This fic is extremely angsty, but I will warn you every time there is going to be any mention of self-harm or anything like that by putting a line above and below the part that talks about it, telling you that there will be mention of it at the start of the chapter, and telling you briefly what happened at the end. No one will ever self-harm (in the present) in this fic, but there will be mentions of it, talking about other people doing it (later on-- I mention it briefly in this first chapter, though). I won't be talking about that stuff very often (like, only twice through the whole thing), but I don't want to trigger anyone, so just know that there are violent scenes, as Nico gets bullied physically. If anything like that will trigger you or make you uncomfortable, please don't read. Your well-being is so important to me. Thank you. (:

Also, please tell me if I make any errors so that I can fix them. (:

~Ashley (thanks for reading that, if you did)

I was walking home from the Hellish place that some know-it-all adult had so wrongfully deemed "a safe, happy environment for students to learn and grow," when in reality it was a mind-numbing prison whose inmates would stop at nothing to bring others down as long as it glorified their own appearance.

My limbs were aching and the metallic taste of blood rested on my tongue from my split lip. I winced, my knees, forearms, and the palms of my hands were stinging from colliding with the rough pavement and had angry, red road rash extending over them. I was certain I had more than a few bruises on my back and ribs, old and new, and the knee of my already battered black skinny jeans was tragically ripped open; the skin underneath was bleeding slightly.

I sighed, grateful that I had at least managed to cover my face, black eyes were a little hard to explain to my mom, the rest I could easily hide from view or devise a story for. Then again, I'd rather not be beaten up at all, but you take what you can get, right?

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The gravel crunched under my feet as I walked in the middle of the street, practically begging for a car to roll up behind me and put me out of my misery. I'd never do that to myself, suicide was thought of as an escape for many people, and while the idea of ceasing to exist wasn't exactly unpleasant, for me that would be giving into the stronzi who picked on me every day, and I wasn't about to do that. I would push through it, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to me, I wouldn't go for help and make them believe I couldn't deal with them by myself. Because I could.

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I forced myself to dwell on the positive, not to think too much. Thinking is the worst thing someone like me can do because as soon as I recede into the dark pit I call my brain I get lost in a swirling maelstrom of torment and it only ever ends in tears and pain. So I drown out my thoughts with music and words written on paper and over my arms, the walls of my room, and sometimes just reading them from the pages of a book.

I shook my head, I was sinking again. I couldn't get too close to the edge, or I'd fall in. My brain wasn't a pleasant place to be lost in.

I turned the corner to my street--if you can call it that-- which consisted of two houses, one bright blue (which was mine) and one across the street that was a very dingy, peeling brown color, after that the street ended abruptly, replaced with an army of large trees. Hiding a ways into the forest was a small lake that no one else seemed to know about, if I wasn't at school or locked in my room, I was there.

I stopped dead, my eyes widening in shock when I saw the house across the street. A moving truck sat in the driveway, and the "For Sale" sign that had been stuck in the ground was gone. Workers and two people who I assumed were the parents were unloading boxes and furniture and bringing it into the house while a little girl around the age of six ran around, shouting excitedly and getting scolded for being in people's' way.

This wouldn't be a big deal, except for the fact that that house had been vacant since we'd moved in and it had always looked like it hadn't been so much as touched for over twenty years. Someone buying it hadn't even been a possibility in my mind. I shook my head and kept walking, it wasn't that big of a deal, so what if someone was going to be living across the street? I could deal with it.

I jogged up the steps to my house, pulled the key out of my pocket, and unlocked the door, stepping inside and kicking it closed behind me. "I'm home!" I yelled, just so my mom would know, then kicked off my shoes.

I immediately headed left to get up to my room, just like I did every day after school, but my step-mom stepped out of the kitchen, intercepting me before I could get to the stairs.

Her crimped black hair was pulled back into a messy bun and she was wearing jeans and a loose, white top that starkly contrasted her chocolate complexion, the flour-covered floral apron she had on told me she'd been baking. She smiled, her brown eyes sparkling, "Someone is moving in across the street-- you're bleeding!" She exclaimed, moving forward.

