When Cecil walks into the infirmary, bleeding sluggishly and grinning sheepishly, he notices three things in quick succession:
2) It is ridiculously loud.
3) It reeks, absolutely reeks, of peppermint.
He moves, elbowing through the throng of neon orange, to the nurse's station, shoving a poor, innocent satyr to lean against the counter, searching. It takes a minute to find a shock of green hair under the actual piles of paperwork.
"Kayla," he says urgently, excavating her just enough to make eye contact. "Where's Will?"
"Uuuuuuuugggggggghhhhhh," she groans, reburying herself. "Fix your own problems! Why is everyone always so concerned with their own mortality!"
"Well," responds Cecil, not sure how to respond to that. "Well, it's urgent. I need to talk to him."
"So do five bajillion others! Get in line!"
Five bajillion others do appear to be in some kind of squashed up, unserious line. Cecil is in the infirmary a lot -- for a myriad of reasons, but for alibi purposes it's because that's where his best friend essentially lives -- but he doesn't see crowds like this often. At least, not this lively. Usually when there's a crowd like this it's accompanied by silence and strict suicide watch.
Kayla groans again. There are bags under her eyes, Cecil notices. This is unusual.
"It's the full moon, I guess."
"And -- what, vampirism is on the rise?"
"That's werewolves, you dumbass. And no."
She looks at him like he is dumb. Cecil stares back intently, because he is. She will have to use her words.
She does, rolling her eyes. (Jeez. He does not envy the head counsellors at this camp. If he had to attitude manage thirteen-year-olds for even one hour he would kill himself.) "Injuries and illnesses increase during full moons, for some reason. Although this is worse than normal."
"Okay." The general crowd noise coalesces, several people shrieking over -- something. Cecil winces, nodding to himself. Fuck. Fuck. "Okay, that's -- thanks, Kayla. I'll find him."
"If you see him, tell him I want a raise! By four trazillion percent."
He pushes his way back through the crowd, and it's harder this time. He can see three more people slip through the doorway, and it's ridiculous. Most of them aren't even scratched. He sees a group of Ares kids in permaglitter, glaring at a group of giggling Aphrodite kids with no visible malady. Annabeth Chase sits rolling her eyes on a free cot, holding her broken wrist, her boyfriend fussing over her. Nine of Cecil's own siblings are sprawled about with various gashes and bruises. He nearly trips over Clovis Yanam, who is passed out in the middle of the floor, snoring.
"J -- Jesus," Cecil curses, swiping a hand down his face. The smell of peppermint is worse, somehow, when he takes his hands away; his eyes burn anew and even his nostrils feel singed. He would be convinced it was all in his head if there weren't several people with their shirts over their noses.
"Reeks, huh," comments Malcolm Pace, as Cecil rushes past. "Smelt it all the way across the common. Must be the Vicks."
It's not. It's not the fucking Vicks, and Cecil knows that, because this smell is more familiar than it should be and he hates it, he can't fucking stand it. This peppermint is sharp and oily and comes out of a vial that Will keeps in his pocket and has since he was nine. This peppermint means quiet. This peppermint means ice packs and cold compresses, this peppermint means a still cabin and crying audible through pillows.
He trips over a bedpost and has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from shouting. He takes a second, burying his face in his hands, and breathes, in, out. He lets the noise wash over him. He plants his heels on the old floorboards, swallowing hard. In. Out. He squeezes his burning eyes.
He exhales, long and heavy, dropping his hands and turning his face to the ceiling. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking, focusing on the popcorned white.
"Alright," he whispers to himself. "Alright, we're good. We're good."
He isn't usually this stressed. He isn't usually forcing himself to unclench his jaw, blinking back frustrated tears. He doesn't usually jump to 100 this quickly.
The peppermint isn't usually this strong.
Right as he is about to stick a washcloth in a bottle of rubbing alcohol and clear out the building, consequences be damned, he catches a flash of blond hair. He beelines toward it, praying to his father for speed, and has to stop a good three feet from his swaying friend, nearly gagging at the potency of the smell.
"Will," he manages, breathing through his mouth. It burns there, too. "Will, dude, you gotta call it quits."
Will continues -- something. Doing something. Cecil walks around him, elbowing at least two people out of the way, and grabs both his wrists, waiting until he stops struggling.
"Will. I'm serious. Enough is enough."
Any other day, Will would twist out easy. Cecil knows it. Lotta folks think Will is some -- some goober, who can't hold his own, but Cecil grew up with the fucker. He was there when he gained two clean feet of height in one summer. He was there as the muscle developed. It was infuriating. He knows just how nasty Will's left hook can be.
He also knows the migraines make him weak.
He tugs, again, and Cecil lets him, following him closely behind. He stumbles towards the nearest cot, smiling weakly at Lacy. She smiles back, looking worriedly at Cecil as soon as Will focuses on her banged up knee. Cecil shrugs.
"You, uh. There's a whole lot of aura coming off you right now."
Will snorts. Cecil smiles, slightly, at the accidental pun, shaking his head when Lacy lifts an eyebrow.
He coughs as soon as he says it, scratching at his throat. Lacy doesn't blink, because there's no way she knows what that means, but Cecil sighs, resisting the urge to smack his head against the wall.
He's not -- Cass. He's not Lee. He doesn't know how to make Will listen to him, how to make Will care. He doesn't get it, either. He twisted an ankle slightly at the beginning of the summer and has been leveraging it to get out of chores for three and a half straight weeks. He's never had migraines, not like Will's, but he's seen enough of the tensing, of the twitching eyes, the grey faces and swaying on his feet to make a pretty educated guess.
