#//Forgot that today they move clocks for daylight savings and whatever

[yumichikah]

And he arrives.

[hahahafangirl]

To My Muse (Solangelo!AU)

Hi everyone it seems like I’m on team Solangelo now. To My Muse

Pairing: Solangelo (Nico di Angelo/Will Solace)

Rating: K+

Summary: At this point, all Nico di Angelo wants to do is to finish the draft of his final book. Also at this point, all Will Solace wants to do is works through the summer to stay alive. Perhaps there are many things else that they also need, but they aren’t aware of them, yet. Okay, maybe they just need to do it step-by-step, and thus that first step is at The Flying Ship. To @fangirlingatthreeam, whose prompt inspire me greatly to start writing again (lol) ------------------------------------------------------ 1. Maybe it’s time to get out of your room.

Nico di Angelo was not amused. At all.

His mornin-- afternoon. Yes, afternoon, started at precisely 5:30pm by the immense sunlight pierced through his window; which, was properly shielded by his thick, charcoal-colored curtain, promptly designed and positioned so that this particular, specific, discrete, exact, distinct situation could be avoided. Impossible. Absurd. Insurmountable. Irreparable. Futile. Impervious. Out-of-question.

Gods, if only his bursted brain cascaded this much vocabulary in the last week, then this blasted situation would have been avoided.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The exact cause of Nico's sudden awakening from his beauty slumber, beside the fervently scorching Californian sun, was Jason Grace - his saving grace, most of the time, but currently, his greatest curse - enthusiastically threw out his arms and let the curtains flew over to two sides, deliberately letting the raging shines engulf the enchanting darkness of sleep in his one, single attempt to wake Nico up. Jason's answer, if he was ever be interrogated for his profound crime, would be "I ran out of shit to give." It doesn't matter that Nico had already slept for sixteen hours, gods, he haven't had a proper rest in the last seventy-two hours that lead to such state, but it was not the time to be awake yet. Time is an illusion, and the only clock Nico followed is his own heart.

And thus, Nico fought. Intensely, passionately, fiercely, for his liberty, his right to continue to fake his ineluctable death by simply closing his eyes for an immensely short period of time in a dark room.

"And what the fuck was that, Grace?!"

"The sun has risen, Nico, around twelve hours ago, and was about to finish his shift. I just want to make sure that you're not dead -- well, you have a book to finish afterall. By the way, Piper wants me to remind you that the next checkpoint is three weeks away from now."

"Well, yes, thank you for your tremendous, most genuine concern. I'm sure that Ms. McLean would not be pleased to find out that I died in your merciful care."

Oh, did Nico mentioned that he is a writer?

Yes, he is a writer. Yes, his series is a hit. And yes, Nico doesn't live with a roommate for sheer economical purposes, but for humanity's sanity over making sure that he is alive and shield the paparazzi's attempt to convince T*mblr and Tw*tter that Nico di Angelo, author of the successful "Dystopian 20.48" series, is indeed a vampire. Just,... no.

He spied, with his tiny crack of eye-openings due to the need to sleep, that his blond roommate just rolled his eyes. "I appreciate the... appreciation, Nico. But seriously, you need to stop this."

"Stop what? Sleeping? Working? Writing? Being an author? Breathing? Make yourself clear, Thunderboy."

"I swear to the gods, Nico, that thunder after my speech in eighth-grade was a coincidence-- and by 'stop this', I mean 'stop your dysfunctional sleeping schedule and fix it.'"

"How so, Grace? Didn't I just slept," Nico paused, turning his head slightly to look at the clock on his desk "through the evening?"

"I don't know, Nico, you are 23," Jason dramatically paused, massaging his temple "you ought to know how to take care of yourself by now."

"Don't bring ages in here, Mr. I'm-a-25-year-old-mother-hen-that-sleep-in-my-Superman-themed-bed."

"Nico, the point is, you can't just not working in a week and then just rushed yourself the next three days writing and not doing any, anything else." Jason flung his arms out, again, slightly forwarded his body and glance his blue eyes around the room, trying to make a point "I know you got writer block and sometime need to rush for deadlines, but Nico, take care of your health for once."

This is a speech that is too familiar to him, Nico silently thought, a variation of a multitude of scolding he received from this exact Jason Grace, started from seventh grade, when Nico started douse himself to the idea of writing books, to now, this very moment, and perhaps will continue for the rest of his ephemeral life. Nico knows he was being melodramatic, but whatever.

