#pining will solace

[mediumgayitalian]

The funniest thing about the whole ordeal is that he sits by the window, mooning.

Like a Victorian maiden.

"Stop teasing," Cass scolds, visibly choking back laughter. "He's -- little."

"He's down bad facetious," Lee argues. He gestures to Will's feet, which are -- and he cannot emphasize enough -- swinging back and forth. He even --

Gods.

He is twirling his hair.

Cass lets a bubble of laughter through, clamping her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my gods," she says, shoulders shaking. "It's so cute, I'm gonna --"

Will sighs to himself. Deep, long, lovesick; it takes everything in Lee's body not to join Cass on the floor, holding himself to limit the shaking. She keeps her head carefully bowed but even then Lee can see the tears streaming down her face.

"Goober," Lee calls, tongue in his cheek, "what the hell are you doing."

Will startles. He goes, quite immediately, startlingly, pomegranate red, sliding a worn journal against his chest and out of sight. Only, he misses, because he's a klutz, and launches the journal halfway across the cabin, narrowly avoiding smacking Cass clean across the face.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Stillness.

Silence.

Lee glances over at the journal. Will holds his breath. Lee moves his hand, ever so slightly.

They bolt at the same time.

"Nothing!" Will shouts, diving for the book. He is, unfortunately, a pipsqueak, and easily lifted to the side and dropped, screeching and clawing, on Michael's top bunk. "Nothing, nothing, I'm doing nothing --"

"If you're doing nothing, then it's fine if I look," reasons Lee, knowing that if he kept a diary and any of his rat ass siblings tried looking through it he'd kill himself. "Just blank pages, right?"

Will lunges, but Lee is stronger than he is, and his arms are longer. He plants a hand on his squishy face and holds him there, struggling, arms scrabbling for the journal, Cass's wheezing echoing through the largely empty cabin.

"Cass! Tell him -- tell him to give it back --"

Cass looks up, maybe, to tell him off, but she sees Will's squished, roan face and loses her shit all over again. This time she doesn't even bother staying on her knees, she hits the full, total ground, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face, choking in agony.

Lee flips open the book.

Will screams.

"Dearly beloved," Lee reads, voice trembling. Will claws at him. In what is, perhaps, divine intervention, the scratch marks disappear as quickly as Will makes them, glowing a soft gold. Will screams again. "We are gathered here today --"

There is laughter, and arguing, outside, and Lee pauses. Will stops struggling. His face drops. He whips toward the window, faster than Lee can even think of stopping him, and brings his clasped hands to his face, head bowed, and begins rapidly to pray:

"Dad, please, if you love me, smite them all, please, do not let them come in, turn off their ears, please, I promise I will scrape off every brownie I get for the next fifty years if you --"

But it is for naught. Because in a great, energized gaggle, the rest of their siblings pile through the door: Michael, scrabbling at Diana's flexed arm, flailing his way out her head headlock; Kate and Pheobe, heads bent over a script; Melody, Mercury, and Leanna, harmonizing over Michael's cursing; Gabriel and Laurel, tossing a basketball back and forth; and, finally, Amir, trailing quietly behind them, bow in hand.

They spill out onto the giant carpet by the door, and pause.

Lee clears his throat.

"--to celebrate the union of --" His voice wavers. Will shrieks, lunging again, but Kate in Phoebe are faster, lunging forward and grabbing one arm each.

"Oh, no you don't," says Kate, grinning, and Phoebe, unusually bold, pokes his ribs until he stops squirming, snickering to herself.

Lee continues.

"-- Nico di Angelo and Will Solace, in the sight of -- oh for fuck's sake, capital-G God -- to join them in holy matrimony."

Will puts his pudgy little hands over his face and yells. He begins, ever so, to glow, like he does when he's healing, and it is the perfect moment to set everyone off: several of their siblings join Cass on the floor, who, at this point, looks genuinely unwell, and several more -- mostly the girls -- rush forward to hang off Michael's bunk, cooing at poor Will, who glares at Lee with all the vitriol his ten-and-three-quarters body can muster.

"I hate you," he croaks. "You are -- the worst brother ever --"

"I'm just trying to have it memorized," Lee says solemnly, "you know, so I can recite and when you and Nico get --"

There is a quick, painful flash. For a moment, Lee is genuinely blind -- his eyes are open, he can feel the air of them on his drying sclera, but he can see nothing but pure, white light -- and it takes a solid minute of blinking to get anything back in front of him, even if it's blurry.

The first thing he sees is Will, off the bunk, with the journal in his hands.

The second thing he sees is Amir, quick and quiet, poised behind him.

"I don't even like him," Will says hotly, "I'm just -- did you know that there are friendship marriages, and --"

Lee meets Amir's eyes and nods. The curve of his oft-stoic mouth incites genuinely glee in Lee's wicked heart, and in a flash their third youngest darts out his deft pianist hands and grabs the journal from Will's hands. Before Will can even shriek, he tosses it across the room, where Laurel catches it, and she sprints across the cabin, scurrying up the wooden support beams, and hangs from the highest rafter. She flips through the pages and opens a new one.

"Oh-hoo-hoo, this one is good," she says evilly, wiggling her fingers. "He even got all the letters right, ahem, Mr. Will di Angelo --"

Will is short, but he's fast and he's slippery, so he's out of Kate's attempted half-Nelson in seconds and ripping across the cabin, spider-monkeying up the beam. Laurel shrieks and tosses the journal to the waiting Gabriel, who slides himself in the spot between his bunk and the wall and flips to a new page.

"It's a drawing!" he reports, delighted. "Aw, man, he even got the shine of his hair on here --"

"All of you hate me!"

"It's cute," Leanna coos, scooping Will up from the ceiling. Laurel damn near cries in relief, dropping down and muttering about evil, punishing little brothers and pointy fingers. Will tries to squirm free but Leanna presses a million exaggerated kisses to his cheeks, to his hair, and on reflex, he leans into them. "Baby's first real crush --"

"I do not have a crush on him!" Will squirms free, eventually, standing on his own -- unmade -- bunk and hollering until his face is read. "I just think he's -- cool, okay, he can control zombies and ghosts and --"

"'Makes your heart flutter?'" Melody suggests. She holds up the journal Gabriel has passed to her and traces her hand over an older page, tapping her electric-blue nails. She clears her throat, upping up her own slight drawl to match Will's heavier one: "'Symptoms: sweaty palms, dizziness, rapid heartbeat, high fever -- potential tachycardia? Or plague. Revisit next appearance.'" She closes the book and grins. "Think you're a touch ahead of yourself, kiddo."

Will, as he always does, chafes at the nickname, snapping a reflexive you're four years older than me! Not even! and crawling under his bed. Belatedly, an arm scrabbles up on his mattress, patting blindly until it makes contact with his pillow -- crumpled into the corner under half a metric ton of stuffed toys -- and drags it down with him, screeching into it.

"All I ever do in this stupid cabin is suffer," he bemoans.

Their siblings, for the large part, ignore his wallowing. More interesting is the journal, that they circle around, flipping through the various drawings and doodles of Nico di Angelo, enigma, and the hearts around every strand of hair.

Lee starts feeling a little bad.

A little.

"Dork," he says, peeking under the bed. Will kicks him. Lee grabs his foot. "Come out."

Will pouts. "No."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"Obviously!"

Lee looks down and sighs. He is eighteen, and feeling every year; his knees, actually, have wear equivalent to that of a seventy-year-old man. Michael checked. Michael could, also, have been lying, because he's a tool, but there was a particular gleam of unbridled glee in his eyes when he reported back so Lee is inclined to believe him.

All this to say: he is too old for this nonsense.

And, yet.

"You have not been sweeping under here," he grumbles, pulling a face at the (numerous) dust bunnies. "You have, like, two chores."

"I have so!"

Will coughs.

Lee sighs and holds out his hand. Will's throat is, indeed, closing up, so he fires off a quick hymn to lower the swelling but leaves it itchy in penance.

"I don't know why you continue to lie to me. Your tell can literally, actually kill you."

Will opens his mouth to lie again. Lee pokes him, hard, in the stomach, and he closes it, choosing instead to scowl.

"Get out of here," he complains. "You smell like dookie and I hate you also."

"I do -- I do not!"

Just in case, Lee sniffs, and he -- well, he doesn't smell like roses, but dookie is an exaggeration and after a moment the little shithead snickers, dodging Lee's pinching fingers. Lee rolls his eyes and scoots closer, crushing him against the wall.

"We're not trying to embarrass you," he tries.

Will scoffs. "Lie!"

"Okay, well, we are a little." Lee turns over and stares until Will meets his eyes. He is relieved to find no genuine hurt in them, only annoyance, and maybe a touch of frustration. He searches for Will's hand and squeezes, holding tighter when someone in the peanut gallery cackles, and Will scowls. "But, like. Embarrassment of love and affection."

"That's not a thing!"

"It is. You know how Diana likes to put a curse of truth on Michael and ask him leading questions about his weird love for Orlando Bloom in public?"

"That's different," Will says after a pause. "Diana only does it to punish him for his crimes."

"Of which there are many," Lee agrees. "But it is the same concept."

"But I'm not evil like Michael!"

"No? It wasn't you and Cecil that rigged Jake Mason's birthday cake to explode last week?"

Will's mouth opens. It closes.

"I will speak no further without an attorney," he decides on, and Lee laughs out loud. Will grins, forgetting his anger, and leans in when Lee curls into him, snorting. Lee presses a kiss to his hair and tugs him even closer.

"We are teasing you because we love you and you are being a massive goofball," he says quietly. He squeezes when he feels Will scowl. "You tease me for crushes and foolishness too, brat. You're just suffering because it's your first time."

"I don't have a crush on him," Will insists, muffled. "...I just think he's cool."

"Right. And all the drawings --"

"Anatomy practice!"

"--and the poems--"

"I can't control those! They just come out!"

"--and the marriage vows --"

"I -- okay. That one -- gimme a second." Will screws up is face, considering. He brightens when the idea comes to him. Lee snorts. "Connor and Travis were telling us about levying the marriage system to benefit you and I think Nico would be a willing participant."

Will beams, proud at his quick thinking, and Lee cannot help but try to crush him a little. Will, used to it, sighs and grumbles and tucks himself smaller so he can fit into the shape of Lee's arms, tights against his chest.

"You -- are -- so goddamn cute, you know that?" Lee says, punctuating every word with a loving poke. "Gods."

Will squirms. "Everyone keeps telling me that. That's why I'm studying Nico. So I can get cooler."

"You're studying Death Boy because you have a big fat embarrassing crush on him."

"No."

"Yes, and it's ridiculous, because you've met him, maybe, twice."

"I have met him three and a half times."

"I don't know what a half is and I'm afraid to ask. Kid, you're whipped."

Will tips his head to rest on Lee's shoulder, groaning. He stays there long enough for the wheezing, riff-raff, and general mischief to quiet, for some of the most hyperactive kids in camp to get bored and move on, poking at another available sibling. Will stays there long enough, breathing heavy, eyes squeezed shut that Lee hears Cass humming as she makes her rounds, tucking in the younger kids, who insist that they are too old for such nonsense but allow it anyway, and brushing her gentle hands on the foreheads of the older kids. She comes to Will's bunk last, kneeling outside of it, matching her breathing to theirs.

"All good?" she whispers, hand coming out to squeeze Lee's shoulder.

Lee nods. "Yeah. Tired out."

He can hear the smile in his sister's voice. "Okay. Don't fall asleep down there, Lee. You'll ache in the morning."

"Won't," Lee promises, knowing full well it's a possibility. Cass snorts, squeezing again, and Lee hears he pad away, pulling back her unreasonable number of comforters -- for a child of the sun god she is always freezing -- and floating off a final night, fireflies.

Lee smiles as all thirteen of them -- including Will, who mouths it silently against Lee's shoulder -- wish her goodnight back.

"I don't." Will makes a quiet, keening noise. "I don't understand why my chest feels so big."

Lee buries his face in coily, tangled hair, breathing deeply.

"You got a big, giant heart," he murmurs. "And Nico needs a friend. I think you, uh, I think you might also have a thing for brown eyes and basket cases, but that's none of my business."

Will giggles tiredly. Lee smiles, holding them close and scooching them gently out from the dusty underbed. His knees, as he correctly assumed, scream when he stands, but Will's little hand is warm in his, and his eyes are cloudy and soft. He is ten years old and too big for it but he reaches his hands up and Lee lifts him, anyway, exhaling at the wrap of his legs and arms around him, at the shift of his head in the crook of his neck. He takes a minute to hold the weight of him, memorizing, before leaning down and easing him onto the softened mattress, tucking the creased, messy sheets around him the way he likes.

"Sweet dreams," he says softly, pressing a kiss to his freckled forehead. He grins. "Of wedding bells, and death-breath smooches."

"Go away."

Will pushes him, scowling sleepily, and Lee lets him, smoothing out his pillow and yawning his way over to his own bunk. He flicks Michael awake in passing just to be a jackass and dives into the bottom mattress, before he realizes, wrapping himself in his blanket and pretending to snore. When Michael has re-settled, muttering mutinously to himself, Lee opens his eyes, squinting over to where Will is curled up, across the cabin, blankets pulled up to his forehead and feet sticking out the other end. He smiles.

