Hey guys! So I start school tomorrow and instead of rocking backwards and forwards in the corner all day I decided to write this. Honestly, it was supposed to be fluffy. I don't know how it turned into angst.

WARNING: Contains mentions of self-harm, alcohol, verbal abuse, depression, and death in the family. Please do not read if you are triggered by any of the above.

Also Will may seem a little OOC sorry

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The title is a quote from D.H. Sidebottom.

Nico di Angelo had never been a morning person. It seemed cruel to him, that in the wee early hours of the day when dawn was just breaking, when the world lacked its usual warmth in the absence of the sun, when the birds chirped annoyingly happily from right outside his bedroom window, that he would be forced to stir from the warm cocoon of blankets that surrounded him only to slave away at work for another 8 mechanical hours. He hated the prickle behind his eyes and the tingling of his eyelids that came from his lasting sleepiness, and the stiffness of his joints and back and the murkiness of his thoughts.

Every day, it was the same rigid routine. At precisely 5:45, his alarm would blare into his ear in all of its bold cacophony. Groaning, he'd slap the snooze button about three times before he could muster up the willpower to expose his flesh to the cold. Grumbling internally, he'd take a shower and get dressed in too-loose slacks that fit him once and a kind-of-maybe wrinkled white shirt. He'd grab a cup of coffee and force the bitter liquid down his throat and wait for the rush of caffeine that stimulated his nerves and tingled in his veins. He absolutely despised coffee, but drank it anyway, because Nico di Angelo was not a morning person.

Driving to the school was always the highlight of his morning. After all, what wasn't to love? On the way there, traffic, cars packed tight in squeezed, straight little lines, their dusty hoods glinting in the sun, which was at just the perfect angle to shine directly into your eyes. Half-asleep morning commuters on their third cups of coffee, downing energy drinks in a couple of gulps, drove the cars around him in their sleepy hazes.

And then there was the school itself. Perhaps ranked at the very bottom of the list in the state, it was a rather disappointing-looking building made entirely of concrete stained by years of rain and lack of funding for construction. There were always some students standing in groups here or there, climbing on top of garbage cans, and being as loud as they could at this hour. Some drank out of coffee thermoses that probably contained something a lot less innocent than coffee.

At around 7:30 each day, Nico di Angelo would push past these kids who had nothing better to do with their time, who came from broken homes with stains on the furniture and the evidence of teardrops in their bedrooms, with smashed plates from a month ago when Mommy came home a bit too drunk and a little television that was their window into another world. He'd make his way to his classroom and sit down on the gray spinny chair that sunk under his weight and would unpack his stuff from his briefcase.

Now was when he had half an hour to himself. Every day, he'd tell himself that he'd get some grading done, and every day, he'd fail. For these 30 minutes, Nico would reflect. Each day, a new topic, but today, he asked himself a question that he'd asked a thousand times before – How the hell did I end up here? When he was younger, he had a plan. He'd get through school and go to college and get a job that would maybe make his morning better, and maybe he'd end up with a boyfriend someday. When did that change? The obvious answer was when his mother died, of course. His father then became bitter and Nico lost his motivation to achieve, because what his dad said was right, wasn't it? He'd never amount to anything, so why even bother trying? And by the time he picked himself back up out of the hole he had fallen into, it was too late to change. So he went to some crappy university, got his crappy degree, and now had a crappy job to show for it.

But that was the obvious answer. Nico wanted to dive deeper…Being called a f*g at school, getting beaten up over and over, and that one time he thought a guy was asking him out and accepted in a flurry of excitement before he realized it was just a dare. When he thought he was alone, he'd go into the bathroom and slice the clean flesh of his arm and watch the blood pool in the bathtub. In the morning his dad would have a terrible hangover and would shout obscenities in annoyance; at night Nico could convince himself, "He's drunk. He doesn't mean it," but in the morning, his dad knew fully well what he was saying, and meant every word.

After school was over and Mr. di Angelo had struggled home through the long lines of traffic, he sat at his desk and withdrew a pile of essays from within his briefcase. As usual, three-quarters of the class hadn't done the essay and the remaining students had only put a little bit of effort into it. Sighing heavily, he began to read through them, correcting the multiple errors.

About two hours later, he was finished. He glanced over at the clock: 7 pm. Finishing a quick dinner of leftover pizza, he walked out of his apartment and onto the roof. Every night, without fail, Nico came up here. It was nothing special – in fact, it was the opposite of special. Clouds of fumes rose from the cars on the street below him. The neon lights were so artificial that he wanted to scream and turn into Godzilla just looking at them. Honks sounded through the city, people swayed from side to side in drunken stupors on the sidewalk, a car alarm chirped annoyingly in the distance, people screamed and shouted and spoke in big voices but empty pots make the most noise, don't they? It wasn't like being up here was especially scenic; you couldn't even see the stars through all the pollution.

But it was sort of humbling, in a weird way, to look down on all those humans thinking everyone cares about them when in reality, no one does; each person only cares about himself or herself. It was cynical, but it was the truth. Looking down also gave everything a bit of an ephemeral quality. After all, nothing lasts forever.

And maybe the reason he preferred the night was that there was no point in being excited for things to start if they were just going to end. So why not enjoy the end? The dark is soft, inviting. It can be shaped into any form. Dark with specks of golden light, dark with stars shining through the rich velvet like shimmering droplets of water frozen in the sky, dark with the liquid moonlight running in rivulets on open spaces while shadows pool in corners, pitch blackness that isn't dark – dark implies that there is a little bit of light; dark is a relative term. In the pitch blackness, there's no way of telling what's out there, and that's beautiful.

