Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Nico di Angelo had endured wars, ghosts, betrayal, Tartarus itself, and yet, somehow, babysitting remained among the most punishing trials he had ever survived.

It had started, as most of his suffering did, with Percy Jackson. Who had told him Annabeth Chase needed his help.

She had approached him that morning with that careful, deliberate calm of hers, gray eyes bright with purpose and apology in equal measure. She had explained, very reasonably, that she had been assigned to supervise two younger campers for the afternoon. She had also explained, less reasonably, that her university architecture project had reached a critical stage and required her immediate attention. Her voice had been steady. Logical. Persuasive.

And Nico, despite knowing better, despite the quiet instinct that warned him this would cost him dearly, had said yes.

He always said yes to Annabeth.

Not because she demanded it, or manipulated him, but because she was Annabeth, brilliant, relentless, and unshakably kind in ways most people never noticed. She had been one of the first to see him as more than a ghost lingering at the edge of everyone else’s lives. Refusing her had never quite felt possible.

He regretted that now.

Deeply.

The problem was not one child.

It was two.

And they were chaos in entirely different forms.

The first was Rhode, an eleven-year-old daughter of Hypnos.

She looked exactly like what Nico imagined sleep would look like if it decided to become human, soft, pale, and permanently exhausted. Her hair fell in loose waves of faded gold with faint pink undertones, like sunlight diluted in water, and her face was scattered with freckles that gave her an almost gentle appearance. She had spent most of the afternoon sprawled dramatically across various surfaces, the grass, a bench, the steps of the cabin, like gravity affected her more than everyone else.

She wasn't difficult to deal with. She barely moved, spoke, or cared.

Which would have been ideal, if not for the small, catastrophic detail that she could not control her powers.

Nico leaned against a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, fighting the oppressive weight pressing down on his eyelids. It wasn’t natural fatigue. He knew what natural fatigue felt like, sharp, hollow, familiar. This was heavier. Thicker. It seeped into his bones like cold water.

Rhode yawned from where she lay on her back in the grass, staring at the sky.

Immediately, Nico’s vision blurred.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, pressing his fingers into his temple. “Can you not… inflict unconsciousness?”

“I’m not trying to,” Rhode murmured faintly, not even looking at him.

Which was somehow worse.

Children of Hypnos didn’t just sleep. They emanated it. Their presence softened the edges of the world, blurred urgency, unraveled focus. Around Rhode, even the air itself seemed to sag.

And Nico, already prone to exhaustion from the constant strain of existing between the living world and the dead, was especially vulnerable.

His shadows stirred faintly at his feet, reacting to his slipping concentration like nervous animals.

He forced himself upright.

He could endure sleep, at least.

What he could not endure was Glykeria.

The nine-year-old daughter of Nike was the exact opposite of Rhode in every conceivable way.

She vibrated with energy.

Her dark curls were tied in a high, aggressive ponytail that swung behind her like a banner of war. Her stance alone was confrontational: feet planted, chin lifted, eyes constantly scanning for challenge.

Victory wasn’t something she wanted.

It was something she required.

At that exact moment, she stood in the middle of the camp path, staring intensely at an older camper from Apollo’s cabin.

Then she barked.

Nico wished it would’ve been jokingly or playfully, but it sadly wasn’t. It was sharp, loud and definitely deliberate.

The Apollo camper blinked in confusion. Nico couldn’t blame him, really. He would’ve just walked past her on any normal day.

Glykeria’s eyes narrowed.

She barked again, louder this time.

“…I’m not getting paid enough for this,” Nico muttered.

The Apollo camper, after a long, bewildered pause, barked back. 

It was over instantly. Nico groaned, sure he was going to have a shit time.

Glykeria’s entire posture ignited.

“Competition!” she shouted.

She dropped into a crouch and barked again, faster now, louder, each sound filled with absolute conviction.

The Apollo camper, either brave or incredibly stupid, barked back again.

It escalated immediately.

Back and forth. Louder. Faster.

Campers began to stare.

Some backed away slowly.

Others watched with open fascination.

Glykeria was winning, of course she was. Nico could tell in the ways her eyes shimmered and a faint dark glow emitted of her. 

Children of Nike could sense victory the way sharks sensed blood. Her confidence sharpened with every exchange, her grin widening as momentum tilted in her favor.

“Nico!” she shouted suddenly, without breaking eye contact with her opponent. “Am I winning?”

“You’re barking,” Nico replied flatly. “Draw your own conclusions.”

She beamed.

Encouragement.

That was encouragement.

The Apollo camper gave up first, laughing awkwardly and walking away.

Glykeria straightened immediately, triumphant.

“I won,” she declared.

“Yes,” Nico said dryly. “History will remember this moment.”

She placed her hands on her hips, satisfied.

Rhode yawned again behind him.

Nico’s knees nearly buckled, but he caught himself on the tree, scowling.

This was punishment.

This had to be punishment.

He had faced Titans. He had walked through literal death. He had held the weight of souls and secrets and grief most people couldn’t even comprehend.

And now he was supervising a sleep hazard and a competitive barking enthusiast.

Somewhere, he was certain, the universe was laughing at him.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, letting shadows coil faintly around his boots, cool and grounding.