I ducked out of the way, "I'm fine, I just fell, and yeah, I saw, what are you baking?" I wondered, trying to peek over her shoulder.

She laughed at me, "Be more careful, Nico, you seem to be getting more and more clumsy as the days go by." She tsked at me, and I couldn't help but wonder what she'd do if she knew I was lying, "It's for our new neighbors, don't get your hopes up." And disappeared back inside the kitchen.

I smiled a little, both in amusement and relief and turned down the hallway and jogged up the stairs, walking up the hallway and stepping into the bathroom. My lip wasn't that bad, just a little dribble of blood, I quickly cleaned myself up and then crossed the hall to a door with a black and white sign that read, "THIS FORMULAIC POP ALBUM CONTAINS NEITHER EXPLICIT NOR THOUGHT PROVOKING LYRICS AND ALLOWING YOUR CHILD TO LISTEN TO IT WILL LIKELY TURN HIM INTO A PASSIVE, DOCILE, BORING, TASTELESS CONFORMIST. SERIOUSLY, GO BUY A ROLLING STONES ALBUM INSTEAD, AND PERHAPS "STICKY FINGERS" OR "LET IT BLEED" AND GIVE HIM SOME SWAGGER AND RECALCITRANCE " and then had a "PARENTAL ADVISORY, EXPLICIT LYRICS" sign below it with, "Preferably something with this" in parenthesis below it.

I turned the knob of my bedroom door and let it swing open. It was like finally coming up for air after swimming a mile without stopping. My room is my safe haven, most people would walk in and immediately think, "Dark," but to me, that was the best way anything could be.

The walls are painted completely black, and the window on the opposite side of the room is draped with thick, black curtains that prevent any sunlight from spilling in. In the left corner, right underneath the window is my bed, where my thick jet-black covers were sitting in a ball in the corner. The floors are deep mahogany hardwood with a thick plush rug splayed out over the center of the room like a huge ebony ink stain. Tucked into an alcove opposite the bed is a desk (black of course) with papers and different writing utensils spread out all over its surface, and a rolly chair was carelessly thrown from its rightful place, sitting halfway between the desk and the foot of my bed.

On the rest of the wall next to the desk was a large bookshelf tucked inside the wall, the top shelf and half of the one below it were empty, but other than that, every space was filled with thick hardcovers and paperbacks alike. A huge well-worn charcoal bean bag sat directly below it, with a few books and a bag of chips residing on it.

The lower left corner of the room is sliced off, making a short, four-foot wall that my raven-colored dresser sits against, displaying a lamp, an alarm clock, and a couple of framed pictures. To the right of that is a full-length mirror. Right next to my bed is a large CD case, which is practically bursting at the seams and houses a radio/CD player on top of it.

Almost every open area of wall is covered with posters boasting pictures of my favorite bands, their members staring out behind thick eyeliner, drawings I'd done over the years, and random things scribbled in silver Sharpie. Then, of course, there are the clothes lying all over the floor that I haven't bothered to pick up yet.

My one and only friend was sprawled out on my bed, her head shot up as I walked in and her tongue lolled happily. Yeah, my only friend is my Newfoundland, Mrs. O'Leary, who's black, surprise, surprise.

I cracked a sad smile at her as she hopped off the bed, loping over and tackling me in an enormous dog hug, I stumbled backward, wincing as her huge paws hit sore spots on my shoulders. I shoved her off playfully and ruffled her ears, "Hey, girl."

She's seriously huge, standing on four paws, her eyes were right above my head, so standing on two, she dwarfed me easily. Sometimes I think she just stands that way to rub it in my face how short I actually am.

I stepped around her and pulled out a random CD from the case, popped it in and turned it up all the way, as was my daily after school ritual. "Helena" by My Chemical Romance immediately burst from the speakers and Mrs. O'Leary wagged her approval of my fantastic taste in music.

