Wayfarer at the Zephyr ➵ Solangelo

Part Two: Of Gold and Cerulean

Will suddenly stops, letting the wind blow on his face. The sun had already set, and the visitors are starting to clear out from the beach, fading out to harsher, colder rocking of waves filling their senses. Nico stops walking too. "Is there something wrong?"

Will shakes his head, smiling. "You were holding a toddler earlier," he points out.

"Oh." Nico smiles back, albeit sadly.

"We were supposed to adopt a daughter. Until I was diagnosed."

"Look, Will, it wasn't your fault—"

"I'm sorry, Nico." He envelopes him into a tight embrace, feeling his warmth bleed into the chilly evening night. "I knew you wanted children. I knew you wanted to raise them together. I knew and I still—I still let my illness get the best of me."

"No, Will, it's—" He hears Nico's voice crack.

"Shh," he cradles his head. "I'm sorry for not raising George and Martha with you."

"We agreed we're not naming them George and Martha!" Nico exclaimed, laughing, but Will could feel wetness bleed onto his shirt—Nico was crying.

They stayed like that for a couple more moments, and Will only wanted time to freeze. He hated that it was evening, he hated that another one of his days with Nico has been used up. He hated how the stars above seemed to mock him that night, the calm lull of the waves making his heart feel desolate.

He looks at Nico, wiping away his tears, looking at his gaze that had seemed to age faster than he would have thought. He looked like he had seen a lot; been through a lot. But he still looked young; Will thinks he always had been.

Will cups his face into his hands, bringing their lips together for a chaste kiss. He tastes the salt on his lips, and his emotions linger on loneliness.

As he kisses him slow, on that evening painted grey, he pictures Nico, sat in his own house, no children, no laughter, a cold unmade bed, and an anniversary cake waiting for an owner that never came back home.

Act VII: Pretiosus

lo sai, non vedo nella mia vita altro compagno,  non vedo altra gioia

"Where are we going today?" Nico asks, tidying up the mess he made in the kitchen. His hair is getting too long, Will notices, because today he has tied it up to a small ponytail, his fringe falling over in shadows.

"I'm going to make a small list, or something," Will replies, but he was still distracted. "Who cuts your hair for you?" While I'm gone, he was about to say, but decides against it.

"I learned to do it myself. But my skills are rusty, so it tends to look all shaggy and uneven. Most of other times I just let it grow out; I once had butt-length hair, you know," he laughs, then suddenly it's fading out. "You always cut my hair nicely. You made me so handsome."

"You're still handsome." Will blurts out.

He'd give anything for Nico's rosy cheeks that morning—the way sunlight hugs his form, making olive skin glow youthfully; lithe, knowing fingers undoing his ponytail, until his hair falls free. "Then... will you do it? Cut my hair for me?"

Will could never say no.

———

The white picket fence surrounding their home reminded Will of his early morning runs, his tired heartbeat that never seemed to slow down after coming back to see Nico di Angelo, laying on their lawn, cloudgazing evident on his bright eyes and rosy cheeks. Sitting on their backyard always seemed to travel them to otherworldly places; where the meadows blossom lilacs during spring, and the lake from across it freezing into glacier hideouts at winter solstice.