Still, he got what the older boy was trying to say, and kind of regretting his life choices. Surely he would not live, functionally, this long, without the saving grace that is the care of Jason. And even though Nico was pretty sure that this situation will happen again, at that moment, he almost promised to not project himself into this kind of working habit again. Jason seemed to pick up on it, too - Nico's penitent aura, that's it. He sighed, long and tired, like a mother just finished scolding her premature son for some misdemeanor he committed again and again despite her reasoning.

"Fine, just... get out of here, your room, the apartment, I mean. At least go to the new coffee shop right across the street and tell me how the drinks tasted like. I heard that they served pastries, too."

"Fine, Mom." Nico answered, sarcastically, and went to the bathroom door, right at the edge of his room that is connected to the one, single bathroom in the apartment. Bless the designer, for not making Nico to walk out of his room for his humanly need, or at for least giving him that illusion.

Afterward, Nico did just that. Walked to the coffee shop, laptop in his messenger bag -- at least he got outside and attempt to be productive, Jason cannot disapprove of that -- and calculate how much his conversational word-limit should be.

"Good afternoon, welcome to The Flying Ship, how can I help you today?"

Well, that was before how breathtaking he realized the barista was.

The first thing he registered through his eyes was the kid's blinding smile -- toothy, genuine, immersed in sunshine, charm and happiness -- then the curly mop of hay-colored hair hidden in his dark green cap. Hay-colored perhaps was not the best, nor the most accurate narration Nico ever made in his life. His hair was the color of hay, drenched in the lavish, divine golden hue of the sun -- just like how Nico captured the shade of the rice fields of that August he spent with his family, with the early afternoon fire dancing through the land, sneakily give kisses to his olived skin and the grains, along with the soothing warmth of Bianca's hand safely engulfed his palm. The safety and peace assured his yet to be tainted soul. His eyes, sky blue, Nico noted, were different. They sparkled through the fluorescent, blinding light of the shop, tranquil and limpid as the summer sky yet so passionate, as if the vast blue outside was actually a part of the orbs. They reminded Nico of no memory in particular, though sent him a feeling he longed to embrace - a specific kind of equanimity that even his words can't yet to described, a passion so distinct that no matter how much he tried to tune the color wheel again, the hue produced never, ever precisely transcribed that feeling.

The boy behind that counter was his blessing and curse at the same time, though this situation is different than Jason's case. Jason was with him long enough for his case to be practical, and the stranger in front of him only sent emotions and feelings. The boy was peace and passion, simultaneously. Yet, the brighter shade of his physique reminded Nico of calmness and the quieter shade reminded him of raging emotion.

Gods, had he already fallen for the boy that hard?

Nico realized, after finishing his dramatic depiction of the stranger, that he must looked like an idiot after standing still, eyes gorged on the sight of the worker right in broad daylight. He must flee now, Nico thought, about to chicken out another potential human interaction, before reminded himself of cakes and coffee.

It's not Jason's fault that the good coffee at home ran out, he reminded himself.

Robotically, Nico moved toward the counter, though leaving some space in between to signal his attempt to read the menu first before ordering. He hoped that the barista would not mention, or better yet, noticed, the awkward situation that was Nico di Angelo staring at his face several seconds ago. He settled for macchiato, and told the boy such:

"One expresso macchiato, please, with no sugar and a bit more cream."

"Yep, and may I please ask for your name?"

"Nico."

"Alright, 'Staring-doe-eyed-boy'"

"What?" Nico can felt his face becoming more of a tomato-hybrid, the summer heat become bit by bit tenser.

"Nothing, Nico-sir."

"Seriously, drop the 'sir', and what did you just call me again, before that?"

"Seriously, dude," the barista -- Will, his nametag said -- let out a small laugh "You can't just blatantly stare into anyone's face and expected them not to notice."

This time, Nico allowed his face to blush, full-force; no, more of that Nico can't stop the crimson to flood to his cheeks, red the shade of embarrassment and awkwardness.

"No problem, though," Will, the Golden Boy, had a wash of guilt over his freckled, tanned face "People gaze a lot once they stepped foot in here. It's not a typical shop, after all. Though I do appreciate you taking in my... visage, first of all things." Will smiled over the purposefully cringy French accent, the corner of his lips turned mischievous and playful "Is that all for you?"

Oh, yes, the order. He forgot "Can I get the blueberry mousse, too? And... one chocolate cake pop."

"No probs, Staring-Guy," the teasing smile was at it again "Your total would be $14.30."