He can't wait to bring this up at their wedding, one day.

[mediumgayitalian]

"It reminded me of you."

Will looks into his cupped hands. He purses his lips. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again.

"This is, uh." He clears his throat. "It, being this fish skeleton?"

Nico nods. "Yes."

Will waits for an explanation. With none forthcoming, he looks up, intent on asking for it directly, but his tongue does completely numb in his mouth, jaw softly unlocking. From the late afternoon sun behind him golden rays shine directly into pools of what has become spun copper and amber brown; spools of shining wire surrounded by shining white. It takes him time uncountable to register the wide, round soporifics in front of him are in fact Nico's eyes, cradled in the light, watching him.

"What," Will tries, mouth dry, "uh, what? Why. I mean." He holds up his hands. They're shaking. "Fish?"

"That's you," says Nico, crowding into Will's space. Will makes a noise that can be registered only by bats, dolphins, and bush crickets.

Nico's callused hands encircle Will's wrist and his soul ascends, exiting from his body, floating away gayly away until Will snags it by the ankle and yanks it back to his mortal body. Dad, if you can hear me, I cannot stress how much you owe me and how badly I am calling in that favor. SOS. SOS. SOS. SO --

"It's small, see. Delicate."

"I'm -- six two?"

"Yeah, physically." Nico pokes at the tiny little spine. "But you're, like." He makes a squishing motion with his hand. "Crushable, you know? You just go around feeling your feelings at full force. All over the place. Delicate."

Will is pretty sure he's ghasting. Is that what it's called? Flabbering one's ghast? When you just -- kind of stand there, slack jawed, wheezing like a doofus? Maybe he is a fish. "Nico, I've got --" He makes a swooping gesture in front of his nose, trying and visibly failing at indicating a plague mask. "You know? I could poison you."

"Yeah, that's why I picked one that died from whirling disease."

"How...thoughtful?"

"Thanks."

Nico returns to the fish skeleton. He points out the eye sockets. "See here? The fish had shallow orbits so it probably had big eyes like you."

"I have big eyes?"

"Duh. You are ninety percent eye. Everyone looks at you and it's like bam. Blue. All you can see."

Will begs the red to recede from his cheeks. He can hear the echo of his father's cackling, all the way from his stupid dork ass nerd ass lame tryhard chariot, and the red continues to rise.

"You -- like my eyes?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Hey, look here. You can see its -- are you looking? -- you can see its heart cavity. Cool, right? Your heart is going really fast."

A high-pitched noise comes out of Will's throat, sourced from somewhere in his kneecaps, probably. They're wobbling enough.

"Yeah, I -- uh, best believe I noticed."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm vibing. Chilling, even. One could even say I'm maxing, relaxing, acting all cool. If there was a basketball net outside of a school I would be totally shooting right now."

"You're acting weird," Nico accuses.

Will laughs out loud. No, like, really laughs, it comes out of his stomach and then his knees give out and he barely manages to catch himself, hunching over, veins hot rod boiling and stomach writhing and face the color of a gently polished tomato. He may have passed.

"Oh, my gods, something kill me."

"Whatever, weirdo. Come back over, I want to show you why the rib cage is representative of your repression issues."

"Okay."

[mediumgayitalian]

Right before he left for an errand of his father's, Nico di Angelo almost kissed him.

Will is sure of it.

He'd been so close. Will had felt his breathing, spine tingling, on the curve of his dry lip: he had stood on on the bottom stair of the porch of Cabin Seven, a little shorter than Will even than usual, hands hovering over Will's wrists. Will had fought with the temptation to slide his wrists just so upward, just enough to slot against his open palms; he had resisted, in the end, but it was a close thing, a desperate need to feel the chill of Nico's chapped hands through his bandages, past his tangled string bracelets. Nico had parted his lips, meaning to say something, and Will had exhaled, quick and short, flicking down to meet his eyes, already staring. Nico's pupils were dilated, even obvious with the dark dark dark of his eyes, and his eyelids were low-slung, long eyelashes fanning. He had managed one word.

"I --"

And then Will's stupid watch chimed, and Nico glanced down, and he cursed, wrenching his hands away, and that time Will did grab them, just for a milisecond, just on reflex. And Nico had frozen and stared down at their joined hands, eyes wide, but Will was already halfway through a reflective "Sorry! Oh my gods! Sorry! Don't be late!" and Nico straightened, eyes narrowing in determination, and rushed out his okayseeyoulaterbye and sprinted across the common, disappearing into the shadow of his cabin. And Will stared after him for several minutes, until his vision was obstructed by a camper.

A camper who turned to him, eyes wide and sheepish and hopeful, wrist bent oddly, and said: "Hey, Will --"

And Will screamed his frustration so loud the camper jumped out of his skin, squeaking out an excuse, and walked quickly off, which was just as well because Will doubted he could be very much help when he was so busy stomping back to his cabin, burying his face in his pillow, and screeching until his voice went hoarse.

"Fucking boys!" he shouted.

Lou Ellen, in his cabin for some reason, flipped a page of her magazine, snorting.

"Hear, hear."

And that was that.

-- -- --

Except that wasn't that.

Because Nico sends him letters.

"I don't get any of those," Percy observes , peeking over his shoulder. Will slams the paper to his chest. shoves his face away, and storms off, face burning.

"Maybe because you are a tool," he mutters darkly, and flushes worse when he does not mutter at all, and Annabeth laughs so hard she chokes. He ducks into the stables and presses his steaming forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut, letter clutched to his chest as he waits out Annabeth's wheezing, Percy's hurt mumbling.

"I'm not a tool, am I?"

"Oh my gods I am going to pass out."

Once she reassures him, giggling, and drags him off Somewhere Else, Will peeks out. There is Clovis, curled up on the ground, but he is out cold. There is Miranda, a little ways away, tending to an olive tree, but she minds her own business. There is Connor, rigging...something, but that's okay. Will knows his pressure points.

He exhales, willing the heat away from his face. It doesn't work. He sits down in Guido the Pegasus's stall, anyway, shooting him a small smile in greeting, and smooths out the letter on his thigh. It reads:

Dear My Friend Belov

Will,

Hi.

Okay, hi again. I let this letter sit for two weeks because I was embarrassed. I don't know what to say. Because I'm

Hi. Again.

I have locked myself in my room with a pen and no food source (you would not approve). I gave one of my father's minions a key. They are not to release me until I have filled at least one page. So.

Uh, -- wow, is it stupid, writing 'uh', I used to write letters for competitions at school -- I miss you. I guess. I got a papercut yesterday and my stepmother gave me a bandaid. It was so strange and then I blinked because -- it shouldn't be strange, right? That's what you do for papercuts. But then I realized that I never get bandaids for papercuts. You just healed them.

And then I realized I have become a booger.

Will stops, and laughs. Guido huffs and raises his horsey eyebrow at him, and Will knows its in judgment because horses are the judgiest creatures on Earth, except for church ladies, and his ears burn. But he cannot force away the giant smile on his face no matter how hard he tries. He shifts, laying back onto the haypile -- and ignoring Guido's whiney huff, see, being mean has consequences -- and holding the letter above his face. From this angle, he can see the scratch marks bleeding in from the back, from all the words Nico has crossed out. Will considers using his X-ray machine to determine what it says and then realizes that is insanity. His pulse fires in his ear, loud and red-hot.

What does booger even mean.

I used to -- fight manticores! Empousai! I fistfought The Original Werewolf and won!

You make me weak.

He hears it, loud and echoing: the stutter of his heart, the actual moment where it pauses for a second, as if it doesn't have a job. Will inhales sharply and freezes with his fingers pinching the edges of the pages, breathing out, and out, and out; he exhales the sum total of oxygen left in his lungs and does not move, still, shifts only his eyes as they swing rapidly from line to line and word to word and trace every shift and bend of the careful cursive letters.

I don't -- that's maybe not the best way to write that but I tried three different sentences and they don't work right. What I'm trying to say, is: I used to be really cool and badass and everything, but you keep bossing me around and I keep letting you, and now I use conditioner in my hair.

He snorts a laugh, finally, swimming vision rebalancing as his lungs inflate again. His hands shake, ever so slightly, so he rests the letter gently on his lap, and tucks his hands under his thighs. Guido noses gently at the mess of his hair, and Will leans into the clever horse, smiling.

Which you don't even use! Because you're awful like I used to be and use -- that stupid 3-in-1 stuff! Because you never have time for anything! Because you don't tell people with papercuts to stuff it and get their own bandaids! Because you're ridiculous!

I guess I am really just thinking: sleep. You, I mean. I sleep until my servants wake me, which, I mean, there's no sun down here, but is probably noon or something. You should sleep, because now that I'm not there I'm sure no one else is bothering you to do it, and you're an idiot.

So.

I reached the end of the page so I don't have to write anymore. I hope you get this letter soon and you haven't dropped dead from exhaustion, even thought I know you haven't because I would feel it and I would kick your ass right back to the land of the living.

I love you

Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

Love, Bye,

Nico. (di Angelo)

"Of course you have servants," Will mumbles, and buries his face in his hands.

Guido neighs at him, loud and exaggerated directly in his ear. Will shoves him off, scowling, and somersaults to his feet, standing with his hands on his hips. Guido blinks his big eyes at him. They are dark, like Nico's. Will considers screaming. He doesn't want to receive a hoof to the kneecap, so he doesn't, and instead redirects his energy into finger-combing Guido's mane and making general groaning noises of discontent. Guido rolls his eyes at him, which is rude. Which is -- judgey, and Guido is a dumb horse and he should not be embarrassed in front of a dumb horse but he is and it is the worst and all Nico's fault, he knows it.

"You're a horse," Will says, huffy. "You do not understand my gripes. How would you feel if you fell in love --" Will falters -- "if you -- well -- well!" He stops, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

What is wrong with him.

What is wrong with him.

"Did you know he smells like a garden," Will says, eventually. He loosens his hold on Guido's mane when he whinnies in discomfort, pressing a smooch of apology between his giant eyes and using his hand to shake his fist at the heavens instead. "Just -- all the time. He smells like when you dig up the dirt, right before you put the flowers in the ground. That -- heady smell. You know?"

Guido blinks at him.

"Of course you do not know. You are a winged horse, and I need a straightjacket." He smooths down his patchy coat, sighing. "Guido, which pegasus do you have a crush on."

Guido, being a horse, does not answer.

"Is it Princess Peach Sour Rings?" He glances over at the dusky orange mare, lips pursed in consideration. Guido, too, looks in interest: they make eye contact, look to Will, and then back at each other. Will swears he sees them raise their eyebrows. "It's Princess Peach Sour Rings, isn't it."

The look in Guido's eyes says: you are unwell. Will doesn't need to be distantly related to Pegasus Himself to glean that much. Unfortunately, he's directly related to the God of Being Delusional, so this flies over his head.

"Okay, Guido, we are going to do what's called a Guided Thought Exercise. Are you ready? You don't look like you're ready. You need to take a Deep Calming Breath. Good. Okay."

Will closes his eyes for the Effect. He takes the thoughts his brain just constantly has of Nico -- smiling; Nico with his tongue poking out of his mouth, concentrating; Nico with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes glinting, sword a moving shadow; Nico hopping out of the window of Cabin Eleven, cackling as he is chased across camp by several furious, shouting, now-moneyless children of Hermes -- and envisions balling them up and tossing them out his ears. This, predictably, does nothing. Will ignores this failure and moves on.

"Guido, imagine for a second you are a regular, boring horse. You do not have cool wings like the rest of your friends. But it's cool 'cause you can gallop really fast. Maybe. And then one day, this other horse -- Princess Peach Sour Rings, are you imagining her -- comes in and this horse is just the most beautiful horse you've ever seen. Big, beautiful brown eyes, almost black, really, except when he stands by the campfire they glow like amber." Will clears his throat. "Uh, she, I mean. Princess Peach Sour Rings. And -- and, when this beautiful horse comes into the stable, you notice she has the most graceful wings you've ever seen and also coincidentally the most powerful kick in the land. And all she is valued for is her kick. And it makes you sad. Because the wings!"

Will pauses. He shifts so he has either hand on Guido's face, staring directly in his eyes. Guido allows it. Will cannot resist another smooch, tinier this time, right on his big snout. Then he pulls back and resumes eye contact.

"Guido," he says, seriously, "I have lost my metaphor. My brain is noodles."

Guido bumps his head softly against Will's. Will groans, leaning into the touch. Nico had accused Will of making him weak. Well, Nico makes him stupid. Constantly. Will is generally a really intelligent and articulate person. Nico makes him feel like his Wernicke's area has been pulled out with a fork. Which is an issue, because Will relies on his Wernicke area among others to do things such as brush his teeth and oh yeah, also surgery, because as Nico has so deftly pointed out this camp is broken. And also illegal. But Will has a job so he can't really be worried about that right now.

He screams.

Guido, gently, headbutts him. Will picks the letter up from the floor and shakes it violently.