Sometimes, he hates being a half-blood.
"It's not that bad," Lacy says quietly, snapping Cecil's attention to her. She places a gentle, manicured hand over Will's, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. "I can get ice and rest up, hey? You look exhausted. Maybe it's time to rest."
Will hesitates. Cecil holds his breath, hoping. Maybe it's just Cecil. He's never been particularly good with his words. Maybe he'll --
A weak, pulsing flash of light envelops Lacy's knee, fading almost as quickly as it came. Will sways. Lacy frowns.
"Honestly, Will. I shouldn't have even come in."
"No, it's -- fine." He stands, and nearly stumbles right into a shelf, Cecil darting out at the last second to steady him. "You should always come in when you're hurt."
He walks off, or tries to. Cecil follows, holding firm to his wrist, waving apologetically to a still-frowning Lacy as they drift by.
"Okay," he says, when she finally heads out. "Okay, dude, enough is e --"
Will wrenches his hand free, whirling around to face him.
"Is it time? For me to head back to the cabin and crawl in bed and just sit in pain for the next several hours? The next however many more days? To just curl up and cry? I'm fucking -- I'm tired, Cecil. I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of throwing up -- throwing up fucking nothing, by the way -- I'm tired of feeling my heart beat in my fucking eyeballs I'm tired of seeing flashing lights and passing out and I'm just fucking -- I'm done! I don't want any more of it! I just want it to stop, and it won't stop, so I just want to work! I want to do something that isn't sitting in -- in fucking peppermint!" He pauses, breathing in deep, holding it, screwing his eyes shut. "I fucking hate peppermint!"
The force of his shout echoes through the crowded infirmary.
Cecil stares at him, wide eyed, as he puts his face in his hands, drops to the floor, and starts to cry. Quiet, shaking sobs, shoulders wracking, tears leaking out between his fingers; Cecil, lump in his throat, slides down across to him.
Horsehooves echo in the thick silence.
"Anyone who is not actively dying," calls Chiron softly, "get out. Clovis, you stay."
Murmurs and footsteps swell as dozens of people. for perhaps the first time in their lives, quickly and quietly follow orders. Cecil keeps his eyes trained on his best friend, blinking away the blurriness of his eyes. Two sets of footsteps approach the edge of Cecil's vision, one horse, one slippered.
Cecil doesn't move. Will, after a moment, nods.
"How many days, now, child?" asks Chiron kindly. He reaches out a strong hand and rests it gently on Will's head, sliding his fingers through dull curls.
Will holds up a hand, five fingers splayed.
"Fucksake," Cecil mutters, scratching his nose. "Say something day one, dude."
"To what end?" Will's voice is muffled in his knees. "You gonna snap your fingers and magic it away?"
"Something can be done," Chiron chides. "Five days is too long to be in pain, Will."
"It's psychosomatic and you fucking know it," Will snaps. For a second his eyes are clear, glaring as he lifts his head, but it fades just as quickly. The exhaustion leeches the color right out of him. "If it could be healed it would have been healed when Lee was around."
"Just because your brother couldn't fix it does not mean it cannot be fixed."
Will winces again, hands flying up to press against his eyes. Cecil looks over at the centaur, resting his cheek on his knee.
"If it helps, he's always this mean when he's hurting," he offers. He smiles slightly at the scowl he can feel Will sending his way. "It's kind of nice. I never get to see bitchy Will."
"Bitchy Will is the only Will you're ever going to know for the rest of your life, you quisling."
Chiron smiles wryly. "You have your father's inkling for the dramatics, don't you." He shakes Clovis, who has passed out against his flank, gently awake. "Up, my boy. We need your skills."
"Sure thing," Clovis yawned. "How long you wanna be out? A week? Two?"
Will peeks a wary eye open.
"I have a shift tomorrow morning."
"Not happening," Cecil and Chiron say together.
Will sighs. "Sleeping won't make them stop."
"But you won't feel it when you're out."
"...Fine." He lifts his head up, slowly, and scooches over to Clovis. "No more than a day."
Two, Chiron mouths, over his shoulder. Clovis nods.
"Just close your eyes," Clovis says. "Good. Imagine a sheep, in front of you. Can you do that?"
"'Kay. Hold it gently, around the forelegs. Grab a pair of clippers."
Will's hands curl carefully.
"Imagine shearing it, okay? Stripe by stripe."
Will obeys, too tired to keep fighting. He moves his hands slowly, rhythmically, and Clovis keeps a careful hand over his head. Slowly, the shadow from his hand grows over Will's head, covering his shoulders, his arms, his hips. Will's movements start to slow, and then, as the shadow ghosts over his knees, stop, and he tilts suddenly forward. Cecil darts out to catch him.
"Thanks," he whispers, throat dry. "I, uh, can't carry him, though. He's six-two and I have a twisted ankle."
Chiron stands slowly, careful of his hurt leg, and hovers for a minute, hands on Will's shoulders.
"We will have to figure out a lot more than this," he murmurs, exhaling deeply. "You cannot go on like this, child."
He picks Will up with careful, paternal hands, twisting to rest him gently on his back. He stands so that his hooves don't creak the old floorboards.
Old, serious brown eyes are turned suddenly upon him, and Cecil looks back, frozen.
"He needs someone to look out for him. You do well."
The centaur turns and walks lightly out of the infirmary, ducking through the low entryway.
The smell of peppermint fades into something sweet and gentle.
