Melt With You ‘til it all Turns Black
you loved him— fuck, you loved him. but, he was like the autumn weather, slipping from your fingers into a crushing winter before you knew what to do with it.
warnings: swearing. masc description of reader. pining. reader has hair. heartbreak. hurt no comfort.
Nico’s emotional repression is disgusting and ruins everything. pretty sure he has PTSD from Eros/Cupid-gate. takes place some time after HoO. not proofread, we die like bianca.
child of Eros!reader, gn/male reader intended
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It started with a single spark, true love always did. A glance across a crowded room, a breathy laugh heard from the distance. Something inconsequential, something momentous.
In the case of you and Nico, it began with a stupid meeting in the Big House. As head of the Eros cabin, you were required to listen to Chiron’s lengthy lectures at the end of each week. As you leaned your hip against the pool table you all stood around, he stopped nearby you, half-listening to what the Centaur said, his eyes fixed forward.
You leaned over, arms crossed, and whispered to him. Something small, “can you believe this guy?” Your smile was handsome, and you leaned too close to his stiff form. The boy looked more phantom than demigod, but he met your eyes with an unimpressed glance, and something in you cracked.
He raised an eyebrow, then simply glanced back to Chiron, leaving that as that.
Oh, you thought helplessly, he was beautiful. His eyes were dark, seemingly bottomless pits and doe-like, drawing you inward. You thought that maybe, just maybe, you could sink and drown in them. Lining them were long lashes, prettily and naturally curled. The curves of his lips were a gentle heart-shape, a pale pink with a sharp cupid’s bow.
You spent the rest of the meeting pathetically spaced out, staring at the green fabric of the game table before you. You’d heard of the son of Hades before, of course. Whispers of the Ghost King frequently pop up around camp. You expected him to be monstrous, unkind. Not.. this.
When you went to sleep that night you dreamt of dark curls and rolled eyes, cold skin and lingering ghosts.
The days came and went about as unvaryingly as usual. A quest here, a prophecy there, so on and so forth. Only, you found that Nico di Angelo would stay at camp for longer. He was pretty much glued to the side of whichever companion was with him that day, or would disappear off to wherever. Like a hawk stalking in on its prey, you readied yourself.
The day you made your move bled into existence softly, like ink drying into a page. Soon, you found yourself settled by his side out by Half-Blood Hill, seemingly unbothered by the snowy kiss of winter. He barely spared a glance as you dropped beside him, your sparkling eyes watching with keen interest as he fiddles with some tree bark between his fingers. They look soft to the touch, with callouses on the base of his fingers and between his thumb and index finger. Unable to stop its wild imagination, your mind pictures your fingertips brushing the indurated skin, the contrast between hard-earned toughness and supple, soft flesh.
You lean your back against the tree, words escaping you. So, like the dumbass you are, you simply just start talking. There’s no thought behind your words, just hazarding a guess at what would get him to speak to you.
“So,” you drawl out the end letter, feeling how it curves your mouth, “that whole Athena-Parthenos thing was kind of cool.” That was three months ago, but you figured it’d probably be a conversation started. Though, you assume you fumbled that start, given the odd look he sent your way.
You run your hands over your thighs, “I mean, seriously, I would’ve died.” The quiet after that is stifling and you feel his eyes on your profile like a brand, you risk a glance over, and offer the most charming smile you can.
“Did you come here just to fangirl?” His tone is dry and lukewarm at best, “or do you have a reason for bothering me?”
But, you only shrug at him, happy to just get a reply. His words are lilted prettily, and you faintly remember being told a few years ago that he was Italian. It suited him, though you suppose that was a fools thought, it was his voice after all. “Just thought you should know.”
It was simple, entirely too sweet as it rolled off your tongue. Paired with the brightness of your grin, Nico couldn’t stop the amused scoff that leaves him, and he turns his head back to the scenery before him. To the surprise of the both of you, he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, you two fall into comfortable silence, a rarity in your life. Wherever you went, warmth followed— with that was affection, and praise, and people swooning over you. Surely, he’d heard of your reputation.
At the smallest amount of encouragement, you bring your knees to your chest and cross your arms across them, resting the side of your head along your arms to look at Nico. He was beautiful, here in the gentle winter glow. His cheeks were somewhat flushed, and Will Solace’s recent focus on his wellbeing proved to be helpful, since his skin’s healthy olive tone was more pulled to the surface. You wondered how far this beauty would get him in the ancient times, wondered if gods would envy him.
Dimly, like a candle-glow in the darkest of nights, you wish you were more of an artist, that you could sculpt his delicate features into something permanent. You were built for romance, and love stories, and poems. Your hands weren’t crafted for sculpting, not something of his nature.
“I mean it,” you defend lightly, “who else could do something like that?” He hums at that, his bundled-up shoulders shrugging. The heavy fabric of his coat ruffles with the action, “anyone with enough willpower.” He spoke as if it was obvious. He didn’t see what you saw in him, didn’t see his kindness or willingness to help.
Did Nico even know how good he was?