"I am going to -- burn this," Will says, lying. He notices his fingers have creased the thick paper and rushes to smooth it out. "In a fire. Yes. Right now." He nods to himself. "Bye, Guido."

Guido does not respond. All well, though, because even if he could Will is too busy muttering to himself, tripping every forth step, scanning the looped cursive for hidden messages that are clearly not there. He kind of hopes if he holds the page up to the light then the words hey I should have kissed you before I disappeared for a hundred years that's my bad will appear, but this is all for naught. No such words appear. Only y's looped in a really gay way and that's stereotyping, it is, but they really do kind of follow the pattern.

"If you had kissed me I would have let you," Will says to the letter, because the only way he is saying that to Nico himself is if someone successfully clones his body and forces a microchip in his brain. "Like, just saying."

The letter, predictably, does not respond. This is perhaps for the best as if it did Will would have grander problems, which is saying something, because his mother fondly calls him Math Textbook, which is funny if hurtful. Anyways.

He makes it back to the middle of Camp, and stands for several minutes in front of a blazing brazier. There is if he is not mistaken a can of paint at the bottom of this one. That would explain the fumes. It would also explain the Chiron shouting at the grotesquely accurate spray-painted depiction of a penis on the side of the Big House and the various gathered Hermes children standing in smug Miranda-rights silence.

"It would be a great shame to burn you alongside evidence of a crime," Will says to the letter, solemnly. "Nico worked very hard to get you to me." He turns red as the sun as he says it and ignores it because he is well-rounded and developed and mature and emotionally available and adult and not emotionally repressed in any which way shut up Austin. "Maybe I will burn you individually, instead. Yes. More personal, that way."

He folds the letter carefully along the seams so as to conceal its contents from wandering eyes and marches with grand purpose, double time, to the Arts n Crafts shack. He notices the pottery wheel is out and twitches towards it, remembering the increasingly ugly vases he is creating and gifting to Chiron to see how long he will politely accept them before finally cracking, but remembers at the last moment that he is on a Quest and cannot afford any further distractions. He does take a quick second to flick a spot of paint on the back of Drew's neck but that is unrelated and cannot be traced back to him.

"Hi," he says, to the crowd at large. Lacy waves enthusiastically. Will waves back and makes a heart with his hands also because she is the best and Will loves her. "Does anyone have a lighter or a match or flint or something of the likes?"

Mitchell pauses. Will leans over to observe the jewelry box he is painting and nods in serious appreciation. He is very fond of the individual muscle veins being painted on Naruto's likeness.

"I am trying very hard to think of a non-terrifying reason you are so intent on a source of fire," Mitchell says gently, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "See, the way you have requested it reads arson to me, if you can imagine."

"What if I wanted to start smoking cigarettes."

"Hm."

"He could be learning lighter tricks," Valentina offers. "You know, put a bunch of hand sanitizer on and then set your hands on fire. The such."

Will nods enthusiastically. Mitchell somehow does not look assuaged.

"Aren't you a." He pauses, pressing his hands together. "Hm. Is lighting your hands aflame sanctioned by a medical professional such as yourself?"

"I think freedom of expression is important, yeah."

"...I see."

Will pats his shoulder. He continues to look alarmed, but returns reluctantly to his mostly naked Naruto painting. Will, as always, appreciates his endless support. Nobel Peace Prize for Mitchell Lastname 2013.

"So," Will continues, when no lighter is brought forth, "no flames?"

"No," says Valentina, sadly.

"No," says Mitchell, less sadly.

"If you're going to self-annimilate, do it elsewhere," Drew says, not sadly at all. She adds a careful dot of red paint to the grotesquely accurate depiction of Connor Stoll's decapitation. "I don't want the heat to dry out my hair."

"Self-immolate," Will corrects, and wanders off.

His search for a lighter produces no results. You'd think, in a Camp as oft-flammable as this one, the task would be an easy one, but Will wants it too badly, see, so the universe has punished him for the crime of hope. 'Tis likely why Nico did not kiss him, actually. Will pauses as he considers that Nico might not return if Will wants that too badly, too, just like his brothers, and gently and lovingly places that thought in the box in his brain labelled 'YIKES'. He pushes forward, humming.

"Nyssa," he says jovially, running into her. She pauses, eyeing him warily.

"You're not getting an alibi from me again, Solace. I don't want a repeat of..." She shudders. "Last time."

Will schools his face into a mask of sincerity. "Of course not, Nyssa, I would never, Nyssa, what do you take me for, Nyssa, I am only a boy, Nyssa." He is careful to cross his fingers behind his back lest he set off his allergy. Nyssa does not notice but seems to suspect.

"One day you're gonna suffocate," she says cryptically. Will inclines his head knowing she is correct. "It will be your own fault."

"I need a lighter," Will says, batting his eyelashes to change the subject. He makes his face as innocent and hopeful as he can manage. "Not for arson, I promise. Well, only kind of. The definition of arson is broad."

Nyssa sighs and walks away.

"No one in this Camp loves me," Will laments. He folds the letter back along its careful creases and tucks it, in its worn envelope, into the many beautiful and non-excessive pockets of his shorts, patting in gently. "I guess you get to survive, letter. You will remain the last manifestation of any affection Nico has for me as it surely fades for a cuter boy with nicer jeans down in the Underworld. How ye Gods are moved by my plight, and yet, none can break the ancient Sisters' iron decrees; doomed, by all Fate's accounts, for mine own torch to burn; down to embers, down to coal, down to ash; forgotten in the wind and reduced to the wind of memory; a weak, pitying blast in the stillness of the future."

The sun shines brightly in approval of his misery. Will shoots a thumbs up at it, sighs wistfully for at least seven seconds, to really seal it in, and follows the rest of the camp to the dinner bell. Percy only pouts sadly at him three times and then is easily distracted by dessert. None bring up the arson, although Mitchell watches with careful eyes.

Will sighs and sulks through dinner, pushing the food around his plate until he remembers he's ravenous and shovels it down. He rebuffs his siblings attempts at conversation by virtue of being too heartbroken to speak, not unlike Penelope, awaiting her beloved Odysseus, but then Kayla claims that bluegrass is a mid shadow of jazz and Will is so indignant he needs both hands and a borrowed third hand from Austin to properly list all the ways she's wrong. By the fiftieth stanza of their argument, obviously in couplets because they are not animals, the letter stops burning a hole into the khaki. By the seventieth, Austin starts weeping in misery, and he has almost entirely forgotten it. By the ninetieth, he resigns it to a hidden page in his journal, stashed under his mattress.

He is sure, anyway, that it is a fluke.

After all -- Nico could have kissed him, before he left.

But he didn't.

-- -- --

next

[mediumgayitalian]

“Oh, fuck.”

The clatter of her practice sword on the ground is almost louder than the crunch that rings out from his wrist. He inhales sharply, biting back a shout — no matter how many times it’s happened, he will never get used to breaking a bone. That shit hurts.

“Fuck, fuck fuck. Fuck, Seaweed Brain, is it broken?”

“Think so,” Percy grits out. He tries for a smile, and Annabeth matches it, small and worried. He leans into the hand she cups over his cheek. “Not too bad, though. If I just dump my water bottle on it —”

“Absolutely not. Water healing leaves you achey when it rains, you know that.” Shifting to wrap her arm around his waist, she helps him stand, shouldering some of his weight like it’s his ankle that’s broken. He lets her, reaching down to squeeze the hand resting on his hip — I’m fine. We’re good. She turns her hand to wrap clasp their hands together — Okay. If you’re sure.

They walk together to the infirmary, taking their time. Aside from the pain pulsing from his arm, it’s not too bad — camp is as balmy as usual, and the spring break energy is practically visible, it’s so potent. The Demeter cabin has plants growing everywhere, flowers and fruit trees blooming as bright as a box of new crayons, and the air is filled with shouts of laughter and teasing. Annabeth’s steps fall in time with his, and she’s a comfortable warmth at his side, pressed from shoulder to hip.

“You still okay?”

“Yep.” He catches her eye, smiling crookedly at her. “Doesn’t even make my top fifty.”

She rolls her eyes, hipchecking him. “Don’t I know it, ya klutz.”

“Not sure I would call being flung from the St. Louis Arch being a klutz. Or exploded in a volcano. Or crushed under the sky. Or slashed by giants. Or chased by —”

“You’re talking, but all I’m hearing is Annabeth, please, please pinch me, as hard as you can —”

“Hey! Get those claws off me, gods you’re worse than an empousai —”

“— and when you’re done pinching me please put me in the tightest headlock you can manage —”

“I am injured! You are beating up an injured person right now!”

“— and then please just bite a chunk out of my shoulder —”

“Cut it out or I’m telling Mom!”

“Wimp,” she taunts, finally releasing him. “I don’t go running to Sally every time I lose a fight.”

“Wha — you do so!”

She ducks through the infirmary door, smirking like she can’t hear him.

“You literally — you snitched on me last week! I got grounded for two days!”

“And you deserved it,” she says primly.

He gapes. “I did not!”

“Anytime you two are done,” Kayla drawls, shoving a clipboard at them. They accept it with matching sheepish grins, cowed at her perfectly arched eyebrow and slowly tapping foot. “I got patients to deal with and older brothers to harass. Let’s get this moving.”

She is shockingly good at humbling people for a thirteen year old. The two of them turn to their clipboard, chagrined, letting her stomp away with an exasperated He’ll be with you soon! Don’t set off the sprinklers again!

“That was one time,” Percy mumbles, ears reddening.

Annabeth pats him on the back. “There, there,” she says mockingly. “The fact that it was one time definitely negates the fact that you flooded the entire Big House because you got jumpscared by a child.”

“Harley can be sneaky, okay. Let me live.”

“Literally no.”

Annabeth does most of the paperwork for him, ‘cause she’s a nerd because his wrist is far too swollen for him to write properly, so it takes maybe half the time it normally would. The infirmary is crowded as Hell, though (he knows, he’s been), so they settle in for the wait, amusing themselves by tearing little pieces off of a blank form, balling them up, and tossing them in increasingly harder places. Percy is winning 7-4, although Annabeth might just pull through if she manages to toss her paper ball into Travis’ wide-open snoring mouth.

“Hey, guys. Sorry for the wait.”

Aw. She missed. Percy was looking forward to that.

“Hey, Will.”

He drags his attention away from the son of Hermes to greet his friend, but frowns before he can open his mouth.

“Woah, dude, you good? You look exhausted.”

Will snorts. “Welcome to spring break, man.” He holds his hand out for the clipboard, scanning it briefly. “Sparring injury? Oh, thank the gods. I could use a break. Here, face me.”

He climbs up onto the minimal left over space on the cot, tucking his legs under his thighs. Percy turns to mirror him, hesitantly sticking out his arm — A break? he mouths to Annabeth, meeting her eyes over Will’s head.

She shrugs.

“Just spent four hours putting Jake’s nose back on his face,” Will mumbles, placing a careful hand on his fingertips and his forearm. Percy flinches — his skin is blisteringly hot. Like someone just dropped a hot stone onto him. “I never want to sing a skin cell hymn again in my life.” He prods at Percy’s wrist for a moment, gentle enough not to hurt. “Okay, hold still, I’m gonna fix ya right up.”

Healing hymns are familiar, by now, but Percy will never get tired of them.

The cool thing about ambrosia and nectar is that as pleasure food for the gods, it’s pleasant. It’s whatever taste you want, whatever you need to have most, you get it. But healing hymns are intentional the way nectar and ambrosia aren’t. Ambrosia and nectar happen to be healing for demigods — healing hymns were constructed to knit you back together, like you mother smoothing a bandaid over a skinned knee. They’re warm and sweet and deeply, endlessly comforting in a way most things simply cannot claim to be. They don’t feel like a medical procedure or a hasty patch job, they feel like someone gripping you tightly and promising you’ll be okay. They feel like getting carried to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. They feel like sitting down after hours of standing, like a drink of water when your throat is drier than sand. Healing hymns draw the pain and sick and ache from your body, and they feel like relief.

But this time, Percy can’t focus on it.

With every word, Will seems to get a little duller. Nothing like the horrible ash-grey he went in the war, dragging the poison from Annabeth’s body, but like his usual sunny disposition was dialed down a few notches. Enough that Annabeth frowns in concern, drumming her hands on her thighs, watching him closely.

“There,” Will says, pulling away. Percy turns his now-healed wrist, noticing the slight pant to Will’s breath, the strain to his smile. The shake of his blistered fingertips.

“You look overworked,” Annabeth says quietly.

Will holds his hands up in a what can you do gesture. “Spring break.”

“You said.”

“It’s just busy, is all.”

“Yeah, but —”

“Guys,” he interrupts, smiling tiredly, “there are two hundred ADHD demigods at this camp right now who have been trapped in a classroom for six months. There are three of us. I’m going to be a little drained; we’re all a little drained. But I’m fine, okay?” He gives them a second to scrutinize his expression, eyebrows raised in amusement. “I have been running my infirmary for years. I know how to pace myself, and I certainly know how to make sure my siblings are pacing themselves. If something goes really wrong, Chiron is a whistle away. I can go longer than you guys without sleep, anyway. Apollo kid health.”

