AMANTI, nico di angelo

XV. so it's agreed: boys are pretty too sometimes

0015. | SO IT'S AGREED: BOYS
ARE PRETTY TOO SOMETIMES

Conflict was a curious thing. Vela felt conflict almost constantly. The conflict of his stomach and his mind when he was travelling at a thousand miles an hour made him feel sick. The conflict of knowing where he had to go to close to the Doors of Death and the fear of that place made him feel sick. The conflict of warring with his love and the pain of what he had caused made him feel sick. The conflict of hatred he felt towards himself for not going to see Silena soon enough and the inextricable sadness that haunted him in his mourning made him feel sick.

Vela was a person paralysed by conflict at every turn, and he didn't know how to change that, and some small part of him felt as if he shouldn't. He didn't feel the need to change or alter the conflict he felt, a small part of him knew he needed to feel that conflict, to be ached by it, to be burdened by it, because maybe—just maybe—it would repent him for his sins. Vela believed he had caused his own conflict, and so he believed that he must wholeheartedly feel it in order for the Fates to be satisfied.

But Fates! Fates did he want to get rid of this conflict. Fates did he want to dismount from Arion's chariot and free himself from his nauseating conflict. Fates did he want to brave his fear of Hell to close the Doors of Death and free himself from his cowardly conflict. Fates did he want to forgive Nico so he could tell him just how much he loved him and free himself from his romantic conflict. Fates did he want to forget the loss of his sister so he could finally move on and free himself from his mourning conflict. Fates did Vela want to be something he was not.

And yet, he made every effort to. He tried so hard to avoid that conflict he felt, that sickness that came from not understanding himself. And the first step was the step off of the back of Arion's chariot.

His next step? Well, that was far less graceful and resulted in him collapsing onto the grass.

"Vela?" Percy's voice sounded like he was speaking from down the end of a tunnel. "Vela, you good?"

Vela threw a thumbs up back at his friend just a second before his mouth opened and his throat tightened with a flood of vomit to come hurling out. He heard the vacant sound of Percy's disgust behind him, but nonetheless didn't miss the touch of Percy's hand on his back, running over the ridges of his hunched spine soothingly, trying to help.

           "That's right, champ," he cooed. "Get it all up, you'll feel better." Vela could hear the smirk in Percy's voice as he teased him. He would have rolled his eyes, but he was distracted by a wave of vomit that burned the back of his throat as it poured out of his mouth at an alarming force.

          It didn't matter how many times Vela moved at a fast pace, he could never get over how nauseous it made him. It reminded him too much of his fall from the sky, that gut wrenching transformation from star to boy as he hurtled towards the earth. Riding in Arion's chariot was just like that—bloody horrific.