He didn’t speak to you after that, and soon flicked you one last look before shadow-traveling away. Once he was gone, you closed your eyes and allowed your form to relax for the first time that day. You had to have him.
It seemed fate was on your side when you caught him again, only a few days later. He was headed out of the infirmary, halfway through the door, only to pause when you were entering in the same way. Awkwardly, you both step to the same side, then again. His shoulders tense as you laugh at the action, bright and free. “Nico,” you greet, his name spoken so easily. With you, it didn’t carry the weight it did elsewhere. Anyone else would be prejudiced, or venomous, you spoke his name like it was natural. As if knowing and perceiving him was innate.
He nods stiffly, his cold voice echoing your own name. It’s only now that you get a good look at him. He was clutching a handful of KitKats in one fist, and had a juice box in the other, and he looked worse for wear. Your heart warms at the thought of Nico being tended to as diligently as Will is, the fondness you feel for your old friend a constant thing.
You remember the hard years— after the battle of Manhattan, when you met Will in his empty cabin. The silence was acrid and all-consuming. You don’t know how long you held him for, only that your arms became numb long before his tears ceased. He was too good for this world, in every sense.
“Passed out again?” You conclude, gesturing towards him. As if he was fed up with the accusation of fainting (clearly, you hadn’t been the only one to ask), he replies with an exasperation that pulls a grin to your lips.
“Will is being dramatic, I was fine.” You nod along to the statement, dismissively waving a hand to show you did not agree with Nico’s defense. “Sure, sure,” you brush off, sarcastically. He scowls at you.
“I’m serious,” he doubles down. “I can tell,” you nod along, “you look the pinnacle of health.”
That earns you a sharp shoulder-check as he brushes past you, all bitter and too-tired to deal with your bullshit. You turn to face him, watching as he walks away, your heart leaving along with him.
The weeks pass by as usual, with the few other year-rounders seeing each other more frequently, your little Camp Half-Blood family as tight-knit as ever. Surprisingly, Nico stays at Camp unless he’s sent on a quest or an errand. You push and prod at his demeanor, stepping back just in time for him to not snap.
You found him again in your own cabin. He leaned against one of the bunks, chewing his cheek as he stared at the statue of your father and Psyche. Upon your entry, his eyes flicker to you, his gaze heavy and dark. You beam, “fancy seeing you here.”
You could’ve sworn he was on a quest. But, you were never one to turn down good company.
“Yeah,” he murmurs absently, eyes flickering back to the statue before he clears his throat. He pushes off the bunk to face you, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. “I need a favor,” he starts, watching unimpressed as you perk up. Whatever he wants, your foolish subconscious begs, whatever he asks.
You don’t trust your tongue not to confess right there, so you just nod in understanding. “I need something from your dad.” Your brows knit together, the frown that pulls at the corners of your mouth causes something discontent to curl in Nico’s gut. He doesn’t want to see that expression on your face ever again.
“Why not just ask him yourself?” You cock your head to the side, shutting the cabin door behind you and approaching, hands sliding into your pockets. You stop just a little ways away, reaching a foot out to knock your shoe with his own. He huffs at your words, but lets you do as you please, you repeat the action. “Cupid and I have a history.”
Of course, they do. Cupid— or Eros, technically— has a history with everyone and everything. He was infamous.
“Bad history?” You inquire, eyes innocent and understanding. “You can’t imagine.” Nico replies, dryly.
You reach out, brushing some half-melted snow off the corner of his scarf, he doesn’t flinch as you do so, eyes heavyset on your face. “What do you need, then?” Your normally sanguine tone was softened now, intimate and low. Nico swallows thickly, throat caught. Bitterly, he understands why you have so many admirers.
“An arrow,” you meet his gaze at that, eyebrows high, and he rolls his eyes, “not for him to shoot someone,” Nico clarifies, “an actual arrow.”
You want to press, want to ask the specifics of the quest. You want to pull him in closer and warm his snow-chilled skin. Instead, you grin and pat his shoulder twice before stepping back. “I’ll ask,” you promise.
Four days later, you meet him in the dark atmosphere of Cabin 13, the golden arrow being toyed with between your fingertips. Your mind is set on things above, eyes dreamy as you invite yourself info the shadowy layer. Something in his shoulders eases as he reaches for it, but you move your hand back before he can grab it from you.
“Patience, Nico,” you chide. “I want a deal.”
Nico had made countless deals in his short lifetime, none of which had turned out good. But, found it hard to distrust you when your eyes shown so earnestly.
He dips his head toward you, “speak.” You draw closer at his demand, wagging the arrow in his face. “I want to come with you.”
Confusion flashes across his expression, and you meet it with unrelenting positivity. “To see my dad,” you explain, “I want to come.” He nods slowly, weighing his options.
This wasn’t a particularly dangerous quest. And, you weren’t necessarily fragile.
He huffs, but bats the arrow away from his face before offering his hand, palm-up. “Fine.” He grumbles, watching as you guffaw in victory as you place the arrow in his waiting hand. Your eyes twinkle with triumph in a way that causes Nico’s stubbornly-set heart to waver just a bit.