“If you say so,” Percy says reluctantly. “I just — I can wear a wrist brace, man. Not every injury needs to be handled when it happens. You can tell people no.”

“I appreciate that, Percy, and I’ll keep it in mind. Anyways, I’ve got more patients. Stay off that wrist for the rest of the day, okay? It might be tender for a bit.”

Percy turns to Annabeth as Will leaves, frowning. He’s has never noticed the so-called spring break stress before (his camp spring breaks are usually a blast, but now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t think of a single spring break where he spent any time at all with Will, which is odd), but it can’t be good for him. There’s gotta be something they can do to ease some of the bruising under their friend’s eyes.

“I could set off the fire alarms again,” Percy suggests. “That’ll certainly get this place cleared out.”

Annabeth snorts. “I think that’ll cause more harm than good, Seaweed Brain. It’ll just fall in him to clean it all up, after.”

“Shoot.”

Percy counts nine of the forty cots currently unused. Will, Kayla, and Austin are rushing from cot to cot, handing out nectar, wrapping bandages, rattling off hymns at light speed. All three of them look exhausted, squeezing shoulders when they pass each other, knocking hips, exchanging tired smiles. This is so clearly something they’re used to.

Annabeth’s head rests on his shoulder.

“It wasn’t always like this,” she whispers. “When it was fully staffed…”

Percy exhales heavily. Yeah. He remembers. There was a lot less complication, once upon a time. The most chaotic the infirmary would get was when Lee would challenge his siblings to Hymn Karaoke — trying to heal with pop songs. There was a lot more laughter, at one point. A lot more people.

Percy sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. It never does well to dwell, but he — gods, he wish they all had more time. To sit with it, to acknowledge…everything. Siblings. Friends. A camp that’s smaller than it’s supposed to be.

Annabeth squeezes his hand again, and he squeezes back, resting his head on top of hers.

“Hey,” she murmurs after a moment, pursing her lips at the front door. “Look.”

Slinking through the entrance like a criminal is Nico, in all his dork ass black camp shirt glory. He looks around shiftily, like he’s trying to make sure no one sees him, and when his gaze lands on Percy and Annabeth his eyes widen. Annabeth smiles at him, but it does nothing to ease the spooked look to his face, back arched like a startled cat. He turns to leave, but before he can slip back out the door —

“Nico!”

The son of Hades whips back around so quickly he brains himself on the doorframe. Percy ducks his head and bites his lip, hard, because he can feel Nico’s glare at the side of his head like the press of hot coal, and if he laughs as badly as he wants to then the infirmary is about to look like a Spirit Halloween.

Will turns back to his patient, squeezing his eyes shut and rattling a hymn off so quickly it makes a burst of light pop from his whole body, and rushes over to where Nico’s standing. He only trips over two things, which is remarkable for him. Percy would be proud if he wasn’t a little embarrassed on his behalf.

“Nico! Hi!”

“He-ey, Will,” Nico says, voice cracking badly on every vowel. Annabeth shoves her face into Percy’s shoulder, body shaking.

“I didn’t know you were coming! I thought you were in the arena all day.”

Nico shrugs, shoes scuffing the floor. “I am. I just — uh, I got hurt? So. Came to see you.”

Will’s beam is so bright it hurts to look at, a little. Percy squints and realises that’s not just the excitement, actually — he really is glowing, faintly. His hands flap slightly at his sides.

“Well, you’re in the right place, then.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them say anything for a minute, rocking back on their heels. Will watches Nico closely, biting his lip. Nico looks resolutely at the floor.

“We weren’t this bad,” Annabeth whispers, “were we?”

Percy shakes his head. “Nah, there’s no way.”

“Gods. It’s so — I don’t know whether to smile or take a dip in the Lethe. It’s embarrassing and endearing at the same time.”

“Painful to watch, but I can’t stop looking,” Percy agrees.

“What’d you hurt?” Will asks, finally. “Did you pull your shoulder again?”

A look of panic flits briefly across Nico’s face until he smooths it to something neutral, aloof.

“Yep. Totally. During — sword fighting, I swung — I did this really big thrust, actually. Just — hugely powerful, training dummy exploded on impact.” He clears his throat. “Some might say too powerful. If you can imagine.”

Percy cradles his head in his hands. “Oh my gods — ”

“Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh,” Annabeth chants, “oh my gods, don’t laugh —”

A light flush dusts Will’s cheeks. He brushes a strand of hair behind his ear, fiddling with his earrings. “Woah, really? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Nico smirks, standing up a little straighter. “Well, it’s not the first time. I tend to go pretty hard.” Remembering his supposedly hurt shoulder, he exaggerates a wince. “Too hard sometimes, I guess. Could you do the — the energy thing?”

“Oh — gods, yeah, sorry. Hold on.” He stares at Nico’s shoulder, hesitating. “It, um, works better with skin-to-skin contact.”

“I have seen crystal vases less transparent,” Annabeth says, aghast. “In two years he’s going to remember this and try to drown himself.”

“I will be counting down the days,” Percy says gleefully.

On rare, rare occasions, the gods answer his prayers. Clearly, both Nemesis and Aphrodite are looking at him kindly today. Percy makes a note to scrape some of the good stuff off his plate for them both today. Hell, maybe he’ll skip the portioning and toss them an entire roast chicken each. Or something. They deserve it.

Will places both hands — interesting, Percy notes, his wrist was snapped cleanly in two and he only needed one hand, wonder why that was — on Nico’s shoulder and closes his eyes, screwing up his face in concentration.

“Huh. I’m not feeling much damage. You said it was your right shoulder?”

“I heal quick,” Nico says loudly. “I mean, some of the damage might have — um.” He clears his throat. His face glows a faint crimson. He clears his throat again. “Y’know?”

Will’s face is a similar shade.

“Right, right. Yeah. Um, brace yourself.”

Instead of starting to sing, Will closes his eyes, holding completely still. After a moment, the tips of his fingers begin to glow; soft, ambery yellow, flickering like lit candles. He opens his eyes again and focuses intently on Nico’s bare skin, tracing patterns around every defined muscle, leaving a trail of light behind. He lingers, for a moment, when he connects the last string of light, waiting until it has faded entirely from Nico’s skin to remove his hands and shove them in the pockets of his coat.

“That better?” he asks softly.

Nico swallows. “Yeah.”

“Good. I’m glad, Nico. It means a lot that you — came to me. When you needed it.”

“I trust you, I guess.” Nico looks away. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” Percy says thoughtfully.

Annabeth laughs, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t be mean.” She pauses. “Me too.”

With a sigh that can only be described as besotted, Will steps reluctantly away.

“I have patients,” he says, in the same tone of voice Percy usually says I have midterms. “So I gotta…”

“Yeah, no, go. Do your —” Nico gestures vaguely. “Doctor thing.”

“Right. Yeah. I’m gonna — go.” He turns, walking back towards a group of Hephaestus kids who appear to be tightly entangled in some kind of net. After a few steps, though, he pauses, biting his lip, then darts back over to Nico, pressing a lightning-fast kiss to his cheek — “Um, bye. Thank you for visiting. Bye,” — and then runs back over to his siblings, shy smile on his face.

Nico’s jaw is brushing the floor of his father’s palace. He stands, still as a statue, for four entire minutes.

“I think he just died,” Annabeth observes, eyebrows climbing higher and higher up her forehead with every passing second “Damn. Survived so much only to literally die because a cute boy kissed his cheek. A true hero’s end.”

Percy, because he is a kind, concerned friend, clears his throat loudly.

“Yo, di Angelo, you alive?”

Nico startles so violently he falls right over. Percy shoves his fist in his mouth to keep from cackling.

“Shut the fuck up,” Nico hisses venomously, scrambling upright. “Both of you, shut the — not a word —”

Percy and Annabeth make the mistake of looking at each other and simply erupt. Percy can’t feel his stomach. His lungs have abandoned ship. He’s glad as hell he’s in the infirmary because he is heaving for breath, tears streaming down his face, entire body convulsing. Nico stands in front of them literally shaking with rage, entire body redder than one of Apollo’s sacred cows, trying and failing to string together a threat that will ease any and all of his suffering. Annabeth screeches, almost falling off the bed as she cackles. Percy cannot even find the strength to catch her, his muscles are so weak.

“I fucking — I hate you! Both of you! You’re dead to me!”

“Your face!” Percy shrieks.

“Percy Jackson, I am going to turn you to fucking dark matter! I despise your very essence! I —” He stomps his foot. “I’m leaving, and I’m going to leave a rotting corpse in your cabin! Screw you!”

“Oh my gods,” Annabeth wheezes, digging her nails into his arm. “Oh my gods, that was —”

Percy wipes a tear from his eye. “I love being alive. I love being alive so much.”

“It really is great.” Composing herself, and biting back the leftover giggles that keep bubbling out, Annabeth looks back towards Will. He stands much straighter, now, smile back to full brightness. His siblings, too, look rejuvenated, snickering to each other and making kissy faces behind Will’s back. “So many beautiful things to witness. I’ve never seen his face go that red.”

Percy sighs. “This is genuinely going to carry me through the semester. I think his soul died a little. And Will just — gods, that kid is bold.”

“Oh says you, Mr. Do I Get A Good Luck Kiss.”

“Hey, I earned that.”

Annabeth grins, punching him in the shoulder. He grabs her wrist and tugs her towards him, chasing the curve of her smile. She laughs into his mouth and it taste like strawberries and freedom, and he presses a kiss to her cheek, to her jaw, and the side of her neck, resting there, breathing against her skin. After a moment her hands come up and slide in his hair, gently untangling the knotted mess.

“He is one thousand percent going to put a zombie in your bed, you know,” she says after a moment.

Percy snorts. “Yeah, I know.” He smiles. “Worth it.”

[mediumgayitalian]

It is so rare, for a day of peace. So, so rare. For the Apollo cabin to be empty, for siblings to be busy, for the sun to be gentle and the birds to be sweet.

"Hey, Will."

So serene. Truly. Cecil lounging on Will's bed, remembering to have taken his shoes off for once. Quietly flipping through a comic book. Will, suffering but willingly, with his Calculus III textbook on the floor. Actually making progress this time, gunning through practice questions.

And Lou Ellen.

It always has to be one of them.

Lou Ellen watches, velvet skirts tucked under her crossed ankles, dark eyes squinting in contemplation.

Will barely looks up, scrawling something illegible over the most graphite-smudged paper maybe in the entire world.

"Yeah."

"Can we kiss for a little bit?"

That works. The slowly shifting sun through the dusty windows pauses. The chisme plants turn, slowly, shifting their stems to the center of the cabin. Will takes a full seventeen seconds to visibly separate from his textbook, process the question, and erupt into a shade of red previously unknown to man.

"Um," he says, or rather squeaks. "Yes?"

Cecil snorts, turning a page.

"Bicycle."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"Just like your father."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"I just want to try something," Lou Ellen soothes, potentially hearing the lack of breathing happening in Will's general direction. "Like, for science. That works for you, right, nerd?"

"Science generally begins with a hypothesis and due process," says Will weakly. But he dutifully crawls over to her direction, settling in front of her. "Um. Now?"

"Now would be great," Lou Ellen agrees. She tilts her head. "So do you just, like, go for it, or...?"

"I mean. In my experience?"

"Which is about to go from two to three," Cecil adds.

This time, Lou Ellen and Will are in perfect sync:

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil!"

Cecil flips another page and promises nothing.

The determination has slowed some of the blush in Will's face, containing it high in his cheeks. Or, well, spite. Cecil-branded fury. That does a whole lot of activating every modicum of ADHD impulsivity in Will's soul.

"Okay," he says, nodding to himself. He meets Lou Ellen's wide, round eyes. "Okay, so I'm gonna -- lean in. And we gotta close our eyes or it's weird. And then I'm gonna kiss you, okay? And you test."

Lou Ellen nods, serious. "Got it."

She breathes in, then out. She purses her lips, leaning forward. Her hands rest, fingers spread, on her knees. Her eyes flutter shut.

Will exhales. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He leans in, gently, and presses his lips to hers, resting a warm hand on the soft curve of her jaw.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, as they separate. "Hm."

Will shifts nervously.

"You smell good," he offers. "And you taste like orange shampoo. In a good way."

Lou Ellen narrows her eyes at him. She reaches her hand out slowly, like how you may approach a startled horse, and grabs Will's chin with the tips of her fingers.

"Why," Will says.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, again. She moves his face from side to side, inspecting. Will does not protest, but does choose to make an entirely unintelligible gesture with his hands. "You are hot, aren't you."

"Gah??" Will says. The confusions shifts rapidly from his face; his eyes widen, pupils narrowing, he tries and fails to pull slightly away and generally makes a collection of noises that boil down to hey, pardon. "I'm??"

Cecil choses this moment in time to tuck his comic carefully away, facing his friends in full. He also chooses to take this time to appraise Will's slightly squished face, nodding smugly.

"Yeah, he's a babe."