“Okay,” he said, voice calm but edged with steel. “New rule. No more barking at strangers.”

Glykeria frowned.

“…What about friends?”

“You don’t have enough of those for it to matter,” Nico replied.

She considered this.

“…Fair.”

Rhode shifted slightly in the grass.

“Nico,” she murmured.

He glanced at her.

“What.”

“You look like you’re going to fall over.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I look like someone who made a mistake trusting Annabeth.”

Rhode nodded slowly, accepting this as a profound and reasonable truth.

For a moment, things were quiet.

The sun hung low over Camp Half-Blood, warm and golden, casting long shadows that stretched toward Nico like silent companions. They welcomed him, as they always did. Shadows never demanded. Never competed. Never accidentally tried to sedate him.

They simply existed.

Reliable.

Honest.

Unlike children.

Nico closed his eyes briefly, just for a second and immediately jerked himself awake.

No.

Absolutely not.

He would not fall asleep.

He refused to be defeated by a child who weaponized naps.

He straightened, glaring toward the horizon as if daring the world itself to challenge him further.

Behind him, Glykeria barked once more, experimentally.

Nico didn’t even turn around.

“Don’t.”

Silence.

Victory.

A small one.

But still.

***

By the time Nico di Angelo made his way toward the infirmary, he was no longer certain whether he was more exhausted, more irritated, or more numb. His limbs felt heavier than they should have, weighed down by artificial sleep that still clung to him like cobwebs, and his arm throbbed with a sharp, pulsing ache that refused to be ignored. The afternoon sun stretched long across the camp, warm and golden, but Nico barely noticed it. He walked through Camp Half-Blood like a shadow passing through light, silent and detached, his thoughts spiraling somewhere distant.

He wondered, not for the first time, why he stayed here at all.

Camp Half-Blood was loud. Alive. Full of laughter, friendships, rivalries, warmth, everything Nico had spent most of his existence separate from. He had never truly belonged to places like this. He existed at the edges, in doorways, beneath trees, inside shadows where no one else lingered. He had spent years convincing himself that solitude was easier, safer, inevitable.

Then his reason appeared in front of him.

It was almost unfair, how easily Will Solace drew the eye. He stood near one of the infirmary beds, his hair catching the sunlight in strands of pale gold, his posture relaxed but attentive as he listened to a younger camper explain something with frantic hand gestures. Will’s expression was warm and focused, his blue eyes soft with concern, his smile easy and unforced in a way Nico had never quite mastered. There was something steady about him, something bright without being overwhelming, like sunlight filtered through leaves rather than blinding noon.

Nico stopped in the doorway, watching him for just a moment longer than he intended.

The exhaustion didn’t disappear, not completely, but it loosened its grip.

Will noticed him almost immediately. He always did.

His attention shifted, eyes locking onto Nico with quiet precision, and his expression changed in an instant. The warmth remained, but concern slipped beneath it, subtle and instinctive. He straightened and crossed the distance between them quickly, his movements efficient without being frantic.

“What happened?” Will asked, his gaze already scanning Nico for injuries.

Nico lifted his arm slightly, revealing the bite mark just below his wrist, the skin broken in a neat crescent that was already bruising faintly around the edges. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough.

“I got bit,” Nico muttered.

Will’s eyebrows drew together immediately, his healer’s instincts sharpening. “What—”

“Don’t ask,” Nico interrupted flatly, his voice carrying that familiar bluntness that most people mistook for indifference. In truth, he simply didn’t have the energy to explain how a nine-year-old daughter of Nike had decided biting was an acceptable negotiation tactic in exchange for candy. Glykeria, it turned out, possessed far more strength, and far fewer reservations, than her size suggested.

Will stared at him for a moment longer, clearly weighing whether to push for details, before his mouth curved into a small, helpless smile.

“…Okay,” he said simply.

He turned and moved toward the medical supplies, already reaching for disinfectant and clean bandages with practiced familiarity. Nico watched him quietly, taking in the small details, the confidence in his hands, the calm certainty in his movements, the way he never hesitated. Will didn’t panic. He never did. He simply handled things, piece by piece, as if every injury was solvable.

The infirmary itself was quiet, unusually so. Most of the beds were empty, the white sheets smooth and undisturbed, and the air carried the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic mixed faintly with sunlight-warmed wood. It felt peaceful in a way the rest of camp rarely allowed. Nearby, Austin Lake sat beside another camper, speaking in a low, reassuring voice while adjusting a bandage around their shoulder. His expression was serious but kind, mirroring the same steady competence Will carried.

It was an Apollo thing, Nico supposed. Healing came as naturally to them as breathing.

Will returned a moment later, gently taking Nico’s wrist in his hand. His touch was careful, deliberate, and warm in a way that felt grounding rather than intrusive. He examined the bite mark closely, his fingers light against Nico’s skin as he turned his arm slightly to see it better.

“You know,” Will said casually, though Nico could hear the quiet concern beneath his tone, “most people get injured fighting monsters. Not… whatever this is.”

“Children are worse than monsters,” Nico replied without hesitation. “Monsters at least follow patterns.”

Will laughed softly under his breath as he began cleaning the wound, the disinfectant stinging just enough to make Nico tense slightly.

