It starts like this: he's waiting where he always is, right outside of Aroma Mocha, leaning against the pillar that keeps the overhang from crashing down on top of him. He always has a sense of casual grace about him; one foot crossed over the other, the toe of his beat-up sneaker resting on the ground next to its pair, head tilted to the right so his dark hair falls partially over one eye. He's looking out across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyebrow furrowed like there's a complicated math problem painted on the front of the Aeropostale and he's trying to figure it out.

Nico di Angelo is a complicated math problem, though, and I've never been able to figure him out, so I can understand why he would look like that. Like he's kind of amazed, but also sad and frustrated, because he knows he'll never actually be able to get what he wants out of it.

He looks up--brown eyes wide in surprise like he hadn't expected to see me--when I approach, and then he pushes himself off the pillar, disentangling his legs in the process, and gives me a bashful smile, brushing hair out of his face. All in one smooth motion, like it's choreographed movement and he's practiced the dance over and over until it looks like poetry reads.

"Nico," I say, and this always the part where he steps forward and knocks his knuckles softly against my jaw. He always has to reach up to do it, and that hasn't changed in the past week.

"Hey, Solace." And that's always what he says because we've got this down to an exact science. Up until this point, that is, because I always want to lean down and kiss him, but I never do, and that always leads to me tripping over my own tongue and saying something that makes him laugh.

"You..." I mutter, and one side of his mouth tilts upward, which only serves to confuse my emotions even more, "...have got..." And now he's raising an eyebrow and he looks like he really wants to laugh, and I want to hear him laugh, so I say, "...a leaf in your hair," which is not what I was going to say at all, and is also not true, but it gives me an excuse to push my hand through his hair--which somehow manages to be soft and tangled at the same time--and it also makes him laugh and shove at my chest, so I figure it wasn't a bad thing to say at all.

He grabs my arm and starts pulling me down the street, so I lengthen my stride to catch up to him, which is when he lets go and also when I realize that I didn't want him to.

"I was thinking," he tells me, tugging on the end of his scarf, and I smirk down at him, because I can't help it, and say, "Yeah, people tend to do that sometimes. Even you, Nico."

He shoots me a playful glare and shoves my arm half-heartedly with one hand, "I was thinking that we should go somewhere different today."

Nico is looking straight forward, which I should be doing too, I guess, but I can't stop looking at him. And I want him to look back at me, but I guess one of us has to actually watch where we're going, so I take the opportunity to study him, "Oh?"

"Yeah," he whispers, and he makes it sound like something dangerous and exciting.

I want to pull him aside and kiss him, I want to reach out and take his hand, I want him to run his hands through my hair and tell me that he wants me too. I want and I want and I want what I can't have. "And where is that?"

He looks up at me, smiling like he knows something I don't, "Ice skating."

"Nico!" I exclaim, and his smile is widening by the second, "Have you forgotten what happened when I tried roller blading? How do you think it's going to turn out if you put blades on my feet and throw me out onto the ice to fend for myself?"

He can't stop laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing up at the sky, and then down into his scarf, trying to muffle it, when I shove him and tell him he's a dick. He's still laughing, and his face is turned away from me, a high flush on his cheeks, when says something I don't quite catch because it's rushed and overlaid with laughter and all of this is muffled by the scarf around his neck.

"What was that?" I ask, breathless, because I can't believe my ears, and he looks up at me, so beautiful it hurts, and says, "I love you." One eyebrow raised, grinning, smirking. It's a taunt, a dare, a promise. Like he's goading me into something; I don't know what, but I stop dead in my tracks and stare at his face for a second, waiting for it to be a cruel joke, but nothing changes. He's still there, staring me down, smiling, eyes narrowed, so I catch the lapels of his jacket in my hands and push him up against the nearest shop.

I want and I want and I want and I take. And he gasps and he gives.

-

It builds like this: he's in my kitchen, in my t-shirt, but his boxer briefs and socks and he looks sleepy, but not tired. It's different because "tired" comes with dark circles under eyes and slumped shoulders and defeat, while "sleepy" comes with mussed hair and droopy eyelids and smiles sent my way through yawns.

He's got music playing softly--something upbeat and playful--and he's on his toes, stretching his arm up as high as he can in order to gingerly pull a mug from the top shelf.

I lean against the doorframe, smiling as he makes his way to the pantry, bobbing his head and singing along, to grab the coffee. He doesn't notice me until he turns around to make his way to the sink with the kettle, and stops what he's doing. He just grins at me, mouthing the lyrics and pads the rest of the way over across the tile.

I watch him turn on the tap and fill up the kettle, swaying his hips to the beat, and I want and I want and I want exactly what I have. So, when he turns around, kettle in hand, I walk forward and intercept him, pulling it away from him and setting it on the counter at the same time I walk forward, pushing him back against it.

He's laughing and he's still laughing when I stoop down to capture his lips in mine, so the kiss doesn't last very long, and it ends with me biting his lower lip playfully and him laughing even harder, hands braced on my chest.

I grin at him, brush my fingers over his hair, kiss his nose. Nico just huffs quietly and settles into me, head on my chest now, arms looped around my waist. I want and I want and I need.

We're like that for a little while, just us and our breaths and the music playing quietly, drifting around us, until Nico pulls back a bit, muttering, "Coffee," and I roll my eyes at him and allow him to escape. He ducks out of my arms and squeaks when I turn and plant a sloppy kiss on his temple.