I plopped down onto my bed and my dog followed, resting her gigantic head on my chest. I ran my fingers through the soft fur of her head and closed my eyes, letting myself relax for the first time that day, and listened to Gerard's voice as I thought.

This was also part of my after school ritual, I didn't do it for any specific purpose other than to try and forget all of the names I'd had shouted at me and the pain, both physical and mental, that I'd gone through.

I tried not to let myself get down, but it was hard. It was so hard, especially when I refused to ask for help or tell anyone what I was feeling. I knew I should've, but it seemed like attention seeking and being ungrateful because there are people out there who have little or nothing and compared to them, I was the luckiest person alive. I had no right to mope or be sad, but that just made it worse, because I am, and that must make me a pretty terrible person.

"I don't know why you put up with me," I muttered to my dog, "Probably just for the treats." I opened my eyes a little, looking down at her big, mournful doe eyes. I smirked, "Cut the innocence act, I know your real intentions."

She snorted at me, closing her eyes.

"Nice talking to you too," I told her.

Loud knocking sounded at the door, followed by someone yelling. I reached over and turned down the music considerably. "What?" I said back.

I could practically hear my sister rolling her eyes. "You're going to go deaf," she told me.

"Only if I listen to the crap you do." I shot back.

"Whatever, Nico. Mom wants you."

I sighed, pushing Mrs. O'Leary off of me and rolling out of bed, turning off the music in the process. I left my safe haven, making sure to close the door behind me, to go downstairs.

I padded into the kitchen, Mrs. O'Leary on my heels, the only place she didn't follow me was to school and anywhere else she wasn't allowed. "Yeah?" I asked my mom, who was carefully placing banana slices at decorative intervals in the whipped cream on top of her pie. She put a light dusting of coconut in the center, and then picked it up, turning to me.

"Would you take this across the street for me?" she asked, holding it out.

"Me?" I asked, pointing to myself.

She looked amused at this, "Is anyone else in the room?"

I ignored her comment, "Why can't Hazel do it?" I asked. It wasn't that I was too lazy to walk across the street, it was that I was genuinely terrified that I would do something stupid. Meeting new people wasn't really my forté.

She shook her head, "It'll be good for you, I think I saw a boy around your age go inside. Maybe you could talk to him."

I sighed, I know she was trying to help, but the kid probably wouldn't want anything to do with me. In fact, he'd probably add himself to my long list of tormentors. Even if he did talk to me, I'd probably make a fool out of myself. But I didn't say any of that. "Sure, just let me go get my shoes on."

I walked into the entryway, her and Mrs. O'Leary behind me. I pulled my black Vans on and then stood up, opening the door and taking the pie from my mom.

"Be careful," she warned, "don't drop it." Her words sounded more like advice against anything I might do to ruin my reputation over at the new neighbor's.

"I know." My dog trailed me as I left and I didn't stop her, we were just walking across the street, not going in.

I trotted up the steps and rang the doorbell with my elbow, wincing as the road burn met the plastic. I waited while people yelled inside, listening to footsteps rushing around. Eventually, the door swung open to reveal the guy my mom must've been talking about.

He was basically my exact opposite. Where I was short, scrawny, and pale with black hair and boring brown eyes, he was tall, muscular and tan, with dirty blonde hair that fell in waves to frame his blue eyes, pink lips, and perfect jawline. I barely came up to his shoulder, and he was obviously the type of person who would make a ton of friends in no time without even trying. Long story short, it was easy for me to feel like an idiot standing there in front of him.

"Hey!" He said, looking pleasantly surprised. "I thought it was going to be another worker."

I laughed awkwardly, "Uh, hi. No, it's just me. . . I live across the street and my mom baked you guys a pie." I held it out to him, wanting to sink into the ground and disappear.

He opened the door wider, stepping aside, "Want to come in?"

My eyes widened a bit, and I found myself hoping he hadn't noticed, "Oh, uh. . ." I said, turning to look at Mrs. O' Leary.

He seemed to notice the mammoth Newfoundland standing behind me for the first time. "Woah, is that your dog?"