“This looks human,” Will observed, glancing up briefly. “You want to revise your earlier statement?”

“No.”

Will’s smile widened faintly.

He finished cleaning the bite and began wrapping it carefully, his fingers precise and efficient from years of repetition. It was familiar, this routine. Will patching him back together, Nico pretending he hadn’t been hurt in the first place. Neither of them acknowledged how often it happened, but they both knew.

“What happened?” Will asked again, more gently this time.

Nico exhaled slowly, leaning back against the edge of the bed. He told him everything, the Hypnos girl who radiated sleep like a curse she couldn’t control, the Nike girl who turned barking into a competitive sport, the constant exhaustion, the chaos, the biting incident that had ultimately driven him here. His voice remained dry and detached as he spoke, but the fatigue beneath it was unmistakable.

Will listened without interrupting, his expression shifting between sympathy and poorly concealed amusement.

“She barked at strangers?” Will asked.

“Yes.”

“And they barked back?”

“Yes.”

“And this became a competition.”

“Yes.”

Will pressed his lips together, clearly trying and failing to remain serious. A quiet laugh escaped him anyway, warm and helpless.

Nico narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not,” Will said immediately, which would have been more convincing if he hadn’t still been smiling. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Nico rolled his eyes, but the irritation lacked its usual sharpness.

Will finished tying the bandage and finally looked up at him fully, his expression softening into something gentler.

“You survived,” Will said.

Nico huffed quietly. “Barely.”

Will’s hand lingered for just a second longer before letting go, and Nico found himself oddly reluctant to pull away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And Nico realized, with quiet certainty, that this was why he stayed.

Will's expression had shifted into something quieter, something thoughtful, and Nico could see the gears turning behind his eyes. It wasn’t his usual healer’s focus. It was something more personal.

“…Do you want to go away?” Will asked at last, his voice softer than before, gentle in a way that carried careful intention. “For a while.”

Nico blinked, the question cutting through the lingering fog of exhaustion. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected anything, really, beyond antiseptic and Will’s quiet laughter. He stared at him, trying to determine whether he had misheard.

“What?” Nico said, the word coming out slower than usual as his mind struggled to catch up.

Will shifted slightly where he stood, and for once, he looked almost uncertain. Not nervous, exactly, Will Solace wasn’t someone who frightened easily, but tentative, like he was offering something fragile. Something he wasn’t sure Nico would accept.

“My mom’s going on tour,” Will explained, his mouth curving into a small, hopeful smile. “She has a concert in Italy next month. I thought you might like to come with me. Just for a bit.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering across Nico’s face, searching for any sign of rejection. “To get away from here.”

Italy.

The word alone felt unreal.

For a moment, Nico didn’t respond. He simply stared at him, his thoughts unraveling and reforming all at once. Italy wasn’t just anywhere. It wasn’t just distance. It was history. It was language he hadn’t spoken aloud in decades but still lived somewhere deep in his bones. It was cobblestone streets and ancient air and something that belonged to him long before Camp Half-Blood, long before prophecy and war and loss.

And it was Will.

Will, asking him to go.

Not out of obligation. Not out of necessity.

Because he wanted him there.

Nico realized, distantly, that he was smiling.

He hadn’t meant to. It had simply happened, natural and unforced, warmth spreading slowly through his chest in a way that startled him with its unfamiliar ease. He felt something sharp beneath it, too, nervousness, fragile and persistent. Because this meant more than just travel. This meant stepping into Will’s world, into a part of his life that existed beyond camp and injuries and quiet afternoons in the infirmary.

It meant meeting his mother.

He had met Apollo, which in itself had been overwhelming in ways Nico still didn’t entirely understand. Gods were distant even when they stood in front of you, their presence too vast, too untouchable to fully grasp. But a mortal parent was different. Mortal parents were real in a way gods weren’t. They formed the person their children became. They shaped them in small, permanent ways.

Meeting her meant understanding Will more completely.

The thought terrified him.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and nodded.

“Sure,” Nico said, his voice quieter than usual but no less certain. “I’d like that.”

Will’s reaction was immediate and impossible to miss. His entire face brightened, relief and happiness unfolding so openly it made something in Nico’s chest tighten. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was simple, sincere joy, the kind Will never tried to hide.

That smile made the exhaustion, the barking competitions, the bite mark, all of it feel distant and insignificant.

Worth it, even.

***

Camp Half-Blood smelled like color.

Not in any literal sense, Nico knew that, but it was the only way he could describe it as he walked down the familiar dirt path. The air carried warmth and movement and life in a way that never quite settled, like the entire place existed in a constant state of becoming. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees in fractured gold, and everywhere he looked there was motion: campers laughing, arguing, sparring, running, existing with a kind of careless certainty Nico had never learned to imitate.

He moved through it quietly, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jacket, his shadow stretching thin behind him like something reluctant to let him go.

The cabins rose ahead in their uneven line, each one radiating the presence of its godly parent in ways both obvious and subtle. Cabin 11 stood loud and crowded as always, its open doors revealing movement inside, voices overlapping in endless conversation. Next to it, Cabin 14 shimmered faintly, the light around it bending in soft, prismatic distortions that made the edges of its structure seem uncertain. The air near the cabin of Iris always carried the faint illusion of rainbows, colors catching where they shouldn’t, lingering where nothing physical existed to hold them.

