He doesn't quite wake up with the sun.
When Will first stirs Nico is still deep in the trenches of his own subconscious, and tonight it is sweet. Tonight he can smell the magnolias in the forests of the South, where he wandered for hours, learning to be comfortable with the size of his hands and the weight of his feet on the ground. Tonight he can hear his sisters' humming, both of them, Hazel's high, sweet voice with Bianca's baritone. He can feel, even, the warmth of his duvet, heavy around his shoulders. None of it makes sense, not together, but it is comforting regardless, and he does not want to leave.
He does not get much choice, in the end. The dawn's sun beams softly through the open windows, and beside him Will wiggles, eyes narrowed carefully as he tries to extract himself from the cage of Nico's arms without waking him. Nico blinks the bleariness out of his eyes, and sees the edge of Will's tongue peeking out of his mouth.
"Y'coulda jus' woken me."
"Aw, shit. I almost had it this time."
Nico's eyes slide back shut. "Not even close," he snorts.
"I was so. I was up a whole twenty minutes before you sensed it like the little sonar you are."
Will's padding footsteps sound louder than they really are in the quiet morning, echoing off the frigid marble; Nico exhales slowly and maps his steps in his mind: his trek to his drawer in the cabinet, rooting around until he finds his scrubs, his six quick steps to the ensuite, his muffled crash and poorly muffled cursing as he stubs his toe, like he does every morning, on the edge of the doorway.
"Mother -- fucker," Will hisses, clamping his teeth shut at the last minute.
He doesn't realise he has fallen back asleep. In his dream, he still hears Will's footsteps, still sees his shadow through the shade of his eyelids as he passes, fluttering from one edge of the room to the next. In his dream there is still the ruffle of the bandages wrapping against his wrists, the tear of a brush as he yanks it through his perpetually-tangled hair. In his dreams Will his humming, terribly off-key, to a song that has not yet been invented.
In his dreams their room is made of hardwood floors and gigantic windows, on an apartment across the street from Mount Sinai. Their blankets smell like peppermint and magnolia body wash.
"I'll see you later," Will murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his temple, his cheek. In Nico's dream there is a pressure next to him as a hand leans into the mattress. Will hovers above his face. In his dream he smells toothpaste. "I'll be back before you're up, Sleeping Beauty."
"You will not," argues Nico weakly, and his huff is swallowed by Will's teasing grin.
Twelve footsteps to the door, rubber soles slapping the hardwood. The obsidian doors scrape open, and when Nico blinks awake again, they are closed and cold, and the sun is brighter.
He smiles, and goes back to sleep.