"Right, okay, that's what I thought. It's the bone structure, right, it totally --"

"Yeah, yeah, and the pouty lips, that definitely --"

"--you're so literally right --"

"You ever watched his shoulders?"

"They're biteable! Biteable, and when he plays volleyball it's like --"

"--yep. And his legs are approximately the length of the equator."

"Freckly, too, it's so --"

"His eyes??"

"I know??"

"Honestly wild."

They turn to him, twin dark brown eyes glowing amber in the sun, appraising him from his golden hair to his bare toes. Will, unfortunately, seems to be right on the urge of passing out, so red he has begun to glow, so warm Lou is forced to let go, and so lightheaded he has begun to sway.

"Hngg-what," he mumbles, eyes far away. "Wha -- I'm --"

Cecil pokes gently at him with his toe.

"I think we broke him," he observes.

"I see," Lou Ellen agrees, chin in her hands. "That's kinda cute, too."

"Oh yah. He's like -- he's never not a smokeshow, you know? Like he's hot when he's mad."

"Smoking."

"And the whole -- it's diabolical to say, but he's like..."

"Movie star pretty when he cries. Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

They turn to each other, lips pursed in thought. They turn back to their slightly dying friend.

"Hm," they say, together.

Will begins to pray. His father, intrigued, only shifts to better the lighting on Will's face. Will agonizes, shifting to pray to his aunt. This too proves useless.

"You know," says Lou Ellen. She taps her manicured finger against her cheek. "We could always share him."

Cecil raises his eyebrows. "We could?"

"Do I??" Will gestures wildly, face now glowing so brightly he is kind of hard to see. "Get a say??"

Cecil and Lou Ellen look at each other. They look back at Will.

"No."

"Nah."

"That's! I am -- taken, okay! I!"

Cecil snorts. "A long-standing crush on greasy Gerard Way does not count as --"

"It's not his fault he's greasy!"

Lou Ellen observes the boys. She hums to herself, rocking back on her knees.

"-- and he's hardly ever here, you met him like twice --"

"Four times! And he's charming!"

Hm indeed.

"I have an announcement to make," Lou Ellen announces.

Both boys stop immediately. Lou Ellen nods graciously, sitting regally on Will's bed. Will pouts a little, but says nothing.

"I am considering converting to lesbianism," she says solemnly. "I'm not sure yet, but I have been presented with a case and it is compelling."

Will and Cecil shrug, making noises of agreement.

"Yeah, fair."

"I mean, girls. I get you."

Will clears his throat. "But, uh. No boys? For sure?" His pout returns. It is indeed very cute. "Did I do a bad job?"

Lou Ellen reaches over and pats him very gently on the head. Her bangles get in his eyes a little. He blinks them away politely.

"Aw, no. You just seem very hung up, and I'm not sure how well dating Cecil would work, and no one else will talk to me yet."

"Dating me is an amazing experience, I have references," Cecil says, at the same time Will says, "Wait, still?"

There is a pause. Again, they speak at the same time:

"Stop using me as a reference, Cecil, gods."

"You want me to vandalize their possession for you, Lou? I would love to do that for you."

Lou Ellen moves to pat Cecil gently and condensendingly on the head.

"I'm good. Thanks, though. Chiron says they just need time. And perhaps an ass-kicking, if I feel so inclined."

"Sage."

"Good advice, that."

They all nod at each other. Wordlessly, they stand, returning to their earlier positions: Cecil, reclining on Will's bed, having abandoned the comic book for a nap; Will, poking at his math; and Lou Ellen, passing a green spark around her fingers and carefully Observing.

It takes her several minutes of reflection to blink and realise.

References.

Her eyes widen.

"Hey, wait a second --"

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico should, probably, be more familiar with the route to Mount Sinai. That's eighty percent of his client base, after all.

But he isn't.

Or, maybe: he doesn't want to be.

It takes him time to walk there. He is stalling, a little, but he does not have to; he does not recognize the route, or the bodegas along each side of the road. He does not frequent Queens or the several back alleys Cecil directed him through, which he does not take, because his suit is Armani and he is not stupid. Not that avoiding the back alleys helps. He can feel the stares on him, appraising him, up and down, gauging how well he will defend himself. If he will at all.

He must look as rotten as he feels, because no one bothers.

He makes it finally to the hospital and slips through the first doors he sees, not bothering to ask further directions. Hospitals have signs and only fools get lost. He makes his way to the third floor, shuddering through the chill in the ICU, through the heavy air of quiet hopelessness. There is a nurse's station, in the dead center of the wing, and this he approaches, clearing his throat.

"Hiya," says a nurse, orange hair dyed a bright, awful green and clinking pony-bead necklaces going up and down her arms. "What can I do you for?"

"I'm, uh." Nico clears his throat, fiddling with his tie. "I'm looking for Will?"

Too late he realizes he should have included a last name. Too late he realizes he doesn't know it.

"Oh!" says the nurse, brightening. "Will! Yeah, he's with his brother. You a friend?"

Nico pushes past the dryness of his mouth. "Something -- like that."

"Aw, good you're comin' to sit with him, then. He gets real lonely sometimes I think. And bored. Lordie does he get bored. But that's always kind of nice, because when he gets bored he comes and does paperwork for us." The nurse grimaces, glancing back. "But, uh, don't tell anyone I said that."

Nico bites back a small, sad smile. Another crime. Another good reason.

"My lips are sealed."

The nurse -- K-dog, if her nametag is to be so believed -- stops at the last door of the hallway, blue and rusted where the metal edge meets the floor. A yellowing piece of paper is taped to the one window, reading 'Lee' in rushed, crooked handwriting. Nico recognizes the tiny counter of the 'e's and swallows hard.

"He's in there," says the nurse, hushed. She peers through the edges of window, but there isn't much to see with the paper in the way. "There's no music, though. Tread light."

She squeezes Nico's shoulder and walks off, humming. Nico stands there, facing the door, breathing, for longer than he would like to admit -- he hates hospitals, has always hated hospitals, since he was 9 years old and sliding to his knees in the floor of one, life shattering in front of him. But he is not unique in that, he supposes. Not even unique between the two of them.

He pushes the door open, forcing himself in and closing the heavy door behind him.

Will is on the bed.

Well -- balanced on the bed would be the better term; there is another man, hooked to countless machines, who is actually in the bed, but there is Will, to his left, dirty converse perched precariously on the bending edge of the mattress, tongue poked out of his mouth, paint marker held in delicate fingers, drawing, in smooth, confident strokes, a stylized yellow sun in the corner of the room, surrounded by circle stars, shining on the man's -- Lee's -- lifeless face.

"Well," says Nico, drily, "I'm beginning to see where half these bills are coming from."

Will shrieks, paint marker going flying, and tips right over: he lands, nearly, splat on the narrow smidge of tile floor between the wall and the bed, taking an array of machines with him; Nico manages to catch him, barely, damn near stumbling himself under the sudden weight but steadying himself in the last moment. They breathe in heavy tandem.

"You're gonna get charged for vandalism, dumbass."

In seconds Will has pulled away, scrambling, wide eyed, to put space between them.

"Nico." He breathes out. "Oh."

It does not escape Nico's notice that he stands between him and his injured brother.

It does feel like shit.

There is tension, clear and foreign in the line of his broad shoulders, there is a rigidity in his spine almost completely alien to the softness of his features. His lips, too, are pulled in, bitten white by his worrying teeth.

Nico steps back, beating back the ache of his own chest. He sits down in the lone, ancient chair and waits.

It takes a minute. Will sits down, eventually, doodled-on jeans making contact with the light, scratchy hospital blanket. He folds his shaking hands under his thighs and chews on his lip, eyes never leaving Nico's face for a second. They breathe. The machines beep, and beep, and beep.

"I'm sorry," Nico says, finally. His shoulders slump, and a balances, barely, elbows to knees. "I made a mistake."

There is a sharp inhale from across the room. Nico does not have the bravery to look up, but Will says, eventually, hesitantly: "I, uh. I did technically funnel several thousand dollars from your company. You were not exactly in the wrong."

Nico shakes his head. "I mean more than that." He stops, swallowing hard. "I did not treat you well."

"...You don't treat anyone well."

"You're different."

"I'm different?"

"Yes."

Nico pauses, staring out the window. He can feel Will's eyes on him, still, wide and blue, blue, blue, and it makes him twitch, makes him sweat.

"I took advantage of you, I think."

Will doesn't answer. He stares, still, eyes burning, eyes guarded, until Nico looks back, finally, and he has his hand, brushing over Lee's arm. Absentmindedly, by habit pulling up his covers and brushing back his hair. He doesn't flinch away once.

Nico says, softly: "I think you are a carer."

Will's breathing upticks.

"A carer, most of all. You care for people. And you came to my company and I was in this dark space, that I have been in most of my life. I was used to it." He stops, closing his eyes. He thinks of hospitals and dark rooms. Of his father's grip on his shoulders. He blinks and continues. "And then you came in with your brightness and your heat. I clung to you, even as I scorned you. And it's -- it's the light after Plato's cave, you know? You were honest and it stung and I was sullen and hesitant but God, for the first time everything lit up."

Nico stops, again. Stares at the ridges of his knuckles.

"And that just wasn't...that's not fair to you, I guess. I never thought about what you needed. You're a person, not a bright thing. And I'm sorry for that."

He meets Will's eyes again. He follows the bob of his scarred throat, as he swallows.

"Well, I was, like. You're hired assistant." He squirms, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. "And, honestly, you kind of...helped me. Too."

Nico shakes his head. "You're friend." His voice is hoarse, lined with guilt. He doesn't bother clearing it. "He says you were a doctor."

Will nods. "Almost."

"A doctor, Will. I didn't even know."

"Well, I don't talk about it."

Will avoids his gaze. There is a beeping from Lee's monitor, so he stands and fiddles with the machine with practiced ease, pressing the buttons until the screen flashes and quiets. Nico watches his shaking fingers still as they adjust his saline, like it is nothing.

"I don't know -- how," Will says, softly. "My brother won't talk to me. Lee is -- dead, functionally."

He chokes as he says it, brushing the sides of his fingers over his brother's forehead.

"I relied on my brothers every day of my life and then I woke up one day and didn't recognize myself in the mirror and my two favorite people in the world were -- gone. I was adrift."

Will shrugs.

"I quit my program. I -- couldn't do it anyway, I guess, can't cut someone open with shaking hands. I just cried most days and struggled and the debt kept getting worse and I wanted to -- well."

He doesn't say it but Nico gets it, suddenly and horrifically -- Will fiddles with the bandage always wrapped around his wrist and Nico realizes what it hides, what Will tried to do. He tastes acid.

"I convinced myself I didn't have a purpose, Nico. I was so sure of it."

He looks to Nico and his eyes are so dark in the setting sun. Nico can't breathe.

"But you gave me something, again. I mean, you were a piece of work and I went home and complained to you to anyone -- and I mean anyone -- who would listen --" He grins, and Nico huffs a laugh, not doubting it -- "but fuck, Neeks. For the first time in too long I was me again. There was someone I could help. And, well. Not a bad someone either."

He looks down and there is a curl to his shoulders that is almost shy. Nico stares at it, at the curve of his throat, and his mouth goes dry.

"You're funny, even when you're being a jackass. And you care about people and you get things done and you aren't bothered by my attitude."

"I like it," Nico admits, heart pounding. Will looks at him and he flushes but pushes forward, still, forces the words out of his mouth. "I like it when you push back at me. It makes me feel like a -- human, again. Like someone who can be wrong instead of an untouchable entity."

Will snorts. "Well I can most certainly promise you that you are wrong often."

Nico quirks his lips. "I know. I know." He breathes out, smile dropping. "And I was hugely wrong, Will, in casting you away." The foam of the arm rest creas under his fingers. "I -- want you back, if you want to come back."

Will exhales, fingers tracing the swirls of Lee's bedsheets. Nico's heart sinks, and he knows what Will is going to say before he says it.

"I don't think I can work for you anymore," he confirms. He bites his lip. "I -- it was a lot, Nico."

Nico nods, chest tight. "I know. I totally under--"

"Plus, there's something of a conflict of interest."

Nico whips his head up. "What?"

Will avoids his eyes, breathing quick and shallow, shoulders up to his ears. "I'm. I think it's frowned upon, when the PA wants to sleep with the boss." His fingers twitch. "Whole trope and everything."

Nico feels his heart stutter. He meets Will's guarded, careful eyes with his own wide ones, and stares, one minute, two, until the barely-there hope in Will's eyes starts to fade, until he nods to himself.

"I hope you'll still write me a reference letter," Will jokes lightly. "I meaning, I don't see a lot of PAing in my future, but --"

"I'm in love with you," Nico blurts. "Marry me."

Will freezes. "Uh."

"I mean! I mean, fuck, I'm sorry, I --" Nico is bright red and he feels it, and Will's nervous little giggle makes it worse, fuck, what is he doing.

He exhales, long and slow. He balls his fists and lets go of the tension, like Jason taught him. He meet's Will's eyes again, but this time his voice is steady.