"That's... quite nice, compare to most place these days." Nico noted, his eyebrows raised in an amusing surprise, and fished out the bills from his pocket

"Well, we tried our best." Will cheerily smiled, accepting the money and clicked a few more button on the cash register. His long, delicately shaped yet calloused and strong, carefully picked the change; then, with his unwavering smile, drop the coins to Nico's hand. "Your order should be finished by several minutes. Enjoy your time!"

Nico silently nod, though his facade cannot completely hide the steaming embarrassment left over from several minutes ago, nor the fact that Will's pure, blinding smile melted at least some frost in his lonely heart. They were probably just "customer service smile", Nico reminded himself, try to keep his heart from preaching to high to the sky, though the fact that he felt the need to control such feelings was enough to judge how... infatuated he was with the barista.

If Percy Jackson was here, he swore, that boy would have already made a "your type" joke, just for the sake of relieving the high school nostalgia.

With Will temporarily out of his sight (such unfortunate), Nico had his time to give The Flying Ship a complete, thorough look. The concept is not foreign, yet fairly new in this part of the world -- a book-themed coffee shop. The Flying Ship -- though at this point Nico would like to shorten it to 'the Ship', or 'the Boat' if he decided to be less nice -- the interior walls were painted by a faint, bright yellow, shining enough to pop-out the color of the shop, yet translucent and just light to ease the soul. Along the walls are flimsy notes drew by markers and ballpoint pen, as if the shop deliberately encourage clients to leave lovely words on their walls (though, some little shit will decided to sabotage the nice intention by carving some vulgarities, just like how we was in high school). Strangely enough, there were pure white clouds painted on the walls, as if the sky is truly in a pastel-yellow shade and the blue out there was just an illusion. Along the walls are bookcases -- at least ten of them, Nico estimated, each were brimful with covers and words. Half of those are teen and young adult novels, it seemed like, though there were a mysterious number of equally intriguing thick books, as if people are really about to read Les Miserables at a coffee shop. How did they got such tremendous amount of books, Nico doesn't know, yet soon after he spotted the poster near a bookcase: SELL YOUR OLD BOOKS AND RECEIVE COUPONS! written in bright neon sharpies and elaborately decorated, the arrow pointed to the register.

At that very moment, Will's beaming voice entered Nico's mind, not fake, overly sweet yet bear the candied taste of nectar (or what he imagined that taste would be). Will was calling his name, since apparently his order was completed. Nico was so lost in thought and his observation to judge how fast or slow the service was, but that's not really important. He quickly picked up the tray, tried to not make any awkward, unnecessary eye contact while also tried to balance said tray by his two hands; he was careful not to spill the coffee, and picked the elevated area of the shop. Said seating space looks quite cute and inviting, perhaps since it was foreign as well, and people tends to examine and taste the flavor of the exotics; especially if it was something as simple as a seating style, completely, reasonably within one's comfort zone. For all intents and purposes, they traveled and get thrilled in every small, strange and new aspect of life. That's being said, the table was very, very comfortable: the table is low, kotatsu-styled, in which one the only fluffy object between their butt and the floor is a cushion pad. It was adjacent to the glass wall, which was bestrewed here and there with cute, tiny doodles on the rainbow-colored rows of post-it notes. He could see the busy, hectic street outside yet completely removed from it; as if for once, one would enjoy only witnessing life through their safe glass boundary, completely invisible and out of touch with the frantic beat of life outside the glass. Two separate worlds; an audience beholding a manic yet melodious and graceful play. As if the intense heat from frictions outside was translated to warmth, filtered through the glass, and percolate into his heart; pure energy without the chaotic side effects. And that's why it seemed very, very comforting.

His choice of seating did not take into consideration that it was the place that enabled him to most conveniently seeing everything that Will does behind the counter. Not at all. If asked, it was because "I had a lot of stuff on my tray and don't want to risk it."

He also didn't bargained for the eloquently flowing river of words inside his head, nor the fact that his "writing" style has gotten quite sappy inside his brain. Not at all. If asked, he would answer that "Maybe Jason was right; getting out of my room was a good idea!"

He opened his laptop and began to write the next part of his story. He got an inspiration.

Two lovers, in an abyss of a dystopia; the make-up camping site, the quiet, atypical moment of freedom and a project of destruction. ----------------------------------

Hope y’all enjoy this mess lmao it had been a while since I stopped writing. Btw, the book that Nico is writing in this fic is currently parts of a series that I really, really wants to work on in the future, so I’m hoping that one day I could bring myself out to write it haha. If you reached this point, thank youuuu so much for reading this fic, and please support me so that I can be motivated to not dropping this fic off. <3 All criticisms are welcome, I would absolutely love it if y’all have any comment on anything about this fic.