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There was a boy in Will’s English class who had a voice like a lightning storm.
He sat in the same place every day, in the very back row of the lecture hall, alone, and hunched over his notes like he was trying to defend himself from siege. He didn’t speak often - only when the professor went out of her way to call on him - but when he did, it was like the entire world held its breath.
Will habitually sat in the front, surrounded by half the soccer team and Lou Ellen, but that voice still carved itself into his skin, even from row upon crowded row away. God, he spoke like music. Every word was quiet and crafted and intentional. lilting and tinged with a shadow of an Italian accent.
His words, though. Those were the lightning.
It happened for the first time in the second week of the semester. “What was your initial impression of the poem; what did it make you feel?” was the question.
The boy’s answer was, “It made me wonder whether this class is always going to be this much of a waste of my time.”
Now, the whole lecture hall fell silent every time he opened his mouth to speak. His comments were cutting and blunt, but they always, without fail, contained truth. The Picture of Dorian Gray was ‘self-servicing.’ The collected works of Robert Frost were ‘cliche as hell.’ The Metamorphosis was ‘the weirdest fucking version of Antman I have ever had the misfortune to experience.’ Shakespeare was a ‘pretentious bastard.’
The class ate it up; Professor Athena started calling on him more and more often, looking to him for input during discussions, and his answers were always punctuated by appreciative hooting from the soccer team and quiet laughter from the rest of the students.
Will hated him.
“The guy’s a mega-asshole,” he hissed to Lou Ellen after class one day. “And he’s weird. He just sits up in the back alone and shits on the classics. Who does that?”
Lou Ellen laughed. “I know. He’s great.”
“If you actually had to talk to him, you’d hate him. I know you’d hate him.”
Lou Ellen nodded fervently. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. I’d probably want to punch him in the throat. But school’s always made me feel like my honest opinion doesn’t matter. You know, you’re expected to say what’s right, not what you actually think. He doesn’t give a shit about that. It’s nice.”
Will huffed. “You expect me to believe that this dick isn’t just saying this stuff for attention?”
Lou Ellen shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know that he’s hilarious.”
It would’ve been fine (tolerable?) if it was just Lou Ellen who liked him. But everyone and their mother seemed to think that the asshole was all that and a bag of chips, and it made Will’s insides twist.
“I’m gonna deck him,” he told Lou Ellen. “One of these days, I’m gonna deck him.”
“Just don’t ever talk to him, Will. No one ever said you have to be buddies with the guy. If he annoys you so much, just ignore him.”
Yeah, well. Some things are easier said than done.
On a frigid morning in mid-November, he ended up sprinting into class a full fifteen minutes late, breath labored from the run across campus. Professor Athena was dividing the students into pairs as he entered the hall, and he hurried down to the front in time to watch her assign the last two unpaired students to each other.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he panted, clutching his backpack and trying to look composed. “I was meeting with my coach, we ran late-”
Athena waved a hand. “It’s fine. We’ve still got someone without a partner.”
Will straightened up, relief washing over him. “Oh. Oh, good. Okay. Who is it?”
Athena raised her gaze, lifting her chin towards a solitary figure, alone in the back row.
Of fucking course.
Will made his way up the aisle to take his seat next to the Resident Asshole. This was the first time he’d ever really looked at the guy; he was… kinder-looking than Will expected, somehow. His skin was warm, tinged with olive, his hair long and wavy and the color of pitch, falling into his face like he was wearing it in place of a shield. He had rows of piercings in his ears, a full mouth, slight shoulders, and an inky-black tattoo on his neck, disappearing underneath the collar of his sweater.
His hands were keeping time on the desk, his fingers long and slender and graceful. He barely looked at Will as he sat down.
Athena took her place at the podium, explained the parameters of the project they were going to be working on together, and then launched into her lecture for the day. Will glanced over at the boy’s paper and saw his name, printed in careful script at the top of his notes.
Nico di Angelo.
A nice name. A pretty name. It fit his voice.
(Too bad it didn’t fit his personality.)
And then the lecture ended, and the words were out of Will’s mouth before he gathered the wherewithal to contain them: “So. No brilliant insights to add today?”
Nico di Angelo looked up slowly, languidly. Their eyes met for the first time, and Nico’s were distractingly, stunningly dark. It was disarming, and it just made Will angrier.
“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” he asked quietly, evenly.
Will shrugged. “I’ve got a problem with people who are jerks for no reason.”
Nico raised an eyebrow. “Athena asks for my opinion, and I give it. I never ask to be called on.”
“You could tone it down a little,” Will suggested dryly.
Nico started shoving his things into his bag. “I don’t like lying.”
“There’s a difference between honesty and having a filter.”
Their eyes met again, and there was this flicker of fire, this spark in Nico’s that made Will’s body feel electric.