"Not yet," he says firmly. "Don't marry me -- yet. But." He breathes out again. "Try, with me." He swallows. "If you want to."

"I want to," Will says, softly.

"We can get you back to med school, if you want. Something other than surgery. People need doctors, Will, you can always --"

"I want to."

"-- any school you want, if you still need school -- do you still need school? -- I'll pay for it, I can --"

"I want to."

"-- I promise I am not hurting for money and that's what this whole organization is, isn't it, making the medical field more accessible, and --"

"Nico."

Nico freezes, gulping in a huge breath. Will sets his brother's hand lovingly down and moves until he is crouching in front of Nico's hyperventilating form, both hands gently squeezing his.

"Deep breathes, Nico. Follow me."

Nico does, inhaling when he breathes in, huge and exaggerated, and exhaling when he breathes out. Will keeps breathing with him until the shake in his chest steadies, until the bounce of his leg slows to nothing.

"I'll marry you, Nico," he says quietly. "If you still want to marry me."

Nico nods frantically. "I do. I do. God, Will." He places a hand on Will's scarred cheek, and Will leans into it, tired but soft, hesitant but believing. "I do."

"Long engagement," Will says. He smiles wryly. "It'll take you two years at least to make up for all the shit you've thrown at me."

Nico laughs, pulling him close. "As long as you need," he promises. "We'll do it your way, for this. We tend to anyways."

Will scoffs. "As fuckin if --!"

But Nico leans in, and kisses him. And he rolls his eyes, kiss fracturing as he smiles, and slides his shaking hands up Nico's side, resting on his chest. Nico reaches down to meet them, hands gentle, thumb tracing the ridges of his grafts, of his dotted-aborted freckles, until he sighs, and leans in. And kisses Nico back, gentle and willing and trusting.

"You're way," Nico vows, murmured against his lips. "Whatever you need, Will. However I can take care of you."

"Okay," Will whispers, breath shuddering. His hands twist the silk of Nico's dress shirt. He doesn't care, in the slightest. "Okay, okay, okay."

-- -- --

Epilogue

-- -- --

His last patient of the day is very young, very sick, and has very, very, long hair; Will removes his ring, knowing better than to assume the stone won't get caught, with his luck, and pushes into the exam room, waiting for the mother's waving hand before coming in all the way.

"Hey, Gracie," he says, keeping his voice low. He shoots her a sympathetic smile. "Long time, no see."

"I don't want to see you again," the young girl grouches, butting her head into her mother's stomach. Her mother snorts. "Your office makes me sick."

"...Is it the office that makes you sick, kiddo."

"Yes."

Will snorts at her vehemence, knowing better than to argue. Grumpy sick people, Will has noticed, are more stubborn than a mule. Especially grown men who know better, but that's neither here nor there.

"If you say so."

"I do," she mutters, but it is muffled in her mother's shirt, and she quiets when Will approaches with the stethoscope. Her heartbeat if fine, if a little higher than usual, and as her mother holds the light for him, he can see that her ears are stuffed. Her throat, too, is swollen. "I'm thinking strep," he says apologetically. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

She groans -- this is the third time this year, and it is only June. He makes eye contact with her mother, knowing that if it happens again, they'll have to discuss further options.

"Pray for us," says her mother, quietly. "I can't -- the surgery is --"

Expensive. Upwards of $4000, in New York; higher, if Gracie goes somewhere where she can be comfortable as she is six and sick and scared.

Will knows that the cheapest option is too much.

"Let get you in touch with my husband," he says, squeezing her hand. "Well, his secretary, actually, but Rachel is probably a better bet. Nico is a grouchy person." He meets Gracie's peeked-open green eyes and grins. "He handles high bills like that, here. You won't see a cent of charge."

His patient hesitates. Will cannot blame her -- this family is a new transfer, to this office, and Will does not doubt that she has heard the same promise before.

But Will means it. And he has the funds backing it to prove it, so he finishes Gracie's check-up, lets her pick a lollipop (she picks two, Will turns a blind eye) and guides them back to the front desk, quickly scrawling some last notes in Gracie's file. Kayla has gone home already -- last minute Saturday appointment, and Will knows she has band -- so he gets the papers himself, scrawling the company's number on legal paper and tucking it in with her prescription. Gracie's mother takes one gratefully, one hesitantly.

"He'll help," Will promises. "Else he's sleeping on the couch, so."

The woman laughs. Finally, the tension in her shoulders seems to ease, and Gracie, clever girl that she is, relaxes too, pressing her sticky fingers to the desk to enjoy the smudge they make.

"That's a threat I recognize," she teases, eyes sparkling. She rans a hand over her daughter's braids. "Lets hope it doesn't come to that, though, huh, Gracie-girl."

Gracie gives a sleepy nod and lets her mother lift her. Will walks them to the door, waving as they make their way to the bus stop, and ducks back inside, quickly gathering his things. It takes some shoving, but his messenger bag has taken him this far and it will take him farther. He makes it to the curb only nineteen minutes late -- a near-record for him, honestly -- and grins at Jules-Albert's exasperated eyeroll.

"Hi," he says, placing his hands angelically under his chin, and the chauffeur visibly softens. "Interview over already?"

Jules-Albert nods.

"Aw."

He doesn't say it, but Will has grown fluent in raised eyebrows and judgmental stares. Nico doesn't speak for a full hour and a half after waking up. He will down four espressos before his office coffee before uttering a word. It is hilarious.

"It's not my fault! I got a call. I brough another case for the company, anyway. That'll perk His Highness up. It puts us above Octavian and his crew, I think."

Jules-Albert doesn't say anything, but he switches to a more upbeat radio station. Will smiles triumphantly. Score.

Now, obviously the goal is to help people. Always.

But it does not hurt to rub it in Octavian's thieving face that they're better at helping people, so. Plus, well.

Nico gets handsy when he's winning.

They pull up to the office quickly. Will blows Jules-Albert a kiss, snickering at his hidden smile, and bounds up to his husband's floor, blowing by security. They wave as he passes, jovial, and he waves back. Nervous excitement churns his stomach, and he pauses in the bullpen, fiddling with his -- aw, fuck, he forgot to leave his coat at work.

"Damn." Jason strolls over, making a show of checking his watch. "Only thirty-two minutes late…you're practically early."

"Lotsa traffic," Will lies. Jason sees through him easily and rolls his eyes. Will grins. "Did he make it?"

"Go see for yourself," the man says, but he's grinning, and Will cheers, dropping his bag -- his laptop will be fine probably -- where he stands and sprinting for Nico's office. Rachel pretends to trip him on his way in but he notices last second and jumps over her foot, which unfortunately makes him ram into the half-open door, but he takes that one as a win. Both parties inside have seen him do dumber.

"Dr. Brunner!!!"

They could hear him in the Bronx, probably, but Will can't bring himself to care. In the dead centers of the sunlight spilling from the Palladian windows sits his old teacher, in the flesh: his favorite professor, his professor who visited him, when he was injured and disoriented, who came banging on his door the day he quit.

"Will," he says, smiling broadly. "It is grand to see you again, child."

Will rushes to crush him in a hug, beaming. "I am thirty-two!"

"Almost through toddler, then."

Will snorts, sinking into the embrace: the smell, of pen ink and hand sanitizer, the feel of tweed and scruffy beard tickling his ear. It has been a good year since he has seen his mentor -- not since the wedding -- and he has missed him. Before that, even, visits were sporadic. A pointedly cleared throat ruins the moment.

"Am I chopped liver."

"I see you every day, you needy loser."

"Well, Dr. Brunner, since you're not trying to seduce me, I'll go ahead and advise you not to speak to me like that during your employment."

"Oh, is that how it happened."

But Will is flushing, and Dr. Brunner is laughing, and he pulls away, giving Will the space to pinch his husband or at least try to.

"It's not," Will says darkly, "but there is a spray bottle in my old desk if you need to train some manners back into him."

That shuts Nico right up. Will smiles triumphantly and tangles their hands together, holding them up in his victory. Nico sighs as if this is such a big inconvenience but curls into the space it makes at Will's side, bringing heir joined hands back down so his arm is around Will's hips, fingers still clasped so that Will can feel the shape of his ring.

"…You still have that, huh."

"Well, unless you found the hiding spot."

He didn't. Will knows he didn't. Will meets Dr. Brunner's sparkling eyes, wordlessly promising to reveal it to him. Nico notices and scowls.

"What is the deal with MDs and torturing me," he grumbles. "Didn't you guys take an oath or something."

Will snorts and kisses his grumbling away. He softens, against him, and when he pulls away again he is smiling.

"We're happy to have you on board," he addresses Dr. Brunner, extending his hand. Dr. Brunner shakes it. Will thinks of his own tumultuous onboarding and bites back a grin. Nico must be thinking the same, because he sighs. "I have been in need of a PA for a time, but it has been a process trying to find someone as competent as my last."

Dr. Brunner feigns ignorance, stroking his beard.

"Ah," he says, "I have heard the rumors. Your last assistant must have been quite the person to soften the notorious di Angelo's frigid heart."

Nico squeezes Will's hip. Will glows.

"One of a kind," Nico says, softly. There is no mistaking the love in his voice, and he makes it so.

"Well, then," says Dr. Brunner, suddenly just as serious as gentle. "I will have some large shoes to fill."

[mediumgayitalian]

“Hello, twerp.”

Kayla grunts at him. She is focused, intently, on something small enough to be covered up by her hands and curtaining hair; Nico decides it is likely some kind of explosive. There is a reason she, Banned From Arts ‘n’ Crafts For Criminal Reasons, is sneaking into the Hermes’ cabin’s time slot and hiding behind Julia.

Instead of confirming that she is, indeed, planning to blow up at least one of her brothers’ bunks in their sleep tonight, because of Plausible Deniability, Nico swings a leg over the picnic table bench, settling in next to her. She spares a second of attention to blow a raspberry at him, seemingly unprovoked. Nico reaches calmly over, plucks a pair of scissors from Connor’s hands, which he allows because of who he is as a person, and snips a piece of her hair. In response she pulls a notebook from her pocket and puts a little tick mark next to Nico’s name.

“So,” Nico says, choosing to ignore that. “I have a Question.”

“Ten dollars.”

“I’m not paying you, you little shit.”

“Then wonder in silence.”

Nico digs two wrinkled fives from his shoe and slams them on the table, scowling. Kayla pockets them.

“Proceed.”

Nico glares at her, noting her twitching mouth, and remembers that he does, in fact, need her help, and her brother is, in fact, his best friend, so challenging her to a duel to the death is a bad idea on both counts.

(Nonwithstanding the part where she has deadly accuracy with any projectile from almost any semi-reasonable distance. And he has, like, a sword. So.)

“Your brother,” he starts, and he does not need to clarify which one, “is always trying to…feed me.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “he is internally a seventy year old Southern woman. He does that.”

“Fruits.”

“Hm.”

“Oranges, specifically. Like, every single meal.”

“…Ah.”

It is a very knowing ah, Kayla’s little noise, and in fact she sets her project aside. (It is, in fact, an explosive.) She turns slightly on the bench to face him, lips pursed, hands folded. She blinks at him for several moments. Nico holds her gaze, remembering he is out ten dollars.

“My dear brother,” she begins, “my lovely, kind-hearted, smiley, morning person brother, is neurotic.”

Nico waits. This is, apparently, the end of her sentence, as she does not continue.

“I am aware,” he says slowly. “I have been present during every rant about Hollywood inaccuracies about medical sciences.”

She nods sagely. “This is true. You have. You are, however, by virtue of his cripplingly low self esteem and fervent belief that his mere existence is a Literal Actual Curse, spared from much of his most…colourful…contingencies.”

“Contingencies,” Nico repeats.

Kayla nods again.

“Yes. You see, dear future brother-in-law —”

“Cease,” Nico snaps, reddening.

“— our lovely William, also known as your Special Guy, according to Nico With Severe Blood Loss.” continues Kayla, not ceasing, “is under the impression that you, like all people, have a Limit.”

“…A Limit.”

“Yes. A point or level beyond which something does not or may not extend or pass.”

“I know what a godsdamn limit is, Kayla.”

“You seemed confused.”

“I am going to strangle you.”

Openly snickering to herself, she moves on.

“He feeds you oranges because he regularly paces around the cabin in the middle of the night stressing about your vitamin levels,” she explains, finally. “He doesn’t know how to tell you that like a normal person because he’s afraid he’s going to weird you out. Ergo.” She makes a flippant gesture with her hands. “Citrus.”

“Why is he so godsdamn cute,” Nico mutters to himself, then remembers to throw out a hasty, “Thank you,” before scrambling away from the table, ignoring the gathered snickers, and beelining for the the Demeter cabin. “Gods.”

It is empty, thankfully, when he strolls in, except for Miranda in the front gardens, who holds up a finger as he gets closer and whispers to a struggling seedling.

“Hey,” she says after a moment, smiling up at him. “What’s up?”

“I need,” he starts. He purses his lips, rocking back on his heels. His hands make some kind of motion. He’s not sure what, exactly, he didn’t give them permission. “I need.”