I bit back the sarcastic comment that sprung to the tip of my tongue, figuring it wouldn't be the best way to start a conversation. "Yeah," I said instead.

"Dude, he's awesome," He crouched down a bit to hold his clenched fist out for her to sniff, Mrs. O'Leary complied, "or is it a her?"

"Her. She won't bite." I told him, he reached out his hand carefully and petted her head, smiling. Mrs. O'Leary let her tongue fall out in a lazy dog grin, closing her eyes and tilting her head up while he scrubbed his fingers through her neck fur.

He straightened and looked at me, the right side of his mouth rose higher than the left as he smiled, "What's her name?"

I shifted awkwardly and glanced at my dog, who seemed to be glaring at me accusingly for being embarrassed about her name. "Mrs. O'Leary," I said, feeling a slight blush creep into my cheeks.

His eyebrows rose fractionally and his lips twitched in amusement. "Really?"

I looked at the ground, feeling like a complete dork. "Uh, yeah. . . She's named after this lady from a story because they both survived a fire." I said truthfully, still blushing.

"That's actually really cool." If he was just trying to make me feel better, he was doing a good job of hiding it. "How'd she survive a fire?" He looked down at Mrs. O'Leary, who was staring up at him with her head tilted to the side like she couldn't figure out why we were talking about her.

I bit my lip, "Uh, our old dog, Misty, had just had puppies and Mrs. O'Leary was one of them, I was twelve. . . even back then she was my favorite. One night a fire started in the middle of the night. I was sleeping with her. . . I woke up but I was trapped in my room. Me and Mrs. O'Leary barely got out alive. . ." I trailed off, leaving out the part where my older sister, Bianca, and my real mom had been trapped in there as well, how the firefighters had arrived just in time to get inside, how they had pulled me and the tiny puppy that was with me out, but my family was still inside when the roof started collapsing. If my dad hadn't been away on a business trip, he probably would have been burned alive too, and I definitely didn't mention how after that I only wore black.

Black like the charred remains of everything I had once loved, black like the smoke billowing into the sky as my tears cut tracks through the black soot coating my face, and black like the little puppy that was squirming in my arms afterward, the only piece of my old life I had left. Well, besides my dad, who to that day was almost never home, and when he was he made the house feel like a dark veil had settled over it. Black was the color of everything I'd lost, but it's also the color of everything I had left, the things that were the most important to me, even then. I shivered even though it was perfectly warm outside, trying not to remember that day.

"Are you okay?" His voice was a testament to the fact that he was genuinely concerned about me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I shook my head, "I'm fine." I assured him, putting on a well-practiced fake smile. He didn't look convinced but he also didn't push the issue further, which I was glad for.

"I never asked you for your name," he stated instead, "I'm Will Solace."

"I'm Nico di Angelo," I told him, "Why'd you guys decide to move here?"

"My dad got a job." Will explained, then frowned, "I won't see you at school, I'm homeschooled."

See me at school? Why would he want to do that? "Oh. . ." I said, my brow crinkling in confusion.

Will's eyes danced with amusement, and I found myself blushing again. His mouth twitched again and he reached out, offering to take the pie I'd forgotten I was holding. I handed it over to him, careful not to let our hands brush.

Will turned around, walking into the house without saying goodbye. Ouch. I thought, starting to turn away, feeling strangely sad.

"You coming? Mrs. O'Leary can too."

I turned back around, Will was looking at me expectantly and I realized that he wanted me to follow him, heat crept up my neck and into my face. I had probably turned twelve shades between puce and fuchsia in the last five minutes. "Oh, uh, y-yeah. Yeah. Right." I stuttered, completely thrown.

He walked inside, his amused smirk only causing my blush to worsen. I trailed him uncertainly, being careful to avoid the boxes scattered everywhere; Mrs. O'Leary followed happily, sniffing everything as we walked. The house was surprisingly clean and not-dusty, I decided not to question it.

"Mom! Dad!" Will called.

A woman with light brown hair stepped out of the next room, "Your dad is with your sister fixing the- Oh! A visitor!"