Nico passed it without slowing.

He was aware of his own movement in a distant way, aware of the rhythm of his steps and the quiet crunch of gravel beneath his boots, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Italy.

Will had remembered.

Not just remembered in passing, not as some vague detail to be acknowledged and forgotten, but remembered enough to offer it to him. Nico had mentioned it once, late at night in the infirmary while Will had been forcing him to eat something he insisted was good for him. Nico had told him, reluctantly, about real Italian food, the ones that just wouldn’t be possible to recreate in American kitchens, the kind that tasted like memory and history and home. He had told him about flavors he barely remembered but still missed with an ache he never spoke about.

Will had listened and now he had offered to take him there.

Nico frowned faintly as he walked, his chest tightening with something dangerously close to warmth. Will could have invited anyone. He could have asked Kayla Knowles, who was his sibling and understood him in ways Nico never fully could. He could have asked Austin Lake, who had known him longer. He could have asked Lou Ellen or Cecil, who were easy to be around, easy to laugh with. He could have asked Leo, who had spent years separated from his mother and would have understood exactly what that kind of reunion meant. (And was a huge fan of Naomi Solace himself.)

But he hadn’t.

He had asked Nico.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, fragile and electric all at once.

Nico told himself it didn’t mean anything. That Will was kind. That Will included people. That Will simply knew Nico had reasons to want Italy more than most.

But the thought lingered anyway, as selfish as it made him to drown in it.

He became dimly aware that his pace had quickened, his steps carrying him forward faster than before. He forced himself to slow down slightly, his expression remaining neutral even as something lighter stirred beneath his ribs. No one noticed him. No one ever did. And if he had moved just a little faster than usual, if his boots struck the ground with slightly less weight, there was no one watching closely enough to see it.

Cabin 13 waited at the end of the row.

It stood apart from the others in quiet isolation, its dark stone walls absorbing the sunlight rather than reflecting it. No laughter spilled from inside. No voices drifted through its doorway. It existed in stillness, untouched by the restless energy that defined the rest of camp. The air around it felt cooler, calmer, the shadows deeper and more welcoming.

Home.

Nico stepped inside, and the warmth he had carried with him faded almost instantly.

The silence pressed in around him, familiar and absolute. His footsteps echoed faintly against the stone floor as he moved toward his bed, the darkness folding around him like an old habit. He lay down without bothering to remove his jacket, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts continued to turn in restless circles.

Italy.

Will’s smile.

The way he had looked at him when Nico said yes.

Nico turned onto his side, then onto his back again, his body unable to settle. Sleep refused to come, his mind too awake, too aware. The quiet of the cabin felt heavier than usual, the stillness amplifying everything he was trying not to feel.

Outside, somewhere near Cabin 15, he heard barking.

Nico closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Rhode and Glykeria, apparently, had found common ground.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or deeply concerned.

Then, suddenly, light flared against the far wall.

“Nico!!”

Colors unfolded in the air, weaving themselves into a familiar shape, the rainbow edges shimmering with quiet magic.

An Iris-message.

Nico pushed himself upright immediately, his exhaustion forgotten as recognition settled in.

Hazel.

Why was she calling so late?

The thought drifted lazily through Nico’s mind as he pushed himself up on his elbows, the rainbow light from the Iris-message painting fractured color across the dark stone walls of Cabin 13. Time felt abstract inside his cabin. There were no windows wide enough to measure the sky, no warm lantern glow to suggest evening comfort. It could have been ten. It could have been midnight. Nico genuinely had no idea. He only knew his bones felt heavy and his thoughts were still tangled from the day.

“Hazel,” he said, blinking hard to clear the lingering haze from Rhode’s accidental sleep aura.

On the other end of the shimmering image stood Hazel Levesque, her dark curls framing her face, gold eyes sharp with immediate assessment. She tilted her head slightly as she studied him, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“You look half dead,” she said jokingly.

Nico rolled his eyes with exaggerated slowness. “Hilarious,” he replied flatly. “Truly groundbreaking comedy. What do you need?”

Hazel’s smile softened, but she didn’t answer right away. The flickering colors of the message reflected in her eyes, and for a moment she seemed to hesitate, as though weighing how much to say.

“I just had a dream,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to check on you.”

The words settled between them with familiar weight.

For demigods, dreams weren’t harmless nonsense. They were warnings. Manipulations. Prophecies. Nico’s exhaustion receded slightly, replaced by alertness sharpened by years of experience. As a son of Hades, he knew better than most that sleep was not always the best option.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice losing its sarcasm.

Hazel looked away briefly, her expression tightening. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. After a moment, she shook her head.

“I don’t know if it was anything,” she said carefully. “It just… felt strange.”

That was never reassuring.

Nico leaned back slightly, studying her in silence. Hazel didn’t spook easily. She had grown up in a different century, survived manipulation by Gaea, controlled precious metals like they were strands of thread. If something unsettled her enough to call at this hour, it mattered.

“Are you going out soon?” she asked suddenly.