Miranda, thankfully, has had years of experience communicating with non-speaking entities, and as such is relatively fluent in Nico. She dusts off her hands, patting the spot beside her. Nico sits as indicated.

“Try a deep breath first,” she instructs. “When your brain is back up and running, try again.”

“It’s running. It’s running a lot.”

“Oh. In that case, might I suggest a small shout of frustration?”

“You may.”

He clears his throat, resting his hands on his diaphragm to Maximize the Output, as he has been previously instructed, and yells. A passing satyr jumps a full five feet in the air and flees. Nico grimaces, calling apologies after them.

“They’re never going to like me,” he grumbles.

Miranda pats his head. “There, there. One issue at a time.”

“Solace,” he says at her invitation, gesturing again. “Oranges.”

“…Ah.”

“He is. You know. Right?”

“I must confess I do not.”

He takes a moment to collect himself. Or, well, he tries to. He’s had an easier time trying to wrangle errant souls surfing along the Styx, but whatever. He literally owns his brain. It Shall submit to him, or he’ll get a new one. Watch.

“Will is…intensely thoughtful.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Miranda agrees. “Once he brushed past me on the way to dinner and felt that I was going to get a cold, so he took the food I got and exchanged it for soup and veggies and Gatorade and stuff. He forgot to actually tell me that I was about to get a cold, at the time, but it was really nice of him in hindsight.”

Nico makes another loud, strangled bleating noise. Thankfully, no satyrs are harmed.

“He is so!”

“There, there,” Miranda says again. “You’ll get to full sentences soon, I’m sure of it.”

He takes a few moments to have a minor crisis in the peace and tranquility of Friendship. It’s this new thing he’s been trying. Will tells him it’s usually called ‘trust’ and ‘vulnerability’. It is mortifying for the most part but in small doses is kind of cool. Mostly.

“Who takes care of Will?“

“He doesn’t really get sick. Apollo genes and all that.”

“No, like. Emotionally.”

“Oh.” Miranda frowns thoughtfully. “Um. Chiron, maybe? I’m not actually sure.”

“It needs to be me,” Nico stresses. “He always takes care of me, and I want to, like, repay him. Not transactionally,”Nico rushes to clarify, “but, like, mutual care-ily.”

“I see.”

“You see?”

“Yes,” Miranda says sagely. “You must Show Him. That you are Invested in your Relationship.”

“Yes!” Nico cries, gripping her by the elbows. She meets his gaze head on, eyes wide and wizened. “Yes, exactly. Relationship Investment. You’re so smart.”

Miranda preens. “Thank you.” She stands, brushing off her jeans — fruitlessly, she’s got grass stains on top of grass stains on every piece of clothing she owns — and offering Nico a hand. Together they stand and observe the various shrubs, trees, and vines surrounding the cabin, hands on their hips.

Nico narrows his eyes. “Should I just get him oranges?”

“I still don’t fully understand the orange thing. But Will likes peaches.” She leans up and plucks one off of the largest tree, holding it out to Nico. “They make him think of home.”

Nico takes the peach and inspects it. It is, of course, impeccable — thick and heavy, skin soft and unblemished, full enough with juice and flavour to be fragrant even from the arm’s length Nico holds it. This is the kind of peach that wins fairs. This is the kind of peach that sits, prized, in a market, watching as mothers and hipsters claw at each other. This is the kind of peach that immediately upon first touch strikes within you such an intense urge to chuck it at the nearest hard surface and watch it splat into a beautiful explosion of Squelch that Nico has to, hastily, set it down and out of immediate reach.

“It’s perfect,” he declares.

“Don’t throw it at him,” Miranda advises, eyeing the fruit herself.

“Shan’t,” Nico promises, and it doubles at a warning to his brain because he can’t lie to Miranda, obviously, so his brain better Check Itself. There will be no peach throwing. Peach holding, only, and peach giving.

He waves goodbye to Miranda as he hustles off, headed for the bustling infirmary. There have been no great emergencies today — there would be a lot more of Will’s echoed screeching if this were the case — and many people who have walked in have walked out, minutes later, scowling, so now is a good a time as any. He could of course wait until Will is done his shift and they meet by Cabin Seven, like usual, but this is a Pressing Issue. Will can no longer continue to believe that Nico has a Limit, as Kayla had so unhelpfully explained. Nico is Limitless. He is a sine function. He is an eternal abyss. He is the final end of Chiron’s patience, if the horse is to be believed.

Also, the peach is really really tempting and Nico honestly does not have all that much control over his brain. It usually kind of does as it pleases. That’s why he has so many Situations.

“Solace,” he shouts, banging open the screen door loud enough to make everyone inside jump, “GET the hell over here.”

“I. Am.” Will holds up a patient’s arm, which has been hastily butterfly-clamped closed and is now being stitched. “Um. Is it urgent?”

Nico snaps his mouth shut. “No.” He stalks over to where Will is sitting, still bewildered, on his favourite stool, and stands with his arms crossed behind him. He nods at the injured camper, clearing his throat. “Proceed.”

“…Okay.”

Because Will is a Professional, his gaze remains focused on the gaping wound he is fixing. Because no one else at this camp is, everyone else chooses to gawk. Nico lets the fires of Hell enter his eyes, like Father showed him, and glares them all into subservience.

“Alright,” Will says, several minutes later, patting the patient’s knee with a smile. “I’m gonna wrap this, Jen, and you gotta keep it dry, okay? Have ambrosia twice a day like I told you and come see me at the end of the week.”

“There’ll be no scar?” the young girl hedges.

“Not if you follow my instructions,” Will promises. “Although you’ll be just as beautiful with a scar, kiddo, I promise. Ask your mother.”

Jen looks at him doubtfully, but Will is one of those people who’s unbelievably hard to distrust. It’s infuriating, if you’re Nico and committed to the whole goth/emo lifestyle. Probably comforting if you’re a normal person.

She leaves, and it is abruptly very quiet in the infirmary, which is crazy because it is abruptly never quiet at camp unless people are dead, usually, but no one is dead, and people are too godsdamn nosy to flinch away from Nico’s glare, or maybe they’re not scared of him anymore, and hey, isn’t that something. The world is so busy, all the time. Things keep happening. Who’s fault is that, again?

“Nico?” Will asks, rocking back on his heels. His hands are suddenly clean of blood and grime and his scrubs have been swapped out. They stand, also, at the other end of the infirmary, right outside of the on-call room. He looks up, and conversations have resumed, and Will is watching him, intently, bright eyes slightly too wide, front teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, Ace bandage winding, unwinding, winding.

“This is for you,” Nico blurts, and shoves the peach at him.

Will blinks. “Oh.” He stares at the peach, a moment, before a smile erupts on his face. “Oh! Thank you!”

He takes the peach, gently, from Nico’s hands, and holds it close to his chest, wide hands gentle so as not to bruise, smile gone close-mouthed, giddy. The rocking gets every so slightly faster, and the slight breeze from the open screen door ruffles his frizzy hair, and his nose is scrunched, just slightly, enough to wrinkle his dotted feathers, and Nico’s mouth is very, very dry.

“I do not,” he tries, and it grinds along his paper-parched throat, near silent, “I do not have Limits, William.”

The rocking stills. Nico mourns it.

“…Sorry?”

“Limits,” Nico repeats. “I do not have them. I am Limitless. Purge the thought.”

“You have limits,” Will says, alarmed. “Um, we had that talk, right? About pushing yourself and why that is generally regarded as a bad plan.”

“That was you shouting at me in between nectar shots and frantic mothering, actually, but that’s not what I meant.”

Will doesn’t answer, only tilting his head.

“You’re neurotic,” Nico attempts to explain, and as could be expected by literally anyone with a brain this goes poorly, and he rushes to amend. “I mean! Well, you are neurotic — but! There is a but! Stop looking at me like that! You are neurotic but!”

“This is a very bad friendship break up if that is what you are trying,” says Will in a small voice, and Nico resolves to kick his own ass later tonight to Atone.

“I like it,” he hurries to explain. “You and your — neuroses. All of you, I like it. There is no Limit. Capital L. You’re groovy. On — point. Fleek? What do the kids say. I don’t —”

“Oh,” Will breathes, thankfully putting Nico out of his misery, “oh, this is about the oranges.”

Nico nods miserably.

“The oranges are —” Will cuts himself off, staring down at his shoes. “Um, scurvy freaks me out.”

“…Scurvy?”

“It — collagen synthesis is an active process? In your body? And scurvy makes it degrade really quickly. Which kind of tears your body apart by reopening scars. On top of other things. And you — were on a ship, you know. For a while. And you sweat a lot. And you don’t take the multivitamins I give you.”

“Because they’re gross,” Nico says, breathless, “and I’m not — sweaty.”

Wherever sunlight touches Will’s skin he tends to glow, slightly, and his freckles fluoresce the longer his hand takes to traverse the space between them, past the open window, resting, lightly, on Nico’s wrist.

“You are,” he says, gently. “You have — really low magnesium and potassium levels. Just, all the time.” He glances down at the inside of Nico’s wrist. “Right now, actually. Will you eat a banana if I go get you one?”

Will will go get a banana, and Nico will follow him, and they will sit, somewhere, probably the big rock by the lake, as Nico eats it, and Will will eat his peach, and Nico will watch his throat bob, and Will will talk, hands gesturing, peach juice everywhere, and they will stay there, probably, way past sunset, right till curfew, and then they will sprint, as they usually do, to avoid the harpies, and they will go to Nico’s cabin, first, because they always do, and Will will snag an orange as they run past the fruit trees by the Demeter cabin, and he will press it into Nico’s hands, firmly, smiling as he says goodnight, and running back to his own cabin. Where he will, according to Kayla, pace, and worry. Where he will rant about Limits, and how close Nico is to approaching them.

“Will,” says Nico seriously, grabbing his hands. Will’s eyes snap to his, wide, wider than usual, and they are so blue, so so blue, are things usually this blue? He’s startled by it every time. “Will, I am a sine function.”

“I don’t understand,” he admits.

Nico nods. “That’s okay! Just — peaches.” He reaches out and pats the fruit, curling Will’s fingers around them. “For you. Okay?”

Will glances down at the peach. He glances back up at Nico. He looks down, finally, at their hands, twined around the fruit, and holds there, one, two, three seconds.

“Oh,” he says, finally. “Oh, you don’t — oh.”

“Peaches,” Nico repeats, “oranges.” He pulls one hand free and draws a line between them. “You get it?”

“I get it,” Will says, softly. He looks up and smiles, small, private; too-big front teeth just barely peeling out. “You never reach your approached value.”

“I really don’t even get that close.”

“I’m kind of losing the metaphor, here.”

“Okay.”

Nico squeezes their hands together. Will squeezes back, shifting his weight.

“I’m still gonna — you still gotta get your vitamin C.”

“More oranges?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He rubs his finger over the backs of Will’s knuckles; he shivers. Nico meets his eyes and he smiles, widely, hurting his cheeks, and Will smiles back, and he rocks, and Nico is an abyss, and he is falling, falling, falling. “I like oranges.”

[mediumgayitalian]

prev chapter

———

A shrieking ring pierces the air, and Nico damn near ascends, he jumps so goddamn high.

"What the fuck," Will hisses, panting. 

The ring sounds again, louder, this time, and through his disheveled, half-conscious flinching, Nico recognizes it as the vibrating plastic phone right next to his eardrums.

"What kind of fucking hotel," Will mutters, rolling back over and pulling a pillow over his head. "Leave it!"

Nico stares. Something twinges in the dead center of his chest. Slowly, all on its own, his hand reaches out and wraps around the handle, pulling the receiver to his ear. He doesn't bother with hello.

Will's pillow lowers.

“You know,” drawls the voice on the phone, “runaways pack their things.” A pause, a yawn. “Fugitives do not.”

Nico swallows and says nothing. The pause stretches, until it becomes a silence, until it becomes a line, drawn from him to the Keys, woven threads pulling just before they snap.

“Imagine my surprise when I ring the cellular phone your mother so graciously bought you —”

The words shove their way out of his roughened throat on reflex.

“My mother is dead.”

Will, kneeling on the rumpled sheets, startles, eyes wide — his Italian may be bad, but he has read enough medical textbooks and paid enough attention in Spanish to recognize Mamma and morta.

Hades continues unbothered.

“— and the buzzing leads me right to your bedroom. Which is a mess, I should remind you. I expect it clean by Friday or I’ll hire someone to clean it and do not care what they keep.”

Friday. Nico doesn’t even know what day it is, frankly. Wednesday? Maybe? They left on a Monday, he thinks. He sees Will mouth out ven-er-di, nose scrunched up as he tries to place the world. The ghost of a smile flashes on Nico’s face, despite his straight back, despite his clammy hands; Will could live in Venice for twenty years and still not get it. Italian eludes him. It’s the Texan, Nico is pretty sure. His mouth cannot for the life of him retain the sounds.

There’s a flinty sound from the other end of the phone, a crinkle, and then a long, smooth breath. Nico’s nose twitches and he coughs slightly, glancing down at the holes in the receiver’s plastic, half-expecting smoke to pour through.

