.
.
the dead have no heartbeat. the dead are dead, and whatever hearts they had are long gone by now, shriveled up and withered along with their bodies. the dead have no heartbeat, and that's what he knows, that's what he's used to, the feeling of being the only living thing around for miles and miles is a state he practically lives in, practically living in the underworld.
the feeling of being the only living thing around for miles and miles is a state he wants to go back to- too many living things make for too many heartbeats, too many heartbeats and too many eyes and questions and whispers and stares, too many people and too little space—and too much space deep deep underground where you'd think there would be nothing, where there are too many things and not enough living, with too many eyes and not enough heartbeats.
his is the only heartbeat deep deep underground (monsters don't have hearts- they're nothing but dust and matter and millenniums of hatred decomposing and recomposing like blisters under the skin of tartarus), and his feet hit the ground in its rhythm, his breath splits the air in its rhythm, the entirety of the pit beat beat beats in its rhythm (or maybe his heartbeat is the one that's been pulled into sync), and it hurts
-(he trudges through another pile of rotting filth grazing the bottoms of his jeans like broken glass- don't think about what it might be, don't look at it, don't breathe it in- wondering vaguely how it felt when it used to be a game; he's been adding up his points and losses- 500, 60, 120, 300- but it's gotten too high and he's lost count and he should've won the game already, but it's not a game and there is no winner- just another bruise or scar or story that he may never get to tell)-
it hurts to breathe in the poisonous air and let it circulate through his poisonous body, filling his lungs and adding another moment of time to his shallow life, his shallow heart, his shallow body that may collapse in on itself soon if he doesn't find rest, if he doesn't sit down, if he doesn't get out, and he's not sure if there is an out anymore
-("get out of my way," he mutters, voice rolling like gravel over his tongue as he glares with everything he has left at the damn giant blocking his path, blocking the doors he'll never reach, never reach)-
and even if there is, he'll never quite make it, because tartarus digs into his skin and plants itself in his mind, twisting through his ribs and down his spine and will never ever leave him alone (it doesn't like loosing what it owns, and it owns everything).
the dead have no heartbeat, and he feels out of place with everyone else- alive and kicking with heavy hearts made stronger, while his, black and cracking, misses every other beat and will surely give out soon.
he feels it with him wherever he goes- he can never be alone anymore, he's never alone anymore, maybe he was never truly alone to begin with. it sits on his shoulder or brushes his hand, it whispers in his ear and laughs when he screams, its there in the dark, it sings in the wind, it's become just as much a part of his life as breathing is (something that should feel so much more natural than the shaky inhales and exhales he repeats over and over again and he can never seem to catch his breath), and it never ever leaves him alone. and he's afraid to fall asleep because—
what if he opens his eyes surrounded by fire? what if he never left? what if he's wasting away somewhere deep deep underground, drowning in his own mind and self-induced hallucinations (bianca had been there, he was sure, flickering and flitting around the edges of his vision until she turned and smiled and spoke before she disappeared); what if he closes his eyes and the shadows swallow him up, dragging him down and down and down to the place where he belongs (a monster a monster a monster, she had said, her voice echoing off of the cavern walls and he wasn't sure if it was her or a harpy).
and every time he slices or dices or stabs and watches the particles of whatever creature sink to the ground, he feels a part of him go with them- he knows where they're going, feels where they're going; he feels the beat beat beating under his feet and knows it's there and waiting for him.
he's afraid of sleeping and he's afraid of dying (outrageous, ridiculous, impossible, he doesn't fear the shadows the shadows fear him), afraid he'll explode into a flurry of dust with no soul, afraid he'll be tossed back into the pit and crushed into the ground like a stain on carpet, afraid he'll be reborn as something he's not (something maybe he's been all along), as a monster, monster, monster.
a monster, monster, monster, with eyes threatening to dry up and hair that feels too heavy on his head, a monster that can't move, can't blink, can't sleep in the empty cabin that should really be called a mausoleum with it's pillars and walls and coffin-like beds that remind him of black dresses and green hats and standing outside in front of a lonely grave, remind him that he'll be the one lying in the grave soon with no one visiting him but the occasional ghost because surely his father won't go to any great lengths to give him a nice place to be after he dies- he's not bianca after all. his eyes dart from place to place, up the walls, down the walls, left and right and all over again, because something might be sitting in the corner, something might be watching, and the blanket is constricting and trying to suffocate him and his ears are ringing and he has to remind himself to breathe and—
"nico?"
the ringing is gone and the shadows are shadows and jason is standing in the space that was vacant a moment ago.
"jason," he returns, because it's the only word his mind and mouth agree on and spit out while he blinks himself back into reality.
"sorry- did i wake you?"
"no," he says simply.
but that simplicity is lost in the moment between something moving and nico seeing it- seeing and quick quick dash of black darting across his room and the window is made of filthy filthy glass separating him from laughing giants and that's when he remembers that oh yeah, this probably isn't real, these are pipe-dreams and what-ifs and never-will-be's and he's stuck in a jar far far away and the smell of pomegranate is burning his nose and sinking into the back of his throat—
"nico,"
there's a shock traveling up his arm and into his brain and there's a hand on his wrist- a warm, calloused hand holding gently to his cold cold skin and anchoring him to his body, to the bed, to the moment.
"i'm real," his touch is very real and his voice is very real, flowing soothingly over his ears like velvet and cutting through the dark like the light jason is made of (and nico hates how poetic it sounds, and then hates that he hates it- bianca loves- loved- poetry, but her heart stopped beating a long time ago and any meaning it had certainly died with her), "i'm right here,"
his tone is far too soft and far too careful and nico wants to sink into himself rather than show these pathetic pathetic weaknesses- he's a son of hades, a son of shadows, and a son of hades is terrifying and hated and invulnerable and-
"and you're right here too,"
-and nico is right here too, shivering and alive. he slips his arm out of the light hold, bringing his own hand around to grasp at jason's wrist, warm and sturdy, and runs his thumb over the skin- carefully, carefully- and feels the pulse of someone alive and breathing.
jason's heartbeat is soft and steady and very different from the thundering, earth-shattering pulse of the pit, soft and steady and beating under his fingers- beat beat beating and jason is real.
and nico isn't crying, he really isn't, when he falls against jason's shoulder, strong arms shifting his tired body and letting him rest his head in the crook of his neck (warm and beat beat beating against his forehead), even though he's wetting the collar of his shirt (purple; he supposes he's just come from camp jupiter- he was supposed to be coming on friday, and the last time he checked it was something around tuesday, but the last time he checked was a long time ago and although the seconds are ticking in his head- it's been 8 minutes, 8 minutes and 35, 36, 37 seconds since jason showed up- he's not quite sure what day it is).
and he's not crying, not shaking and not melting into the unfairly warm embrace, not clinging to jason's whispers of comfort like the weak weak child he is, depending on the beat of jason's heart like he probably should his own.
the dead have no heartbeat. monster's hearts don't beat and his mother's heart doesn't beat and even his own heart doesn't beat sometimes. but jason's heart beats
and beats
and beats
and continues to beat as nico slowly, hesitantly, closes his eyes and drifts of into a light, cautious sleep led by the beat beat beating of jason's heart.
.
.