Nico hates three-legged races on principle. One, because they force him to pronounce the extra syllable in legged, which makes him think of William Shakespeare -- Billy, as he insists Nico calls him. Ugh. Two, because they are stupid. And three, bonus, because they are stupid enough to merit saying that twice.
It's inefficient, is what it is.
"It's fun," Will coaxes. He winks, or tries to. He really just blinks both eyes and Nico melts but for propriety's sake, and because it is ridiculous also, he pretends he doesn't. "Plus, it's not so bad if it's me you're tied to, huh?"
Nico glares at him for a moment. He is grinning, now, wide and cheeky, ignoring the genuine Distance between his hips and Nico's and the general calamity that is sure to cause. They are not only about run a three-legged race, but they are going to lose. Which is worse.
(Practice, Chiron insists. You never know what the real world will be like.)
But as he opens his mouth to snark something along the lines of I don't actually need you to qualify, I just need your leg, so don't piss me off, he comes to a realization that snaps his jaw right closed.
A grin of his own spreads over Nico's face. He hides it quickly.
"On your marks, racers!" calls Chiron, stamping his hoof. All fifteen teams of the meet hobble over to the starting line, pushing and shoving. Will and Nico make their ridiculous, sauntering way.
"Actually," Nico muses, as they shift into position. "If I'm gonna have you tied up..."
He moves just enough to brush his shoulder along Will's bicep, tilting his chin up to stare right in Will's round, pretty face, tilted in confusion.
Nico lets his mouth curve into something wide and wolfish.
"I'd rather it be somewhere a little more private."
The rest of the teams tear off. The advantage they have is staggering -- Chiron had offered, safe distance away, if Nico would prefer competing in a weight class perhaps closer to his own, and Nico had snapped his disgust so loudly campers jumped several paces away. It had, possibly, been a tad arrogant, and if Will had not sighed in exasperated fondness Nico may have swallowed back his pride and accepted the offer.
But it is his own fault, regardless, their predicament. In no way and on no planet would they have in any way won, by any margin. They are simply no match for Ellis and Malcolm, when the freakishly reedy rivals manage to set their differences aside.
But the total dead weight on Will's end is a surprise.
The flush, he had expected. Nico relished in the anticipation of the redness high on Will's cheeks, the heat pouring off of him, the curl of his shoulders up by his ears and the high bend of his cracking voice.
What he was not expecting was for each of Will's freckles to go supernova.
In a sudden, cracking flash, like sunlight bursting through stormclouds in tiny little pinpricks, every little dot on Will's body -- of which there are many -- shine a beam of pure, hot, white line in every direction, enveloping him like a nuclear waste facility lit aflame. Between every white-bright light is bright red heat, like lithium flame, so hot the air around them kind of warps. Were it not for Nico's tough jeans and long-sleeved shirt, he may have fried off his skin. As it is, he feels sunburn.
"What did you do to him," asks Lou Ellen, aghast. She and Cecil have not only paused but have doubled back, hobbling over to gawk.
Nico grimaces. It is probably a bad sign if two of Will's closest friends have not seen him react in this way. A quick glance around confirms that all racers are gawking; spectators, too, stopping where they stand to stare at the sheer light pouring off of Will until it burns so brightly they have to look away.
"Hey," Nico whispers, poking his friend in the ribs. He regrets it immediately, sticking the smarting burn on his fingertip into his mouth. "Are you -- Will? Are you still...present?"
His soul is, at least. Mostly. His facial features however have become entirely obscured by a glowing red so bright it is white, like the sun behind closed eyelids.
Nico spares another look at the racegrounds. Still people watch, mouths open -- gaping or whispering to one another, curious. Several appear to be scribbling notes onto paper. Kayla appears to be taking diagnostic photographs. (Or, at least, Nico gives her the benefit of the doubt.)
The race track is wide open.
"I promise I didn't actually try to turn your brain off for this," Nico says. He carefully does not promise never to do it again, in case Will is present behind the glow and holds him to it. "But I am going to use this to our advantage."
Nico pulls his sleeves over his hands and grabs both of Will's, tugging them to the finish line. Nobody stops them.
"Notice how I said 'our'. See, we're a team."
Quickly they cross the finish line. Nico stands for a moment at the end and ponders his situation, wondering if he should let Will calm down and perhaps stop while he is ahead.
But as Will's light fades, the bright red flush high on both his cheeks becomes clear and cherry-toned, and the red does ever so bring out the absolute mortified agony in his eyes mixed with slow-blinking confusion, like the last time he forgot to eat for five days and passed out directly on top of a rock, giving himself a grade 3 concussion.
"Nothing," Nico assures quickly. He pats Will's still-red cheek, smirking. "Yet."