The shift caught him off guard.

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Italy. Will’s mom has a tour there.”

There it was again, that warmth in his chest, uninvited but persistent.

Hazel blinked. “Will’s mom?”

He nodded once.

“You’re meeting her?” Hazel asked, and there was something layered in her tone. Curiosity, surprise, maybe even cautious amusement.

Heat crept up Nico’s neck before he could stop it. He looked away instinctively, annoyed at his own reaction.

“Uhh. Kind of.”

Hazel’s smile sharpened slightly.

“So—”

“No,” Nico cut in immediately.

The word came out faster than he intended, firm and defensive.

Hazel frowned faintly. Nico closed his eyes for a brief second, already irritated with himself. He knew exactly what she was implying, and he refused to entertain it.

Will was his friend.

A good friend. An important friend.

That didn’t automatically make everything complicated.

Of course Nico wanted to know more about him. That was normal. People were curious about their friends’ lives. That didn’t mean Hazel’s knowing look was accurate. They were going to Italy because it was Nico’s home country. Because Will remembered he wanted authentic food. Because Nico spoke Italian and could help. Because it made practical sense.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe Will had chosen him because he needed a guide.

The thought should have comforted him.

It didn’t.

“We’re just going to her concert,” Nico said after a moment, forcing his tone back into something neutral. “I probably won’t even meet her. I’ll stay at the hotel or something. Translate if needed. That’s it.”

Hazel looked unconvinced, but she nodded slowly. “If you say so.”

Nico gave her a small, tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re okay, though?”

She brightened a little at that, grateful for the shift in focus. “Yeah. Nothing dramatic. Frank tried to make spicy food tonight.”

Nico blinked. “Thats sounds overwhelming.” 

“It was,” Hazel confirmed solemnly. “He thought we could handle it. I could not. Reyna tried to prove she could handle it better. That was also a mistake. I stayed out of it after one painful bite.”

Nico snorted quietly despite himself.

Hazel continued, describing the chaos of the kitchen in vivid detail, Frank stubbornly insisting he’d followed the recipe correctly, Reyna refusing to admit defeat even as her eyes watered, the smoke alarm nearly going off. Hazel’s hands moved animatedly as she spoke, the tension from earlier dissolving into something lighter.

Nico listened, nodding occasionally, humming at the appropriate moments. He smiled when he needed to.

But his mind drifted.

Italy unfolded behind his eyes in fragments he hadn’t visited in years, stone streets slick with rain, voices speaking rapid Italian that once felt like home, church bells echoing through narrow alleys. He imagined Will there, sunlight caught in his hair, squinting slightly as he tried to follow conversations. He imagined translating for him, leaning close enough that their shoulders brushed. He imagined Will’s mother onstage, bright and alive, commanding attention in a way Nico never could.

Would she look at him and see something lacking?

Would she understand why her son had chosen him?

Or would she simply smile the way Will did, open and easy and unafraid?

The thought made his chest tighten again.

He yawned suddenly, the exhaustion finally catching up with him now that the adrenaline had faded. He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head slightly.

“Hazel,” he said, his voice softer now, stripped of sarcasm. “I love you, but I’m exhausted. Can we talk tomorrow?”

Hazel’s expression warmed instantly. “Of course.”

“Goodnight,” she said gently.

“Goodnight.”

The rainbow light dissolved, colors fading back into shadow until Cabin 13 was quiet once more.

Nico lay back slowly, staring at the dark ceiling.

Italy.

Will.

Dreams.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a trip. Just a concert. Just translating.

He closed his eyes, repeating it like a mantra, as if saying it enough times might make it entirely true.

***

The infirmary glowed with a steady warmth that seemed to hum beneath the wooden beams and white curtains. Most of it came from the lanterns hung along the walls, their golden light soft and even. The rest came from Will Solace.

He stood over an injured Ares camper like a sunrise reluctantly tolerating a thundercloud. There was literal light in his skin when he healed, thin veins of gold that shimmered faintly beneath the surface, brightest at his hands. It wasn’t blinding. It was controlled, focused, deliberate.

Right now, he looked unimpressed.

The Ares camper on the cot was broad-shouldered, muscular, and scowling through obvious pain as Will examined a deep gash along his side. Dried blood streaked across his orange shirt, and his jaw was set stubbornly tight, as if acknowledging the injury would somehow count as surrender.

“You tore the stitches out,” Will said flatly, not even looking up from the wound as he cleaned it with careful precision. “That’s impressive. I put those in this morning.”

The camper grunted. “Didn’t have time to sit around.”

“You were sparring.”

“Yeah.”

“With a cracked rib.”

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

Will’s jaw tightened slightly. For a split second, there was a flicker of something sharper in his expression, not anger for himself, never that, but frustration born entirely from preventable stupidity. He dipped the cloth back into antiseptic and pressed it more firmly against the wound.

The camper hissed.

“Hold still,” Will said, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge of command. “You’re not impressing anyone by bleeding everywhere.”

Nico, seated on one of the nearby cots, watched the entire exchange in silence.

It felt strange, waiting like this. They had agreed to eat dinner together before packing for Italy. Toguether. The word still echoed in Nico’s head in ways he refused to examine too closely. So he had come to the infirmary early, leaning back against the wall, pretending he was only there because he had nothing better to do.