Nico makes coffee and I decide to make pancakes and, together, we eat breakfast at my table, legs tangled underneath, and I think that just maybe this can last. This can be mine.

-

It crumbles like this: he's out buying groceries and he has his things in one nightstand and I have mine in the other, and it's a silent agreement that each of us keeps to our own, just for this one thing. So really, I shouldn't have even found it, but I didn't mean to be snooping, just putting his old skull ring in the drawer, because I'd discovered it behind the dresser and I didn't want to forget to give it to him.

But when I see a piece of paper, neatly folded in thirds with 'Percy' written over it in neat script, the kind of handwriting Nico only has when he's really serious about something, curiosity gets the best of me. I pick it up, turn it over, put it back, close the drawer, walk away. But then I walk back and take it back out, sit on the bed, unfold it.

Percy,

I just needed to get this out. I know we haven't seen each other in years, but I still think about you. More than I'd like to admit. Because I had a crush on you, probably still do. I do.

There's a reason I'm telling you this. I met a guy. His name is Will and he's everything. He really is. But sometimes. Sometimes when I kiss him, I see you. And that scares me because how am I supposed to love him when a part of my heart still belongs to you?

I think I love you, Percy, I really do.

I drop the letter like it's scalded me, and it has. I want to run. I want to hide. I don't know where I'd go, though, so I just sit, processing.

Nico di Angelo is a complicated math problem and I can't figure him out. I can't figure him out because part of his equation belongs to someone I've never met. Because whenever he looks at me, he might not be seeing me at all. It makes me sick to my stomach. I want to punch something.

Ultimately, it's like this: I want and I want and I want all of what I already have. And he won't give it and I can't take it and so I want and I want and I had.

-

It ends like this: he comes home with a grin on his face and grocery bags dangling from his hands, shoulders the door closed, calling a greeting into the apartment. When he sees me sitting on the couch, head in my hands, he stops in his tracks and puts the bags down carefully.

Normally, when he sat down next to me and touched my back carefully, asking what was wrong, I would lean into him and he would trace patterns onto my shoulder blades and, somehow, he'd always make things alright. Now, though, he sits down next to me, and when he reaches out to touch me, I flinch away and he freezes.

"...Will?" He's scared, I can hear it in his voice. Part of me feels bad for it.

"Who's Percy?" I whisper, and for a few seconds, it's silent and tense. I want to scream.

He chokes, "What?" and that's when I snap, dropping my hands, jerking my head up to look him in the eye. Now it's his turn to flinch.

"You heard what I said." My voice is forcefully--deathly--calm.

He lets out a shaking breath, holding my gaze, "Did you go through my things?"

I level my gaze at him, it says, So what if I did?

His shoulders tense up and his hands curl into fists, expression icing over, "You had no right to--"

I glare at him, "I was putting your ring back, Nico-- oh, and by the way, I found this." I toss it into his lap and he startles and then looks down at stares at it. His jaw drops, his fingers fumble and pick it up like it's fragile and he looks at me with wide eyes, "Will--"

I shake my head, "I know I shouldn't have read the letter, Nico, but you shouldn't be keeping things like this from me."

He's quiet. He knows I'm right. He blows out air slowly, slowly, biding his time. "I know. I know."

"Know what, exactly?" I'm not being rational, all I can think is He doesn't love me. He's been telling me he loves me this whole time and he's not even talking to me. "That you love him? I already knew that, Nico. That letter said it all."

"Will, just listen!" He reaches out for me, face crumpling, and I swat him away, stand up. I'm not in the mood to listen.

"I love you too, Will!"

I whip around, I'm shaking, "That's the problem! You love me too. I'm just your default plan because you can't have someone else."

"That's not true. That's not true." He's standing now, and he takes a step toward me, so I take one back.

"Then what is true, Nico?"

We're both crying, I didn't realize it until I noticed a tear tracking its way down his cheek. He shakes his head, "That I love you. I love you."

I stare him in the eye, daring him to look away, "Then look at me and tell me that if he'd have called you up and confessed his undying love for you and begged for you to go to him, you wouldn't have even considered it." My chest is heaving. Internally, I'm screaming, begging for him to deny it.

His eyes are wide and he opens and closes his mouth, no sound comes out. That hesitation is all I need. I just shake my head and take a step back. Shaking, shaking. I can't look at him anymore, so I turn around and start making my way to the door, "I won't just be second best, Nico. I won't just be your stand-in so you can imagine kissing someone else."

He's suddenly in front of me, blocking the way to the door, "Will!"

"Move out of my way, di Angelo." My voice is chilled and sharp. He doesn't move, his hands are up, palms out, like he's bracing himself for something.

"Please stay. Please don't go. We can talk this out. Just let me explain." The expression on his face is so broken that I almost want to listen to him. I do want to listen. Every part of me is screaming just to forgive him, screaming just to take what I can get and never let go.

I shoulder past him and he catches me by my sleeve, tugging, asking me to turn around. I don't turn around. If I turn around, I won't be able to keep from kissing him one last time. "I love you. I love you." His voice is broken and torn and he's clutching at my sleeve like a life-line, "Please stay. Please."

I jerk away from him and the last thing I hear before I slam the door is, "I can't imagine anything without you. Will--!"

I'm two blocks away, tearing down the street and angrily dashing tears away from my cheeks when I remember that everything I own is still back at that apartment and I have nowhere to go.

I want and I want and I want everything I used to have.