Will beamed, "And he brought pie." He said, showing it to her.

His mom smiled at me, "Double score." Will and his mom smiled at each other like they were sharing an inside joke I didn't get, "Well, how nice of you, Mr. . ."

"Di Angelo." I supplied, "Nico di Angelo, it banana cream, my mom made it. From scratch." I said as an afterthought, then I immediately scolded myself for boasting about my stepmom's cooking and quickly added another shade of pink to my ever-growing list of facial colors.

"Oh! Well, you be sure and thank her for it, I'm sure it's delicious."

I nodded and my dog poked at my hand with her big, wet nose. I glanced down at her and so did his mom. "Oh, this is my dog, Mrs. O'Leary."

"She's adorable." Mrs. Solace proclaimed, grinning.

"Thanks. . ." I said, looking down at her. "Well, it was nice meeting you guys."

Mrs. Solace nodded, "Yes of course, we'll have to get together with your family sometime."

"Yeah, that'd be great." I answered, shifting awkwardly. Just please let me leave before I say something dumb.

"See you around?" Will asked, there was something in his voice that I thought was hope, but I brushed off the idea immediately. Who in their right mind would hope to see me again? Will was probably just being nice.

Will's mom seemed to make a split-second decision. "Nico doesn't have to go, that is, if he wants to stay."

I suddenly felt trapped. Don't get me wrong, I liked Will and all, but I thought I'd probably die from awkwardness after half an hour. The guys at school would get a kick out of that.

"We can't really do anything over here," Will said, "Plus, I should help." He looked over at the huge piles of boxes piled on the ground.

"We could go to my house." The words spilled out of my mouth and plopped into the air without them even entering my mind at all, like they were being dragged out by some exterior force. I instantly regretted them, I should've just said goodbye. I could've offered to help them unpack, that would've been the polite thing to do. You know what, screw polite, that would've been the least awkward thing to do. One thousand times less awkward than going to my house. In my room. Which was basically Emo Central.

Will seemed to think this was a fantastic idea, "Can I?"

His mom looked at me like she was considering my black attire one more time before she made any decisions. I hoped she decided I was dangerous. My mind did a complete 180 as I remembered how scrawny and short I am. Or something. . .

"I don't see why not if it's okay with your mom?"

I could have lied, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to. "I'm sure she'll be fine with it." I just hoped I didn't sound as terrified as I felt.

"Okay," Will said, smiling at me.

"Uh. . . So, off to my hous, we go."

He laughed and started making his way to the front door. I followed him, waving goodbye to his mom before he shut the door.

We walked back to my house, Mrs. O'Leary proudly leading the way. As we approached the front door, I had the startling realization that Will was the first person I'd ever brought into this house. The first (maybe) friend I'd had since, well, since ever. My hand hesitated for a split second before the doorknob, shaking-- I was so afraid I was going to screw this up-- before I grabbed the knob and turned it, pushing the door open.

"Mom, is it okay if Will, the kid that lives across the street, can he come over?" I called into the house.

My mom poked her head out from the living room, her eyes widened and she looked at me like she couldn't believe I'd made a friend. I couldn't blame her, I didn't believe it either, I wasn't even sure if Will was my friend, what classifies someone as your friend anyway?

"Yeah!" she said, sounding extremely excited, "You two have fun! Do you want me to make you snacks? I could make you some--"

"No, Mom," I said, blushing intensely, we're fine."

"Oh, yeah of course." My mom turned to Will and asked him if he was going to Oak Hills, I zoned out after that as she continued to ask him questions, my mind wandering over to the area of my brain reserved for my ideas. I thought about different things I wanted to draw and ideas for things to write, I started wondering if I should paint my ceiling blood red and then someone said my name, "What?" I asked, reality hitting me in the face like a freight train. Reality was a cagna.

My mom rolled her eyes at me, "Where have you been this whole time?"

That woman could read my mind, I swear. "I was thinking about painting my ceiling. . ." I admitted.

She shook her head, "I'm not going to question you anymore." she told me, walking back through the doorway on our right.