“I’ll be too busy Saturday morning, but meet me in my study after noon when you return. I need to give you the papers for your new card, some stronzello stole yours and is buying things up in Georgia.”

Nico goes very, very, still. His breath goes stale and hard in his lungs, and his blood turns to concrete.

“Father,” he says, very carefully.

“I cancelled your old one but you really must be more careful, Nicolò. I was not so brazen and thoughtless at your age; I am successful now. Consider.”

The line clicks, and the stretched out whine of its deadness echoes in the twilit hotel room. Nico hears it run in parallel to the rushing of his ears, to the uptick in Will's breathing.

"Nico?" he whispers, quiet, urgent. "Nico, what's going on?"

Quickly Nico glances at the dusty alarm clock, balanced dangerously on the bedside table between them. 5:12 blinks, blinks, blinks; 5:13. He glances out at the window. 

Four hours. Sweat dries along his temples, next to the bruises under his eyes. 

"Will," he says, or hears himself say. He feels the shape of the word, for maybe the first time, really feels the weight of the w and the drag of the vowel. He breathes, quick and shallow. 

When he looks over, he finds Will already staring, blue eyes light with the brightening sky and wider than the heavens.

"We gotta go," he murmurs. He breathes in again, inhale, inhale, shaking himself at the final click of the echoing phone, the deafening silence. He pushes off from the stiff hotel mattress and stumbles to his discarded sneakers, half-hearing Will's whispered, jumbled questions. 

"My father," Nico answers, finally, mouth dry. "He -- my credit card. Our funds."

Will gets it, he thinks, before he finishes, before he says it. He inhales sharply, quick and silent, and stands without a word, sliding his flip-flops on and grabbing the keys. 

"Hey," he says. Nico jumps at the sudden heat of his wide hand, curled around his clammy one. He glances up and freezes at the warmth of his smile, the gentle scrunch of his nose. Will squeezes their hands. "Let's move fast. There's -- it's a chain hotel, there'll be a fire exit we can duck outta somewhere. We'll take the stairs."

He stares at the door, waiting and breathing, willing the air to come all the way in and go all the way out, feeling the jerk of their hands every time Will grabs something, loading bags and maps and a sleeve of Ritz crackers on his long arms. One more jerk and this time Will is pulling, dragging him gently through the barely-open door and inching it closed behind them.

"C'mon."

Will has never been coordinated. Not in the myriad of sports tryouts he dragged them both to every season, not dashing across the giant dead 2 a.m. roads across the ice cream parlor, cackling, not dragging himself upright, face burning, across the commencement stage to hollers and jeering, not damn near falling two stories down a flower lattice. But he is quick down the carpeted, liminal hallways, lightfooted across doorways and hand gentle small of Nico's back, nudging him through heavy emergency doors. 

He trips down the stairs though, once. Over his damned flip-flop.

"Shut the fuck up," Will hisses, face flaming hot enough Nico could count each freckle clear as stars in the night sky. "Shut up, do you want to get us caught --"

He doesn't, but he can't stop, crouched over cracking concrete and gasping into his hands until tears drip down his face, until the pass of air through his mouth is completely soundless.

"Nico, dude, the breakdown has to wait to the car, okay, you gotta pull it together. Choke it back. Get up. Oh my God."

"Every time," he wheezes.

"I am going to leave you behind --"

But he doesn't, because he wouldn't, and eventually Nico gets ahold of himself or at least mostly and manages to limit himself to a giggle and half the next time Will trips. It's over the doorway, anyway, so Will can roll his eyes and shove Nico through, herding him into the night and running until he's giggling, too, until the barely-rising sun and frigid morning air gets to them both and they're bent over in the stupid fucking empty parking lot, and it's not funny, it's not, and if they're caught they're so fucked, because Nico didn't check the card reader all that closely but he knows that hotel chains starting with H, despite the dankness of this specific location, are not particularly cheap, and neither of them are technically independently wealthy nor incredibly adept at weaseling their way out of trouble. 

"Okay, fuck, oh my God, just -- get in." Will stands first, still holding his stomach, tossing their shit into the (still open, oops) back and swiping a hand down his face to force away the smile. "Okay, Jesus, fuck." He untwists their fingers and reaches for the passenger door, holding it open, and it takes Nico a half-second too long to realise he is waiting. 

"My car my drive," he blurts, stumbling backwards. 

"Wha --" Will starts but Nico darts forward and snatches the keys and crawls straight over the gearshift, settling against the seat, missing the ignition three times before sliding it in.

Will straightens to his full height. He cross his arms across his chest, and when Nico makes himself look over he is scowling. 

"No."

"My car," Nico repeats. "I'm driving."

"In a few hours, sure."

"Will," he says, exasperated. A light catches their attention -- a window labelled 'OFFICE' brightens, a shadow passing along it. "Fuck. Get in the car."

Will hesitates. Then sliding front doors open and a uniformed figure steps out, and Will jumps forward, slamming the door shut; "Oh, fuck, go go go --" and Nico stands on the gas, yanking the gear shift as hard as it will be yanked and tearing out of the parking lot, engine revving above shouts for them to stop.

Nico holds his breath along the roaring highway, waiting for Will to fall asleep.

He doesn't.

The needle slowly dips past quarter tank, then damn near drops to zero the second it passes an eighth tank, because the fuel gauge is a piece of shit no matter how many times Nico has replaced it in the last two years. He waits for the prim direction next to him, telling him which exit to take, but nothing comes. He hits the turn signal and coasts down the first one he sees, watching Will out of the corner of his eye. He looks resolutely ahead, straight through the windshield, eyes sharp and mouth pulled into a thin line. 

He pulls his credit card out on reflex, climbing out of his car. He doesn't realise until he's already at the counter with the card reader in his hands, cashier tapping her long nails on the edge of the register with increasing irritation. 

"Oh, fuck," he mumbles, "I can't --"

The bell rings at the door. Nico and the cashier both turn around to face it, and Will walks up to the register, handing over a few bills. 

"60 on register seven," he says lightly. "And, uh --" he reaches over, grabbing two spotty bananas and a couple of hot rods. "These too, please."

The cashier rings him up quickly, yawning, nodding out the window when the payment goes through. Will leaves without another word, walking over to the Jeep and climbing into the passanger seat, arms cross, eyes trained to the side.

"Yeesh," comments the girl. "You're in trouble."

Nico scowls. "Am fucking not."

He stomps out the store, knowing he is.

He takes his time pumping the gas, which he has done maybe never, really shaking the pump and ensuring every drop of the expensive bullshit drizzles into his stupid tank, pressing the cancel button a couple times when he's done, even though he's already paid. He really twists the gas lid back on. It would suck if it popped open on the highway or something. 

"If you don't get your ass in this car in the next five seconds, I'm gonna whoop your ass."

Nico exhales heavily, swinging into the driver's seat and turning the key. It is not in the ignition. Consequently, Will is facing him, keyring tight on his finger, pinky tapping on his bicep. He feels, a little bit, like he is in the principal's office. His stomach flips, something hot churning in his guts. He shifts in his seat. 

"You couldn't beat me up if you tried," he retorts.

Will does not dignify that with an answer, because it is true. His fingernail reflects the sun a little bit, tap, tap, tap.

"Nico," he says, or warns. 

Nico scowls. "Don't talk to me like you're my mom."

"I'm not -- trying to!" He throws his hands up and damn near tosses the keys with it, finally, finally cracking, face heating, shoulders snapping. "I'm just -- I'm frustrated, Neeks! And I'm nervous! We just -- we committed fraud, technically, okay, and I've never done that before, and also I don't think I'd do very well in jail. I'm kind of picky and I think I would die in a shiv fight. I would just -- God, I'd get stabbed, wouldn't I. First day in. Rest in fucking peace."

"That's what you're stressing about," Nico says, fighting back his smirk and failing. "You're -- stressing about shivs."

"I don't know how to make a shiv, di Angelo! I tried to follow the YouTube tutorial and failed!"

"You're not serious, Solace!"

Will's shoulders droop. "I am, a little bit. I don't know. I'm all over the place." He screws up his mouth, glancing over. "And I've had a full night's sleep."

Nico winces. "Look."

Will waits.

Nico says nothing.

"Look?" Will hedges, leaning against the window. He reaches behind the seat and grabs a banana, flipping it upside down and peeling it from the bottom.

Huh. He, uh. He really would get shived immediately, wouldn't he.

"Look what?"

Nico sighs.

"I don't need all that much sleep, Will."

"False. You do not have Short Sleeper Syndrome, you were late every single day for homeroom for four straight years."

Nico opens his mouth. Will raises an eyebrow. He closes it.

"Touche," he manages, finally. Will nods haughtily and takes a bite of his banana, carefully avoiding the bruised bits. "I just -- you don't even like driving, Will. I do."

"You were freaking," Will points out. "I would say anxiety attack but you're gonna get all scowly and defensive if I do, so I won't. You were just coincidentally hyperventilating and sweating and shaking et cetera."

"Only nerds say et cetera."

"Oh, look, there's the defensive mocking. Right on schedule."

"No, I'm just -- I'm just." Nico drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't like you driving my car."

"I am not that bad, Nico."

He can hear the hurt in Will's voice and winces, rushing to double back.

"I don't mean it like that. I just mean that I." He takes a deep, rattling breath. "If something happens, I want it to be my fault."

"..Oh."

For a hot minute there is nothing. There is the wind rustling through the open windows, and the sound of their breathing. There is the rush of the highway a mile away. There is the click and quiet calamity of the gas station. There is the sound of someone trying to very quietly chew a banana.

Nico looks over, unbelieving. Will very slowly peels the second banana.

"Are you serious."

"I'm -- hungry!"

"Can you not for two sec -- is that my fucking banana."

"Um, none of this breakfast is yours, on account of the fact that I bought it."

"You? Fucking hound?? Give me a fucking banana??"

"No! Get your own!"

"Give me the fucking --"

He lunges, and Will shrieks, and he is longer and taller but he has the combat instincts of a pretzel stick and just kind of flops his free hand in Nico's direction, which is easily dodged, and when Will keeps squirming Nico scowls, pinning him against the window so his elbows are pressed against his chest by both of Nico's hands and his mouth is free to lunge forward and snap up the fruit. Nico chomps down, snapping half of it up and chewing victoriously.

"Ha," he brags, garbled. "You would die in prison, you selfish dope."

He tears off the rest of the banana and looks over, smirking, and as he chews he feels the rapid rise and fall of Will's chest, and the jackrabbit pace of his heart, and his very, very wide blue, blue, blue eyes.

Nico throws himself back at the speed of light and sound.

"So!" he shouts, voice cracking. "So, there, and give me the second hot rod too. Fucker."

Wills hands it over without looking. Nico tears it open, freezing right before he bites it and ripping a piece off instead, eating that. Will's hotrod remains in his lap. 

Or -- the fucking. The meat stick. 

The processed pole of plastic-wrapped pork. 

Jesus.

The thin snacking sausage. 

The. The fucking. The elongated beef jerky. 

Nico throws the rest of his snack out the window. Will follows suit, aiming for the trash can, missing, opening the door, walking over to the fallen -- snack, picking it up, walking to the trash can, throwing it out, and standing there facing the wall of the convenience store for several minutes. 

When he finally returns, sliding into the passenger, they both stare straight ahead, arms to their sides.

"Alright," Nico says, clearing his throat. He shifts. "We gotta -- plan."

"Right."

Neither of them moves.

"You know you can't, like...stay here," calls a voice, head popping out of the convenience store doors. "It's a gas station. You're meant to leave."

"Sorry," Will frets, ears burning again. "We're, um, we're just finishing up."

The cashier raises her eyebrows. Nico turns his eyes up to the heavens and prays for death.

"Okay, she's gone, look at me."

Nico turns his head to the side and Will is red again, around the ears and splashed over his cheekbones, and Nico's own cheeks are still pretty hot but he smiles, anyway, he can't help it; there is the little furrow of determination in Will's brow and his eyes narrow every so carefully and Nico is reminded of every midterm, every exam season, every forced library study session and pinching fingers every time he complained. Some of the weird, thick air between them drains away. 

"This is the plan, okay? We got -- 300 or so miles on this tank. I know where we are. And I, uh, I know a place." Will swallows and keeps his eyes trained on the gear shift, ignoring Nico's tilted head. "So what you're gonna do is switch with me. And I know --" he holds up a hand to Nico's protests -- "I get it. I think." He looks up, finally, meeting Nico's eyes. The determination in his face softens into something much sweeter, something gentle and prodding all the same. "I know it sucks," he says softly. "To -- think of her." He reaches over and brushes his fingers, barely, over Nico's tight knuckles. "To blame yourself, believe me."

His hands don't linger for long. The heat of them does, thought, and Nico loosens his hands, exhaling, feeling it. 

"Just a few hours," he says, finally. "Okay? And -- I can't promise I'll sleep."

"That's cool." Will smiles. "For what it's worth, I'll be careful. Okay? I'll drive slow and in the right lane and everything."

"I know, you grandma." Nico opens the door, heading around to the passenger seat. "I trust you."

———

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