SOLANGELO

The house is quiet by the time Nico gets home.

Not peacefully quiet, exactly. More like the particular silence that settles over a place when everyone inside has already spent most of their energy for the day. The refrigerator hums somewhere in the kitchen. A clock ticks steadily from the hallway. Beyond the windows, the last traces of daylight have faded, leaving the glass dark enough to reflect the warm lamps scattered throughout the house.

Nico unlocks the front door with considerably less enthusiasm than he had when he left that morning.

The day has been long.

Far too long.

His clothes are slightly rumpled, his dark hair has fallen messily across his forehead, and there are faint shadows beneath his eyes that make his already tired expression look even more exhausted. The weight of the day seems to follow him through the doorway, clinging to his shoulders as he sets his keys down and closes the door behind himself.

He stands there for a moment.

Just breathing.

The house smells faintly of whatever was made for dinner earlier, mixed with laundry detergent and the familiar cedar scent of the furniture. Nothing dramatic. Nothing remarkable.

Just home.

Nico slips off his shoes and leaves them near the entrance.

Usually, he would head straight upstairs, change clothes, and disappear beneath a blanket until the world became manageable again.

Tonight, though, there are voices coming from the living room.

Quiet ones.

Familiar ones.

He follows them.

The living room is illuminated by a single lamp in the corner, leaving most of the room comfortably dim. The curtains are partially drawn, and the windows reflect the soft interior light. A blanket has been left across one end of the couch, several books are scattered across the coffee table, and two mugs sit nearby.

You are there.

Will is there too.

Neither seems particularly surprised when Nico appears in the doorway.

For a second, Nico simply looks at the room.

At the familiar furniture.

At the two people waiting there.

At the small signs of ordinary life that somehow make the exhaustion pressing behind his eyes feel slightly less overwhelming.

Will notices him first.

His expression changes immediately.

The tired smile that appears isn't particularly energetic, but it's genuine. Will looks exhausted too, though in a different way. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair is untidy, and the remnants of a long day at work are obvious in the way he has settled into the couch.

He doesn't launch into questions.

He doesn't ask Nico how the day went.

He knows better.

Instead, Will gets up.

The movement is slow, almost reluctant, as though his body is protesting the idea of standing after spending so many hours on his feet.

Nico barely has time to set his bag down before Will reaches him.

The hug is immediate.

Simple.

Warm.

There is nothing romantic about it.

It's the kind of hug shared between people who have known one another long enough that words become unnecessary. A brief acknowledgment that the day was difficult and that, finally, neither of them has to deal with it alone.

Nico's shoulders loosen.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Will holds on for another moment before letting go, his hand briefly patting Nico's back.

"Rough day?"

Nico gives a tired nod.

Will doesn't press for details.

He simply gestures toward the couch.

"Sit down."

Nico does.

He drops onto the cushions with a sigh, leaning back until his head rests against the upholstery. For several seconds, he doesn't move.

The tension that has been sitting in his muscles since morning gradually begins to disappear.

You remain nearby.

The three of you have fallen into this sort of routine over time.

Not a particularly exciting one.

Not one that would look impressive from the outside.

But dependable.

Someone comes home tired.

Someone else makes room.

Dinner gets reheated.

Shoes are abandoned by the door.

Someone falls asleep on the couch.

Someone complains about the thermostat.

Someone forgets where they put their keys.

Ordinary things.

After years of monsters, gods, prophecies, and battles, ordinary has become something worth protecting.

Will disappears briefly into the kitchen.

Cabinet doors open and close.

The refrigerator hums.

A moment later, he returns with a glass of water and sets it on the coffee table in front of Nico.

Nico looks at it.

Then at Will.

Will raises an eyebrow.

Nico takes the glass.

It's an unspoken argument they've clearly had many times before.

Drink water.

Get some rest.

Stop pretending exhaustion isn't exhaustion.

Will settles back onto the couch.

His own exhaustion becomes more apparent now that he isn't standing. His shoulders sink, and he rubs one hand over his face before leaning against the cushions.

For a while, none of you speak.

The silence isn't uncomfortable.

It's almost necessary.

Outside, cars pass occasionally along the street. Their headlights move briefly across the curtains before disappearing. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barks once and then falls quiet.

The house remains warm.

Safe.

Still.

Nico eventually glances around the room.

There are photographs on one shelf.

A few framed prints.

Books stacked in places they probably shouldn't be.

A collection of mismatched mugs in the kitchen.

Small pieces of all three lives scattered throughout the house.

It isn't particularly elegant.

It isn't perfectly organized.

But it belongs to all of you.

That matters.

Nico has spent too much of his life moving from one place to another to take permanence for granted.

A home used to mean something temporary.

A room.

A cabin.

A place to sleep before the next crisis.

Now, home means the lights left on in the hallway.

The spare blanket folded over the couch.

The familiar sound of someone moving around downstairs.

People who will still be there when he walks through the door.

His gaze eventually settles on you.

He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't need to.

The exhaustion in his expression says enough.

Will notices too.

He reaches for the blanket and tosses it toward Nico.

It lands awkwardly across his lap.

Nico stares at it.

Will gives him a look.

Nico finally pulls it over himself.

"Don't say anything," he mutters.

Will smiles faintly.

"I wasn't going to."

A few minutes later, the room becomes quieter.

The television remains off.

Nobody needs background noise.

The only illumination comes from the lamp and the faint glow of the kitchen light.

Nico's breathing gradually slows.

He isn't asleep yet.

Just resting.

The difference matters to him.

Will eventually stretches out along the opposite side of the couch, looking every bit as exhausted as Nico.

It seems almost ridiculous that both of them spent the day taking care of other people only to return home and immediately need someone else to remind them to take care of themselves.

But perhaps that's the point.

Neither has to be the strong one here.

Nobody needs to be the healer.

Nobody needs to be the fighter.

Nobody needs to be responsible for everything.

At home, there is room to be tired.

Room to have a bad day.

Room to sit quietly without explaining why.

For once, nobody needs anything from either of them.

There is no emergency.

No phone call.

No quest.

No reason to leave.

Just a quiet house at the end of a long day.