I almost smiled, "My room is up here." I told Will, walking towards the stairs.

We jogged upstairs together and I led him up the hall and walked into my bedroom, Will trailing after me. As soon as I was inside I plopped down on my bed to watch his reaction to the dark interior.

He didn't look weirded out in any way like I had expected. From what I saw, his expression wasn't any different than when we walked into my house: curious and open.

Will made his way over to the bookshelf, "You like to read?"

I nodded and then realized he couldn't see me, "Yeah."

He scanned the titles, smiling, "Me too." He turned to face me, "You have a fantastic taste in books."

I smiled a little, shifting my weight awkwardly, "Thanks, I guess."

He laughed, the sound was almost musical, rich and filling the air with the sound of pure joy. It made my heart ache. He walked over and sat next to me, bumping his shoulder against mine, which made me smile a little again, and looked around. "Why all the black?" he wondered, glancing down at me, "It seems kind of. . . sad."

I looked down, slightly flustered and definitely more than a little pink. "Black is. . . kind of symbolic for me . . ." I trailed off, looking at the picture of my family before the fire, when I was six and we still lived in Italy, that was sitting on my dresser.

My mom was smiling brightly, and my father stood slightly behind her, his lips turned up at the corners slightly. Bianca and I were at the front, she was holding my hand and I was laughing, showing off my missing front tooth.

Will followed my gaze, out of my peripheral vision I saw his brow wrinkle in confusion and his lip twitch slightly. He was probably thinking that the woman in the picture was definitely not the one he'd just met.

I waited for him to ask about it, but he never did. We sat in silence for a couple of seconds before Will turned his head to look at me. "So, what do you usually do in your spare time?" he asked randomly.

I was a little thrown by the question, but I was also grateful for the distraction. "Er, I'm pretty boring." I said, looking down at my hands again, my hair fell down into my eyes. "I mostly draw, read, listen to music. . ." I fiddled with my fingers nervously, "I spend most of my time in here." I finished.

"That's not boring."

I looked up, Will was looking at me with an expression of pure honesty, frowning slightly like he couldn't believe I'd call myself boring.

I stared at him, "W-what?"

He looked slightly amused at my shocked expression, "I don't think you're boring."

"But you don't even really know me."

He nodded, "And I can already tell that you're different." Yeah, I think I know that. "You don't bend to conformity, and I can't seem to figure you out, in my book, that makes you interesting."

I just blinked at him, "O-oh. . ."

He smiled at me before standing up and walking over to the wall next to my door. He moved his eyes slowly over a drawing of a forest fire I'd done in bright Prisma colors and brushed his fingers over the words, "Belle cose sembrano bruciare il veloce" scrawled on the black wall in silver Sharpie nearby.

I fidgeted while I watched him, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. I wondered dully if he could hear it all the way across the room.

"What language is this?" he asked, looking at me over his shoulder, his slender fingers still resting lightly on the words.

"Italian." I answered absentmindedly, my eyes still resting on Will's hand, he had musician's hands, I realized.

Will's hand dropped as he turned to face me, and my eyes flicked to his face.

"You speak Italian?" He asked excitedly.

"I am Italian. English is my second language." I informed him, amused at his reaction, my faint accent should have tipped him off. "Do you play an instrument?"

Will looked surprised, "Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"Your fingers, I inferred."

Will lifted his hands, studying his digits, "What about them?"

I shrugged, "They're long, and the tips are calloused, do you play the guitar?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, watching me with a dumbstruck expression, which then turned to one of amusement.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"You're blushing." he informed me, his tone was smug, more a confirmation of the fact that he was finding far too much pleasure in teasing me than anything else, "Again."

I scowled at him, feeling my cheeks redden more, "I am not."

"Really?" He tilted his head, "I could have sworn your face was a pale olive before."

"Shut up." I muttered, ducking my head.

Will laughed, "It's going to take a lot to shut me up." I thought he winked, I might have imagined it, but I blushed anyway, and Will grinned.