With that, you padder out of his cabin, off to prepare yourself for the upcoming quest. Come sunrise, the pair of you are setting out from Half-Blood Hill, one bright-eyed and the other already exasperated.
Nico always knew you had a soft resemblance to Cupid, could tell from the small flickers of your appearance. But, it didn’t hit him until he had seen you in the gentle campfire light. At this point in your quest, Eros’ arrow was bundled up safely in his bag, patiently awaiting its trip to whatever soul needed it to rest. You sat beside Nico, thigh pressed to his own, battering on about some myth he didn’t care much for.
Your profile, your eyes, glimmered in familiarity to him. It was all too much as he recalls that night— Jason at his side, Cupid before him, being outed. He exhales shakily and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, you’re staring at him in concern. “Where’d you go?” You ask softly, in that hushed tone he’s learned to hate for the way it makes his heart stutter. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way, couldn’t, not when you were a child of his.
He shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak as he tries to look away. You catch his chin with one hand, touch careful. “Hey,” you murmur, “don’t hide from me.” Nico’s form shudders, and he relaxes into you as your press your forehead to his. He exhales through his nose, “I’m not,” he mumbles. You quirk a crooked smile at that. There’s a pause, a breath, where neither of you say anything.
Your nose brushes his own, eyes searching his for permission. He nods, though he knows he shouldn’t agree to this. With that, you press in.
The kiss is simple at first, lips brushing. You smile against him, and press in deeper. He swallows, raising a shaky hand to curl in your hair. Seconds blend together and Nico wishes desperately that he could forget lineage and crawl into your skin. He recalls the myth of Hero and Leander. He imagines the cold waters around himself, how he’d swim each night to see you, how you’d be his lantern across the way.
Only, Leander drowned. The lantern was blown out, and the two lovers were separated. With a quiet gasp, Nico pulls back. You straighten instantly. “What,” you ask, tone begging, “what is it?”
He stands, flinching back from you as if he’d been struck. For a moment, you don’t look like you. Cupid stands before him, daunting and all-consuming. You reach out, hand grasping his own. “Did I do something?” You ask, “I’m sorry, I—“
“No.” He cuts you off, pulling free.
You look as if someone had just stabbed you. He interrupts you before you can speak again, watching as your mouth clicks closed, “I can’t do this, not with you.” You reach out again, but he stumbles back and allows the shadows to take him before you can.
The rest of the quest passes in tense silence, each time you speak, Nico deflects. He delivers you back to camp safely, not looking back at you once you step past the barrier.
Your knees quiver as you approach the empty cabin, throat caught and eyes painful with unshed tears. The door closes behind you and you collapse into yourself. Your back hits the wood door and you slide down, wishing uselessly for the heartache in your chest to cease. He was lovely, even now, Nico was lovely.
You feel Eros’ presence before you see him, a warmth flooding the room, causing every hair to stand on its head. You don’t get up to greet your father, instead opting to curl more in on yourself. “Why?” You ask pointlessly, sending a withering glare his way. He shrugs, but reaches out to ruffle your hair. He might not be the best of fathers, but he never hesitated to show pity for his children. “Not a fan of me, I suppose.” Your dad answers, his fingers drifting just a bit stronger, tugging at your strands.
The sob that leaves you is inhuman, gut-wrenching. You don't think you've ever felt pain like this before. It invades your body, branching out from your chest with tendril-like energy, forcing your limbs to ache and lock up. Eros guides you to rest against his chest, and you press your weight into him, seeking escape and comfort. He smells of honeyed cinnamon and nectar. "He was my friend." Your reasoning is helpless, both of you know that. Foolishly, you know this is the price you will pay.
Children of love never had good luck in such things.
Maybe, just maybe, this was always meant to be temporary. Maybe, it was always meant to consume you.
Eros' arms wrap around you, ignoring the iron-grip you have on his forearms as he does such, your fingers clawing at his skin as you cry. The world feels like it's imploding around you. Your breathing is quick and hollow, air not coming in nor escaping your hungry lungs. You choke on it, form trembling as a wave of nausea strikes through you.
He pets your hair, and you feel more like a sad-eyed puppy than a demigod at that moment, holding you as you whimper against him. It was always meant to be this way. Your eyes eventually drift closed, your breathing slow. You end back up in the covers of your bea, pillow cool against your cheek. Cool, like Nico's skin, like his touch.
The news comes to you only two months later, shared in whispered giggles amongst your siblings and the Aphrodite children— Nico and Will Solace were together.
Will was good. He was warm in ways you weren't, sarcastic and dry-humored, but was sun incarnate when you caught him at the right moment. He was like a shot of espresso, like the earthy tang of yarrow medicine. You could almost feel him beneath your fingertips, warm and tanned skin, marred by a picture-perfect sun over his breastbone.
When you prayed to your father that night at dinner, throat tight and chest heavy, you thought you heard the mocking jeer of the night birds, echoing his reaction. You conceded to relaxing into your siblings arms, too sick to eat.
Too sick to look over your shoulder and see the boy you wanted, basking in gentle sunlight you couldn't provide.
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