My hands are twitching under Will's, itching to get up, get back into the fight, finish it. I just want to punch something, let out all of the pent-up energy, the adrenaline. My heart is still going a hundred miles per hour, my split lip is still throbbing. Everything in me is singing, revving, hungry.

And Will's hands are steady, his breath is soft, his muscles are relaxed. He's the epitome of calmness, standing in front of me where I'm sitting on his counter and gingerly wrapping my bloody knuckles with bandages the color of fresh snow.

We're nothing alike. I drive a sleek black motorcycle and take every chance to test the speed limit, he drives a rusty old truck and stays five miles below. He has a laugh like springtime and a smile to match and I hardly do anything but smirk. I wear leather jackets and beat up combat boots and he wears soft cotton t-shirts and a pair of Nike's that are barely being held together by layers of duct tape. I'm all rough edges and corners sharp enough to cut and he's all sleek finishings and soft designs.

I think that I'm drawn to him because he wears away at all of my harsh surfaces. Like sandpaper.

Will's got calloused hands and his fingertips grate softly over the back of my hand as he finishes and tapes it off. There's a moment when he hesitates, lets his fingers trail softly over the bandage, lifts my hand, turns it over to make sure he did it right, that it's not too tight, and then he lets go. He doesn't step back, his thighs are still pressed lightly against my knees.

He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself now that his work is done. His hands hover in the air for a second before he lets them drop to his sides, I let my own fall down against my legs, curl into fists. Just to stop myself from doing something stupid, just to have something to do. My blood is still racing, my muscles are taut like curled springs. I flatten my hands out over the fabric of my jeans, fingers flexing and twitching. They pull themselves back in at the same time I blow out a breath, it's meant to be steadying. It feels like a feeble echo of a war cry.

"Nico." His voice is so unbelievably gentle, he's so unbelievably everything that I am not.

I look up at him, his eyes are so soft. They're the color of June skies, his hair is the color of June's sun, his freckles are June's constellations, his lips are June's warm air. He's summer.

I just meet his gaze with a subtle challenge, with lips pressed into a thin line, blood still oozing feebly from the cut there. He just sighs, eyebrows drawing together, "I thought you were done with this." He says it like it breaks his heart.

My lips pull themselves into a snarl, not because I'm angry at him, but because I'm furious at myself for letting him down. "I didn't throw the first punch."

Will's fingertips skitter nervously over my cheek, dusting the angry bruise there, "You didn't have to throw any punches at all."

Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to.

I squeeze my eyes shut because his touch was so light and now it's gone and it wasn't enough. Nothing is enough, nothing fills the gaping hole at my center. It's always more and faster, harder, sharper, better. Not enough. Not good enough.

"This was the last time, I swear." I flex my jaw, grit my teeth together.

Will stares at me, stares right through me, using that gaping, desolate hole as a window to my soul. He's always been able to pick my weaknesses apart. He is my weakness. "Every time is the last time with you."

I look to the left sharply, away from him and his disappointment. I want to run a mile, I want to do something impossible, I want to be desperate and reckless. "I'm just not..."

There's a low buzz of white noise, of him breathing, of my blood rushing in my ears. He's waiting for me to finish my sentence and when I don't, he reaches out and nudges my chin lightly with his fingers so I'm looking at him again. When he sees the expression I'm wearing (angry, frustrated, sad, unreadable) he frowns and cups my face in his palm, lets out a low, surprised noise when I let my eyes shut and lean into his touch.

"Just not what?

My features tighten, I want to reach up and press my hand against his so that I don't have to lose the feeling of it, "A lot of things, Solace." Whole, wanted, purposeful, happy, balanced, yours.

"What do you want?" The question is unexpected and my eyes flash open, but he doesn't seem startled.

My fingers twitch again, my eyes are sweeping over his face, probing. They catch on his lips for a second and I swallow. "I want..." I take another shuddering breath, "I just want to be something."

"You're a lot of things."

"Name one." It's a challenge, it's disbelieving. A little bit hopeful.

His fingers scratch over my cheek before dropping away completely. My heart aches, my blood sings. Every little bit of loss is a little dose of adrenaline, of me needing to replace it with something.

"Wanted. Confusing. Unbelievable." There's a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "Nico, you're..." He lets out a breath and shakes his head like he doesn't know how to put me into words.

"That was more than one," I tell him. My voice is scratchy, feeble.

He leans forward, braces his hands on the counter at either side of my hips. "It wasn't enough."

Breathing shallow, hands shaking, disbelief. "Nothing is enough. I'm still empty."

His nose touches mine, my eyes close again, my mouth is hanging open just slightly. "I'm not enough?"

I reach up to touch his face because I can't help myself, because I hurt all over and he feels like a narcotic, something addictive and dangerous that can push it all away. "I never said that. You're enough. This isn't enough."

"Okay." I barely hear it and then he's leaning forward and his lips are nothing but a memory of a kiss against mine. But I don't have any memories of kisses, so it's more of a snapshot into the future, a vision of what's to come.

It doesn't prepare me for it.

Kissing him is like sinking slowly, like feeling the water press in on all sides, like feeling that the rest of the world has completely melted away. Kissing him is safe and warm, it's summer. He's summer and it's slow and soft. He's slow and soft.

I'm fire. Everything in me screams for more, screams for destruction.

It's slow and soft and that's agony, it's beautiful.

I can't help but pull him closer, kiss him harder. I want to consume him, I want him to know that this is everything I've ever been chasing.

He gasps my name quietly, it's like fuel. I part his lips with mine, but it's his tongue that slips into my mouth. He's so careful, he explores my mouth slowly like he's afraid he'll miss something.

Will pulls back for the barest second just to open his eyes and look at me, just to push his hand into my hair before kissing me again. I want to bite his lip harshly, hungrily. He's so gentle, though, and I end up pulling it between my teeth delicately, sucking on it. It makes him whimper softly and he kisses me on the mouth one more time, lingering, before he presses his lips to my jaw, works his way gingerly down my neck.

He's the only quiet thing I know.

"Will," I whisper, and that's when I realize that I'm crying. And I'm crying because I've always wanted to tear down and wreck and collapse everything else in order to rebuild myself, but I've always needed somebody to come and do the reconstruction for me.

Just like Will always does. The bandages wrapped securely around my hands scrape faintly down his arms.

"Don't cry." I let him kiss away my tears, I let him pull me against his chest, "You don't have to face everything by yourself, Neeks."

"Do you promise?"

"I'll do everything I can to make it true."