He told himself he wasn’t watching Will.

He absolutely was.

The Ares camper winced again as Will’s hands hovered over the injury. The golden glow intensified, warmth spreading outward in steady pulses. Nico could feel it from across the room. Not heat exactly, but energy, something clean and mending that pushed against the edges of pain and forced it to retreat.

The gash began to close slowly, muscle and skin knitting back together beneath Will’s focused gaze. The camper’s breathing steadied. His shoulders, previously locked in tension, eased fractionally. When Will finally stepped back, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, the wound was reduced to a thin, angry line that would likely fade to a scar.

“Don’t rip it open again,” Will said, finally meeting the camper’s eyes.

The Ares boy nodded once, grudging but sincere. There was gratitude there, unmistakable despite the pride. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Will gave a short nod in return, already reaching for fresh bandages. “You’re welcome. Try using your brain next time.”

The camper snorted faintly but didn’t argue.

Nico’s stomach fluttered unexpectedly.

It wasn’t just the glow. It wasn’t just the competence. It was the way Will refused to give up on anyone, even when they made it difficult. Especially when they made it difficult. Ares campers were rarely the first to rush into battle blindly, but they were always the first to suggest it, to escalate it, to turn tension into collision. They thrived on confrontation. And yet here was Will, steady and stubborn, grabbing them by the wrist if necessary and forcing them to sit still long enough to heal.

He didn’t heal because it was easy.

He healed because he refused not to.

Nico wondered, not for the first time, if Will ever truly felt anger for himself. His irritation always had direction, always had purpose. It was never petty. Never selfish. It was protective, almost painfully so.

The infirmary doors creaked open.

Nico didn’t need to look to know who it was. He recognized the rhythm of those footsteps.

Annabeth entered first, posture straight despite the faint crease between her brows. Beside her was Percy, who looked significantly less composed. There were shallow cuts along his forearm, his sleeve torn, and a streak of dirt across his cheek that he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about.

“It’s not that bad,” Percy was saying as they approached. “I’ve had worse. Way worse.”

“You’ve also nearly died worse,” Annabeth replied calmly. “Sit down.”

Percy obeyed immediately.

Nico raised an eyebrow. “You look like you lost a fight with a shrub.”

Percy blinked at him. “It was not a shrub. It was an aggressively enchanted thorn bush.”

“Which you tried to tackle,” Annabeth added.

“In my defense,” Percy said, holding up his uninjured hand, “it was in the way.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “That’s usually how obstacles work.”

Will glanced over as another Apollo camper stepped forward to handle Percy’s injuries. His expression softened immediately. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Percy replied brightly. “I’ve had worse.”

Annabeth shot him a look.

The other Apollo camper began cleaning Percy’s arm while he winced dramatically at the sting. “Ow. Okay. Maybe worse is over— IS THAT A HORSE BANDAID?” The camper laughed as he nodded, putting them on Percy’s arms.

Nico leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “How was the quest?”

Percy shrugged, then immediately regretted it when the movement tugged at his cuts. “Successful. Piper handled the talking. I handled the stabbing. Classic teamwork.”

“And Leo?” Nico asked.

“With Piper,” Percy said, grinning faintly. “They’re probably arguing about engine modifications right now.”

Annabeth’s lips twitched. “They’re fine. The mission was straightforward. Minor monster interference. Nothing apocalyptic.”

“Low bar,” Nico muttered.

Percy pointed at him. “Hey. I resent that.”

“You should,” Nico replied evenly. “You attract apocalypse.”

Percy opened his mouth to protest, then paused. “…Okay, fair.”

Annabeth laughed softly, the sound lighter than it had been earlier. She glanced at Nico more closely then, her eyes narrowing slightly in assessment. “You look less miserable than last Monday.”

Nico stiffened faintly. “I wasn’t miserable.”

“You were babysitting,” Percy said knowingly.

“And I’m forever grateful,” Annabeth added.

Nico glared at both of them. “She barked.”

Percy blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Kids are tough.” Nico said flatly.

Percy started laughing before he could stop himself, wincing again as the movement pulled at his arm. “I miss everything good.”

“Trust me,” Nico said dryly. “You don’t.”

Percy’s treatment finished quickly, the cuts already sealing under Apollo’s influence. He flexed his arm experimentally. “See? Totally fine.”

Annabeth gave him a look that clearly said we’ll discuss that later.

They stood to leave, Percy offering Nico a quick grin. “Try not to get bitten again.”

“No promises,” Nico replied.

As they turned, Annabeth lingered for a moment. She stepped closer to Nico, lowering her voice slightly. “You’re going to Italy, right?”

He blinked. “News travels fast.”

“It’s camp,” she said. “It always does.”

There was something warm in her expression, something approving but unspoken. “That’s good,” she added gently. “You deserve something that… isn’t chaos. Enjoy yourself.”

Nico didn’t know what to say to that.

So he nodded.

Annabeth squeezed his shoulder once before following Percy out, the doors closing softly behind them.

The infirmary settled back into its steady rhythm. Will finished giving final instructions to the Ares camper before finally turning fully toward Nico.

