford to be slower. He can’t go back to sleep, true, but he can take the time to let his brain catch up with the rest of him, to breathe, to actually, genuinely wake up, not just be forced to be awake. And then as the sun rises, golden rays bleeding through the window, he bears witness to the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.
Nico is gorgeous, swathed in sunlight.
Some might say Will is biased. But Will, these same people might forget, is the son of the god of truth, the god of beauty. He sees these things in the world as easily as some mighty see colour — he can see the Nico is beautiful, and he can see that this is true.
He always is beautiful. Even when he was halfway to dying and twisted in rage in sorrow, he was beautiful. Aside from high cheekbones and a devilish smile and fine, gorgeous hair, he stands in divinity. There is something wholly powerful in the set of his shoulders, the rigidness of his spine; the same kind of beauty in a staggered mountain, in a gnarled tree. A sturdiness, a timelessness, an I have been tested, I have been challenged, I have been beaten; still, I am here. Gracefully, I am here.
Now, Will watches, back to the headboard, as the first few lines of yellow-golden sun filter through the open window above Nico’s bed. They climb slowly, started at his sheet-covered feet, travelling in time up the curve of his cast, stuttering at each fold in the linen, to the crest of his hip. By the time the sunlight crawls over the ridge of the end of the sheet, in bleeds through the window in full, bathing his bare torso in light: his scars, curving like sparkling rivers, his freckles and moles, flicking like dappled light through leafy branches. A forest floor of beauty, in the twisting roots of muscles under his skin, rock-dark bruises over the square of his scapula, the valleys and hills of his ribs. Thousands of miles in which Will loses himself, following the path of the light.
He stirs, slightly, at the brush of his lips against the blurred line of daylight and shadow, tickling the line of his shoulders.
“W’ll?”
“Go back to sleep,” Will murmurs, breathing the words into sleep-warmed skin, raised with goose-flesh.
Nico hums. A small smile tugs the pink curves of his lips, making the corner of his eyes crinkle, the fan of his lashes flutter. Will is awestruck.
“‘Kay.”
He’s out again in seconds, sighing as he settles back against the pillows. His hand, acting out his dreams, drags across the mattress until it spans the curve of Will’s thigh and stills, gripping loosely. Will wraps his own fingers around it and squeezes.
“I love you,” he says softly. He holds his breath, waiting for Nico to stir again, and sighs in relief when he doesn’t. “It scares me.”
A breath of air blows a strand of Nico’s hair across his forehead, almost copper in the early morning sun. Will brushes it easily out of his face, lingering as he tucks it behind his ear.
“I’ll tell you,” he promises, risking another, softer, kiss to his lips. Barely a murmur of touch. “Soon. Sleep well, darlin’.”
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C'mon now, sit down.
Talk to me, what is you so scared for?
Fuck you mean "of what"? Im asking you why you so damn scared of transitioning. Who is you scared of?
Yknow what, fuck them. Fuck that noise and fuck them for tryna put that shit on you. Ain't nothin wrong with you, some men are born butterflies and others are born caterpillars. There isnt some grand betrayal caterpillars commit against caterpillarkind when they transform, theys just doin whats natural, so why cant you?
Nah, nah man you focused on the wrong shit here, who the fuck cares if you're ugly? Moths don't hide in the night cause they're "ugly", they just sleep all damn day. Sure, maybe you somehow aint cute in a few years, but you'd be happy, wouldnt you? You'd see the man you are in the mirror, you'd see a mans hands when you're just randomly doing shit, you'd smell and sweat like a man, you'll sound like a man, you'll look like a man, which is exactly what you want.
You listenin to all the wrong people bro, transitioning to be a man wont make you no angry roid monster or magically turn you into a sexist. You'll be beautiful and secure. Look at you now, hunched over and wearing clothes 2 sizes too big 'cause you dont want no one to notice you. What if you liked your clothes? What if you was proud of your body? Dont you wanna look down one day and finally see a cock?
I know you still scared, that's alright, I dont think caterpillars really know what they're doing when they decide to go sleep in a little pod for a few weeks either. That's what i'm here for, you dont got nothin to be scared of, you just gotta trust me, okay?
Cool, now get up and c'mon, I'll do you a favor and give you your first shot. Don't you give me that, it dont even hurt lmao, c'mon.
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