But light, light is harsh. It's either THERE or NOT, so distinct and bright and flashy, DEMANDING to be seen, determined to fill every crevice of a room.

On a rooftop in the city of fake fairy lights that tried to fool you into thinking the dark was gone, Nico di Angelo sat down and closed his eyes to examine the blackness behind his eyelids. There was a certain beauty in mystery, he thought, as he sat alone in the shimmering night.

Will Solace was a morning person. He loved the gentle sun slanting through his blinds and creating a crisscross pattern of gold on his bedspread. He loved the tender pink of the sky as the sun slowly, cautiously, peeked above the horizon. Everything was fragile and new, like delicately spun glass. Another dawn. Another chance.

It wasn't that Will was one of those overly perky people who got up fresh and ready every morning like "Oh, boy! Time to seize the day!" No, he wasn't too keen on actually waking up and getting ready and going to work, but he'd gladly get up at four A.M. if it meant watching the stars fade out into a sunrise.

He threw back the covers and took a shower, throwing on some dressy-casual clothes. He didn't drink any coffee – it wasn't as if he needed the extra kick – so that saved him a considerable amount of time each morning.

The traffic was horrendous, as usual, but it was especially sunny today, which sort of compensated for it. His job wasn't especially glamorous – all he did was behind-the-scenes technology for a weather station. It didn't pay much, and he knew that he could be in a better position, but it would do for now.

He pushed open the door into the building and walked purposefully in, setting his bag down at his desk. People wished him a good morning and he smiled and said good morning back and his co-worker Kayla made some comment about how he was "bright and early as always," and he chuckled even though there was nothing funny about the situation. The news anchor presenting the weather came out from his dressing room in a fancy suit and far too much makeup and announced that they were going live in 10 minutes and Will began to set everything up with a little smile on his face.

From the outside, Will Solace seemed like a perfectly normal man. Happy, young, a decent apartment, moderately good pay; what wasn't to love? For years, Will had built up walls of sunshine. He projected outward constantly and never talked about himself (and no one ever thought to ask) and always made jokes and faked a constant smile. No one ever wants to admit to his or her weaknesses. No one ever just spills over with emotion and divulges all of his or her secrets and insecurities, because people who have secrets worth keeping don't dare tell anyone else.

He'd built up this image of himself, see, an image of a laughing, kind man who helped old people with their groceries and held open doors and gave food and money to the homeless. But he hadn't been the same since his brothers died. And there was a time everyone just kept expecting him to break, for the image to shatter, but the laughter remained in his eyes. The years passed, and eventually, everyone just assumed he'd gotten over it. People stopped waiting for him to break and began expecting him to never change. He was their rock – always steady, never fazed. He never realized how many people needed that one point of constancy in their lives until he became that point.

All he asked for was someone to talk to, someone who wouldn't look at him with fear and bewilderment in their eyes and say, "Why are you saying things like that? You're talking nonsense."

He knew that would never happen, though, so he kept up the picture perfect image (but he was just broken glass inside).

Will stumbled home from work, exhausted and famished. The sun was setting, sinking slowly under the horizon, painting the sky a blend of pink and purple and the dusty blue of twilight. He slipped into his house and threw his bag down, entering the kitchen and making some noodles as an excuse for a dinner.

Will had always hated the dark. When he was a kid, he was convinced there were monsters hiding in the shadows, but when he turned 12, he got over it, mainly because he was teased relentlessly. And then his brothers died in the car accident, on that pitch black night when their headlights failed and they tried to pull over, but…

It was Will's fault. They'd taken his car and he should have taken it to the mechanic, damn it, then none of this would have happened. Ever since then, he'd developed a discomfort that seemed to run deep within his veins whenever he was in the dark.

The unknown was vast and frightening, that much was certain. And what wasn't to hate about the dark? It pressed in on you, choking you, blinding you. It was dense and thick and the worst part of it was that with light came dark. There were always shadows lurking in corners that you couldn't get rid of.

But, light… light was liberating. The soft, gentle glow of morning, the brightness of noon, the slanting golden rays that receded slowly as night rose, the patterns that shone through blinds and captured the dancing dust in the air – they were beautiful.

Will Solace sat in his leather armchair, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the city. The artificial lights flickered on, but they couldn't rival the sunlight. He closed his eyes, this blackness more familiar to him than the lit-up night, and waited for dawn.

Proverbs say that in terms of love, opposites attract, but psychology says that people are more likely to choose a partner who looks like them. When it came to Will Solace and Nico di Angelo, neither was true. From the outside, they seemed as different as two people could be. One who loved the sun, and one who loved the moon; one who had gold curls and tanned skin and a tall, broad stature, and one whose head was crowned with a messy mop of black hair and was paler than the moon and shrunk into himself like he was trying to hide from the world. But they shared interests and pasts that were so similar that they could have been brothers.

The story of how they met wasn't conventional, but they weren't exactly the type to stick with tradition. Will had climbed the innumerable stairs up to the roof of his apartment complex one day to watch the sunrise, and had almost jumped off the building in surprise when another figure was there – none other than Nico.

For Nico, Will was his warmth. He learned that light doesn't always have to be flashy, or demanding. It can be subtle and distant, but always there, even when you don't realize it. And for Will, Nico was the one person who didn't expect anything out of him, who didn't expect him to keep up his image. Now, it took months, because even soul mates don't take to each other immediately, but Will slowly let down his walls and began shining from the inside. Darkness doesn't always have to be choking or pressing. It can be liberating; it can free your conscience, just like light.

And after all, you'll never find one without the other.