“Sorry,” Nico drawled, “but I’m not going to pull my punches just because people like you can’t take it.”
“People like me,” Will repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Nico stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder. “Have fun at soccer practice.”
And then he stepped away, and it wasn’t until the space in front of Will was empty that he realized how close they’d been standing, sharing breath, sharing heat. Nico was a little shorter than Will, a little slimmer, and Will was struck by a sudden, violent want, unnamable, all-consuming.
His pulse pounded, kept time in his throat, and he watched Nico walk out.
Working on their project meant meeting up with Nico outside of school, which meant a special kind of hell for Will Solace.
They arranged to work in Nico’s dorm room, because his roommate was always out, and Nico said he didn’t like the library. When Will got there, he found Nico cross-legged on the bed with a binder open on his lap, dressed in sweatpants that rode his hips and a soft black t-shirt. Will shut the door behind him and sat on the floor, and they got to work in silence, quiet music crooning from Nico’s laptop on the desk.
“This is The Killers,” Will realized. “This is good.”
Nico snorted. “You sound surprised.”
Will’s lips twitched upwards. “I kinda had you pegged for a heavy metal guy.”
“Really. Judging people before they know them. I’m stunned.”
Will crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “It was a safe assumption to make-”
“Apparently not that safe.”
Their gazes met, and that weird spark of electricity forked its way down Will’s spine. Nico’s mouth was curving into an almost-smile, a challenge steely in his eyes, and Will gritted his teeth down.
“Let’s just get this done,” he growled.
Yeah, that was definitely a smile. Asshole. “By all means. Are you sure you can read it, though? After all, if we’re going by stereotypes, I’m pretty sure all jocks are dumb as bricks.”
“Suck my dick, di Angelo.”
“Only if you suck mine first, Solace.”
There was a pulse of awkward silence, in which Will’s imagination ran wild with the sudden, extremely vivid image of Nico on his hands and knees, slowly pulling down the zipper on Will’s jeans. His face was burning, his throat tight.
He returned his gaze to his notebook.
They finished their work for the day in silence, and, when Nico bowed Will out of his room, there was a definite tinge of pink, high on his cheekbones.
“See you later-” was all Will managed to get out before the door was slammed in his face.
The next few get-togethers went a little bit more smoothly, if Will was being honest. Nico turned out to be pretty normal, actually - he listened to a lot of alt-rock, he hated hot weather, he liked Reese’s cups, he thought his middle name was stupid. He was smart, too - definitely smarter than Will. The project was coming along, but only because he was carrying most of the weight.
Their dynamic was still weird, though. Tense. No one threw any punches, which seemed like a win, but it definitely came close.
And then there was the feeling of heat that coiled in Will’s stomach whenever Nico was around. Not hatred, not anymore. Something.
And then, when it was late and they were tired and the world seemed taught, strung through with tension, the combination combusted.
“That’s wrong,” Nico said, pointing to a series of lines on Will’s work. “That’s not the theme here. The author’s trying to express-”
“Oh, are you some kind of expert now?” Will snapped back. He knew he was wrong, of course. He was shit at English, so he was usually wrong. But he also knew the reaction he would get, and the annoyance on Nico’s face made it worth it.
“No, but I’m also not a fucking moron.”
“Oh, ouch. Ice cold, Death Boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you, then? Nicky? Neeks? Sweetheart?”
“Shut the fuck up, Solace.”
“Why don’t you get over here and make me?”
And then, like an explosion, like a miracle, their lips collided.
Oh.
Oh.
So this was what Will had been waiting for.
It wasn’t a particularly nice kiss. Nico’s hands knotted harshly in Will’s hair, Nico’s teeth scraping his lower lip, Nico’s tongue swiping in his mouth, and Will’s blood was singing, his whole body screaming yes yes this yes. He closed his fist in the collar of Nico’s shirt and yanked him closer, pressed their bodies together, and Nico groaned softly into Will’s mouth, and Will found himself swallowing a moan of his own.
More.
His heart felt haywire, malfunctioning. He pushed Nico backwards until they found the bed, toppling over and onto it. Nico kept making soft, quiet sounds against Will’s lips, his hips shifting upwards to grind against Will’s, and Will snarled impatiently and tore himself away, ripping his shirt off and discarding it while Nico did the same underneath him.
He kissed a path down Nico’s throat, scraping his teeth against the soft skin. Nico gasped, arching upwards - God, he was beautiful, delicate, blissful, gorgeous - and Will bit down, marking the skin, relishing in the way Nico squirmed underneath his touch.
He kissed his way down Nico’s chest, along his hips, at the hem of his pants. When Nico bucked upwards, Will grabbed his hips and held him still.
“Fuck you, Solace,” Nico snarled.