The golden glow had dimmed, but it lingered faintly at the edges of him.

And Nico’s stomach did that inconvenient flutter again.

Will smiled at him.

Not the polite, passing kind he gave most campers, not the quick reassurance he offered patients when they were hurting, but that smile, the one that lingered, warm and intent, like he was silently saying we’re doing this. Nico felt it land squarely in his chest, knock the breath out of him, and settle there far too comfortably.

Oh.

For a brief, traitorous second, Nico thought he might actually melt into the infirmary floor. Which was ridiculous. He was Nico di Angelo. Son of Hades. Survivor of Tartarus. He did not melt because someone smiled at him. And yet panic flared anyway, sharp and sudden, curling tight beneath his ribs as if his body had decided to betray him without permission.

He was doomed. Entirely, hopelessly doomed.

How was he supposed to say no to that look? How was he supposed to act normal when Will Solace, sunshine incarnate, stubborn healer, walking contradiction, looked at him like that? Nico forced his shoulders to stay loose, his expression neutral, even as his thoughts spiraled. Will was just being Will. He was kind to everyone. Attentive. Warm. He treated Nico the same way he treated every camper who lingered too long in the infirmary or pretended they weren’t hurt.

That was all this was.

Right?

Will probably thought of him the way he thought of everyone else. Another camper. Another friend, if Nico was lucky. Someone he cared about in the broad, generous way Will cared about people, without distinction or complication. Nico clung to that idea because the alternative, the idea that this meant something more, felt too fragile to touch without shattering.

And yet.

Will was flushed.

Just a little. A faint pink at the tops of his cheekbones, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Nico noticed. Of course he did. His own skin felt uncomfortably warm in response, heat creeping up his neck as he abruptly found the floor very interesting. His jacket suddenly felt too heavy, the air too thick, his awareness narrowed down to Will’s expression and the way his eyes softened when they met Nico’s.

It’s hot in here, he told himself firmly.

That was all.

The infirmary was always warm, filled with lantern light and healing energy and lingering sunlight. Will was glowing faintly from using his powers. Anyone would be flushed after that. Nico himself felt overheated too, but that didn’t mean anything. Bodies reacted. That was biology. Not… whatever this was threatening to become.

He lifted his gaze again, against his better judgment.

Will was still smiling.

Nico swallowed, pulse loud in his ears, and thought distantly that this was unfair. Gods weren’t supposed to be this cruel. He had faced monsters that wanted him dead and felt less unbalanced than he did standing here, waiting to walk out to dinner with Will Solace.

Friends, he reminded himself. With luck.

“Nico. Dinner.”

Will’s voice cut cleanly through the spiral of Nico’s thoughts, warm but firm enough to anchor him back into the room. Nico blinked once, then twice, as if surfacing from underwater. Will was standing a few feet away now, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his jeans, that faint, knowing smile still hovering at the corner of his mouth.

“You were staring,” Will added mildly.

“I was not,” Nico replied immediately.

“You absolutely were.”

“I was observing,” Nico corrected, pushing himself off the cot with deliberate slowness. “There’s a difference. I like to monitor medical malpractice in real time. You know, save dad some work.”

Will snorted. “Right. Because I looked like I was about to lose my license.”

“You don’t have a license.”

Will stepped closer, shoulder brushing Nico’s as they moved toward the door. The contact was brief, accidental, or at least plausibly accidental, but it sent an irritating spark up Nico’s spine anyway.

“I’m deeply offended,” Will said. “I work very hard for my imaginary credentials.”

Nico rolled his eyes, but there was no bite in it. “Your patient survived. Congratulations. Gold star.”

Will glanced sideways at him. “You stayed.”

The words were simple, but there was something beneath them.

Nico shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near defensive. “We said we’d eat together.”

“Yeah,” Will said quietly. “We did.”

They stepped outside into the cooling evening air. The sky had shifted into deep indigo, the first stars faintly visible above the treeline. Camp was louder near the dining pavilion, laughter, clattering plates, someone arguing loudly about strategy for capture the flag.

Nico walked beside Will, close but not quite touching.

“You seem better,” Will said after a moment. “Less… haunted-by-barking.”

“Don’t remind me,” Nico muttered. “If I hear one more ‘woof’ I’m opening another fissure.”

“That feels like an overreaction.”

“It would be measured.”

Will laughed under his breath, then glanced at him again, more serious now. “You okay, though? Really?”

Nico hated that question. Not because it was intrusive, but because Will asked it like he genuinely wanted the answer.

“I’m fine,” Nico said automatically.

Will hummed softly. “That wasn’t convincing.”

Nico shot him a look. “You don’t get to analyze my tone. That’s my thing.”

“Your thing is brooding in corners.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Uh-huh.”

They reached the edge of the pavilion, slowing slightly as the noise swelled around them. For a moment, neither of them stepped inside. The air between them shifted, lighter than before, but charged with something neither of them was naming.

“So,” Will said, rocking back on his heels slightly. “Italy.”

Nico felt that heat creep back into his face. “Italy,” he echoed.

“You still in?” Will asked, casual on the surface but watching him carefully.

Nico raised an eyebrow. “Did you think I was going to back out?”