I glared at him, "You're trying to make me blush now, aren't you?"

He raised an eyebrow at me, "Actually, no. But that's a great idea, thanks, Neeks!"

My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened in indignation. "Neeks?" I sputtered.

My protests only seemed to amuse him more, "Yeah, that's my new nickname for you."

"What if I don't want to be called Neeks?" I asked, folding my arms.

Will shrugged, "It's too late now," he said dramatically, "I've made my decision, Neeks suits you. Also, you're blushing and we've just decided that's my new goal in life."

I was starting to wonder why people would want friends in the first place. Human interaction wasn't as great as everyone made it out to be, (I didn't count being bullied as human interaction. . . But who would?) and I realized that Will was right, I was blushing, and I hated it. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just kind of sat there, looking at him.

He tilted his head to the side, "Are you okay?"

I blinked, What?

He took a couple of steps towards me, "I was just teasing you, Nico, if it really bothers you I don't have to call you Neeks."

I felt my cheeks grow slightly warmer, "No, Neeks is fine." I said defensively.

Will's lip twitched, confusion apparent on his face, "Okay. . ."

I looked down, closing my eyes, Great, good job, Nico. You just scared away your first chance at an actual friend within the first day of meeting him. Smooth. I'd pretty much decided I wasn't going anywhere in life when I felt the bed sink down next to me.

I looked over at Will, who was looking distressed for some reason I didn't understand. "Are you okay?" He repeated.

"Is anyone ever okay?" I replied.

He shrugged, "I think that there's things that can make us forget that we're not okay."

I raised an eyebrow at him, "Are you offering me drugs, Will Solace?"

He laughed again, he seemed to do that a lot. Or maybe he laughed the normal amount that most people did, and I just didn't laugh often enough. "No, Nico, I think I'm offering you friendship."

"You think?"

Will rolled his eyes at me, "Just say yes or no."

I shrugged, "Sure."

That earned another one of his musical laughs, "Good enough for me."

I nodded and watched my feet as I swung them back and forth. "I'm sort of new to this."

"You make it sound like I asked you out on a date," he replied, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows.

I gave him a weird look before going back to staring at my shoes. "I mean, I've never. . . I've never really had a friend before. . ." I said awkwardly.

Will's eyebrows shot up, "Never?"

I shook my head. "Nope, unless you count Mrs. O'Leary," I said, jutting my chin towards where she was sprawled across the bean bag. The bag of chips was now empty and there were crumbs everywhere. I didn't know how we'd missed her chowing down on them.

Will bumped his shoulder against mine again, "Then I'd better not screw up."

Just don't kick me in the gut and you'll do fine. I narrowed my eyes at him playfully, "Yeah, you'd better not, or I'll kick your culo." I'd developed a habit of only swearing in Italian, that way my mom and Hazel couldn't understand me, I refrained from swearing at all in front of my dad, when he showed up, that is.

Will's lip twitched, this time, it angled upwards in the process, so I assumed he found what I'd said funny. "Maybe I can get you to wear something besides black."

I rolled my eyes, "In your dreams."

"Dreams can come true."

"Try and put anything colorful anywhere near me and I'll snap your neck." I said viciously.

He shrugged, his lip twitching again, "That won't stop me from trying."

"You say that now," I replied darkly.

Will laughed and flopped back onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I looked back at him, my lips curving upwards at the corners. "Comfy?"

He reached over, pulling my blanket over him from its scrunched up position at the corner of the mattress, and turning over to his side like he was going to sleep, "Yes, in fact I am."

I fell back onto the mattress with my head on the pillow and rested my feet on him. "So, what do you usually do you in your spare time?"

He opened his eyes and looked up at me, "I write music and lyrics. . . Sometimes I write poetry. I spent a lot of time at the beach back home. . . But there's not one here so I guess I'll just go to a pool or something. . ."

"There's a lake that I like to go to." I informed him, "No one else really goes there so--" My voice faltered fractionally, and I gulped, holding back what I was about to say, "so I go there to think. We should go together some time."