Will laughed and licked a stripe on Nico’s skin. Nico’s hands scrabbled at his back, drew lines on his shoulders, traced galaxies onto his freckles, and Will couldn’t help the little, breathy, “Oh, my God,” that escaped his mouth.
Their mouths came together again, fireworks crackling across midnight skies, and Will could acutely feel everything, everything in the universe - Nico’s eyelashes fluttering against Will’s cheeks, Nico’s hands searing scars onto Will’s chest, Nico’s tongue burning desire onto Will’s brain. It was like he was everywhere, and everything, and yet somehow also nothing at all, and he wanted, wanted Nico, wanted to touch him, wanted to be inside him, wanted to come with Nico’s name on his lips.
(This was not a normal thing to feel about someone you hated.)
But then Nico’s mouth slipped off his own, traced lines from the corner of his lips down his jaw to his earlobe, and Will couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, because Nico was kissing the soft skin behind his ear and Will was choking on prayers and platitudes andNico Nico Nico Nico.
Nico’s fingers dragged downwards, slipped below the waistband of Will’s jeans, and Will sucked in air too quickly when Nico’s hand brushed against his length, and he was suddenly, painfully aware of how hard he was, how badly he needed Nico to touch him, how badly he needed Nico.
“Goddamn it,” he hissed, drawing away to yank the stupid pants off and toss them aside, despising every second that contact was lost, because every second was a second of touch that kept Will breathing, kept Will’s heart beating.
“Eager,” Nico whispered, reaching forward to trace feather-light touches across Will’s chest.
Will growled, animalistic and guttural, and pushed forward, straddled Nico’s body, and leaned forward to murmur in his ear, “I’m going to make you scream my name.”
Nico laughed quietly and reached up to cup Will’s face, planting a kiss on his cheek before breathing, “I dare you.”
The world became bright and blurry and crimson. Nico squirmed out of his jeans, reached for the bedside table, rummaged through the drawer for condoms and lube, and Will waited, kissing bruises onto Nico’s chest, for a painfully long forever, seconds that felt like years. And then the goods were delivered, and Will’s hands were slicked, and Nico moaned when Will slid a finger inside him, his hips lifting into the touch.
“Who’s eager now?”
“Eat my ass,” Nico panted.
“Maybe next time.” There was sweat in Will’s eyes, precome on his hands, and he probably looked disgustingly predatory, looming over Nico like a hunter over pray, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Seconds, minutes, hours, and then Nico was ready, and Will was pushing inside him, and they gasped in tandem, released breaths neither knew they were holding.
Will stayed still for a moment, overwhelmed by heat and tight and Nico, and then Nico commanded, “Move,” so he did.
The world could’ve ended, right then and there, and Will didn’t think he would’ve cared.
For a long time it was nothing but skin on skin and heat on heat, and Nico whispering things in what sounded like Italian, and this was not hatred, this was not rivalry, but Will didn’t know what the fuck it was. Beautiful and volatile and exquisitely, breathtakingly painful.
And then Will’s hips snapped forward with more force, and Nico called, “Will,” and that was it, he was done. He whispered Nico’s name despite himself when he came, and then Nico came too, and then it was over, and the world faded to black and white and gray.
They stared at each other for a second, and then Will clambered off of Nico, scooting back towards the other end of the bed. He could feel a blush coming on hard, the kind of full-body blush Lou Ellen always gave him shit for.
“Um,” he mumbled. “Sorry?”
Nico rolled his eyes. “Sorry? Is that a joke?”
“N-no, I mean…” Will let the words die in his throat. “I didn’t think you-”
“What, liked you?”
Will nodded haltingly.
“I didn’t,” Nico shrugged. “I don’t. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Me either,” Will admitted.
Nico looked at him with those inky eyes, and Will considered the possibility that his head might actually, physically catch fire, and then he would die, and never get to have sex with Nico di Angelo again.
Wait.
Again?
“We should, um.” Nico cleared his throat. “Probably clean up. Jason’s supposed to get back soon, and-”
“Shit, yeah, of course.” Will shot to his feet and rummaged for his clothes, realizing halfway through pulling his boxers on that Nico was staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing.” Nico got to his feet and started rummaging through drawers for fresh clothing. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin, hickeys forming on his stomach and chest and thighs, and for a second, Will couldn’t breathe.
He finished getting dressed mechanically, trying to keep his heart rate steady.
He left late that night, after putting the finishing touches on their project. His chest felt weirdly tight, his body fuzzy and dreamy and light. He stood up to go, and Nico walked him to the door like he always did.
But instead of slamming it shut in his face, Nico leaned forward and pressed his lips to Will’s, briefly and tenderly and oh-so-painfully gently.
“That,” he said, “should have been our first kiss, I think.”
Will stood there and stared at the grain of the door, long after it was shut.