There is love transferred in every word. In the weight of Will's hands holding his own. In the shake of Nico's shoulders that steady as the night goes on, phone pressed to his ear, the voice of someone who cares filling what would otherwise be a static silence. It takes on the form of a short love note slipped between the pages of his textbook, a simple reminder that Will is there. It's a reminder someone can find a life worth living within a body and mind that is not deemed normal, that has been denied the beauty of love and the world that comes from it for years. It's a reminder that what begs to be fixed cannot be fixed because it is not broken to begin with.
Maybe in those quiet moments, the doubt can creep in. Maybe when he feels the warm lips against his own, a twist in his gut that was born out of shame makes itself known again. The same one that first appeared when he realized he wanted to kiss a boy, when all he could think of was those sea-green eyes and dark hair – unattainable. Unholy. He could never be clean of that imperfection. Could never let go, and it would drag him into the ground, leave him scraped and bloody and with no one to turn to.
His body still thinks it is in danger sometimes. Body still believes something is wrong. He wants to draw away. Hide back into itself. Erase, forget, move forward as if nothing had every existed in his heart, in the flush of his skin, in the interlocking of their fingers. As if it had meant nothing. A mistake.
But even when everything about Will is soft – his eyes, his smile lines, his hands – there's a sharpness about who he is with Nico, a sharpness that cuts through that doubt. It's not wrong to be with him, it's not wrong to hold him and run his fingers through Will's golden hair. To hear his laugh and feel the flutter in his stomach. To draw patterns on Will's back, on his shoulder blades, up and down his spine as he kissed him.
To think of a future with him in it.