He smiled at the idea, "That sounds nice."

My mouth tilted upwards, "Yeah, it does."

We laid in comfortable silence for a while, I stared at the ceiling and Will, actually I had no idea what Will was looking at, I glanced down at him and found that his eyes were still planted on my face. Heat flared into my cheeks again and I immediately looked back up. Will didn't seem at all abashed at having been caught staring at me. Then again, why should he? He was just looking at me, I had no proof that he had been looking at me at all before that moment.

Will rolled over onto his back and my feet dropped down onto his stomach. "What's so interesting about the ceiling?"

I huffed in amusement, "Nothing." I told him, "That's why I'm staring at it."

"For some reason, that doesn't make any sense to me," Will informed me.

I looked down at him, he had a smile on his face, the one that lifted the right side of his mouth higher than the left, and his gaze was firmly planted on the uneven white paint of my boring ceiling.

"I'm trying to think of ways to make it more compelling."

"The ceiling?" he inquired doubtfully.

I nodded in confirmation, moving my gaze upwards again. "The ceiling."

"Like painting it?" His words were full of humor, which I decided to ignore.

I nodded again, "Exactly. Why should ceilings be any less interesting than walls or floors? Just because we don't look at them often doesn't make them unimportant, and maybe if the ceiling was decorative, people would notice it more." I felt like I was talking about more than just ceilings and walls.

"That makes sense, I guess," Will told me, "Maybe I could help you decorate your ceiling."

I closed my eyes, "Okay."

We spent the next couple of hours just talking. I'd never talked this much in my life. We talked about Will's old house and the people he'd left behind, he asked me about Italy and I told him about the canals that made up some streets, and I described the scorching summers and how tourists took pictures of everything, even the little things that seemed so ordinary because I saw them every day, and how now I wished that I had done the same because I missed the place where I had grown up and I had taken it all for granted. After that, I informed him that back then I actually wore things other than black, and he laughed and smiled through the whole thing. He didn't seem to get bored and he dropped subjects immediately that seemed to make me uncomfortable.

I'd asked him if he'd had a girlfriend back home and he'd gotten a smile on his face that was full of amusement like I'd just said the funniest thing in the world and replied simply with, "Not exactly. . ."

He didn't expound any further and I didn't ask him to, if he wanted me to know, he'd tell me. It was like an unspoken agreement between us. It was weird how easy it was to talk to him.

Will was sitting in my office chair now, his feet propped up on the desk, flipping through one of my sketch pads and I was sprawled across my bed, Mrs. O'Leary stretched out beside me, answering questions.

The door swung open and we both turned to look at Hazel, me pausing in the middle of explaining that the particular drawing he was looking at was a metaphor for being trapped in your own thoughts. It was a picture of a boy, his face beaten and barely visible between mounds of random objects that symbolized different things, his hand was reaching out of the mass, his face terrified, pleading. It was pretty dark, but Will didn't seem to mind.

She looked back and forth between us, obviously shocked at how casual we seemed. She shut her mouth and shook her head, "It's time to go." She then pulled the door closed, and we heard her footsteps thumping down the stairs.

Will shut the sketch pad and stood up, turning to look at me. I sighed, pushing Mrs. O'Leary off of me and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Will stretched his arms above his head, "That was fun, we should do it again sometime."

I nodded, "Yeah, definitely."

"See you tomorrow?" Will asked, walking towards my door.

"See you tomorrow," I confirmed, watching as he twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open.

He grinned, "Bye, Nico." And then he stepped out, turning to close the door behind him. It seemed strangely abrupt, but I just shrugged, Like I know anything about the 'proper' way to say goodbye.

So. . . Tell me what you think so far? I have the next chapter finished, it's undergoing editing. . . So, yeah! (These chapters are like six times longer than the ones in Heart Beat so they take a lot longer to write and everything) Do you want more. . . or does this suck. . .? Tell me, people!

~Ashley

(P.S.) The --lined-- part just talked about how Nico would never commit suicide or anything like that because he refuses to give up. I just thought I'd line it just in case.