“You do that,” Will said gently.

Nico opened his mouth to argue, then paused. “…I do not.”

“You kind of do,” Will replied, not unkindly. “Whenever something is big.”

Nico looked away, jaw tightening slightly. “It’s not big. It’s just a trip.”

Will studied him for a second longer, then nodded once. “Okay. Just a trip.”

There was a beat of silence.

“My mom’s going to love you,” Will added lightly.

Nico choked on absolutely nothing. “Excuse me?”

Will blinked. “What?”

“You just—what does that mean?”

“It means,” Will said, fighting a grin now, “that you’re polite. And you speak Italian. And you won’t let anyone get away with nonsense.”

“That’s not charming. That’s threatening.”

“She likes threatening,” Will said. “She raised me.”

Nico huffed, trying very hard not to imagine that scenario. “I’m not meeting her.”

Will tilted his head. “You’re coming to the concert.”

“That doesn’t mean meeting.”

“She’s going to want to meet the mysterious friend I dragged across the ocean.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

Will’s smile sharpened slightly. “Nico. You summon the dead and wear exclusively black. You’re extremely mysterious.”

Nico crossed his arms. “It’s just easier to wear one color.”

“Sure,” Will said, clearly unconvinced. “Look, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If it’s too much, we won’t. We can just eat our weight in gelato and pretend we’re tourists.”

Nico hesitated, studying him. There was no pressure in Will’s tone. No expectation. Just an offer. And a terrible Italian accent.

“You’d really skip it?” Nico asked quietly.

Will shrugged. “It’s not about the concert. I just wanted you there.”

The words landed softly, but they carried weight.

Nico’s heartbeat did something deeply unhelpful.

Really?

He looked down at the ground, then back up, forcing his voice steady. “You’re dramatic.”

“I learned from the best,” Will shot back.

“That’s not reassuring.”

Will bumped his shoulder lightly this time, unmistakably intentional. “You’ll be fine, Nico.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Nico studied him for a long moment. Will’s confidence wasn’t arrogant. It wasn’t blind. It was steady, like sunlight that didn’t question whether it would rise.

“Okay,” Nico said finally. “But if your mom hates me, you’ll see me in the underworld.”

Will grinned. “Deal.”

They stepped into the pavilion together, the noise folding around them.

The Hades table was, as always, empty.

It sat slightly apart from the others, carved from darker stone than the rest, its surface cool and untouched while the other tables rang with laughter and noise. The torches nearby burned lower, their light softer, shadows stretching longer across the marble floor. It wasn’t forbidden territory, just avoided. Most campers preferred warmth and company. The Hades table offered neither.

Will carried his tray straight toward it without hesitation.

A few heads turned.

“You know,” Nico muttered as they approached, “there are easier ways to announce you have a death wish.”

Will set his tray down across from him and sat without ceremony. “Relax. I have excellent health insurance.”

“You don’t have insurance.”

“I have you,” Will said brightly. “Same thing.”

Nico stared at him for a second before sitting opposite him. “That’s wildly inaccurate.”

Will leaned back slightly, glancing around the mostly empty stretch of table. “I like it here.”

“Why.”

“It’s quiet,” Will said simply. “And I don’t have to yell over Connor Stoll narrating his own pranks.”

“That’s a valid point.”

They began eating properly now, not just picking at food between conversations. Will tore a piece of bread and dipped it into olive oil, while Nico methodically cut into his chicken like he was conducting minor surgery. For a few moments, it was just the soft scrape of forks and distant laughter filling the space between them.

“So,” Will said eventually, “what’s the official Cabin Thirteen schedule tonight?”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “There is no schedule.”

“There has to be a schedule. You can’t just brood freestyle.”

“I don’t brood.”

Will gave him a look.

“Fine,” Nico relented. “Light brooding. Minimal haunting. Maybe reorganize the skeleton closet.”

“You have a skeleton closet?”

“Metaphorically.”

Will chewed thoughtfully. “That’s less fun.”

Nico leaned back slightly in his chair, studying the pavilion from their quieter corner. “Camp’s been calm.”

Will nodded. “Too calm?”

“Maybe,” Nico admitted. “Or maybe we’re just not in the middle of a prophecy for once.”

Will exhaled slowly at that. “I wouldn’t mind a year without apocalyptic deadlines.”

“Boring,” Nico said automatically.

“You say that now.”

Nico tilted his head. “You’d miss it.”

“The monsters? No.”

“The purpose,” Nico corrected.

Will paused.

There it was, the thing Nico liked about him. Will didn’t dismiss difficult truths. He considered them.

“…Yeah,” Will admitted. “Maybe a little. It’s easier when there’s a clear enemy. Harder when it’s just… life.”

Nico hummed faintly in agreement.

Around them, the Ares table erupted into shouting, someone had clearly challenged someone else to something reckless. The Athena table responded with exasperated commentary. The Hermes cabin was passing notes down the length of their bench like an organized crime ring.

“You ever think about leaving for good?” Will asked suddenly.

Nico’s fork paused midair.

“That’s subtle,” he said dryly.

“I’m serious.”

Nico considered the question carefully instead of deflecting it. “I used to,” he admitted. “A lot.”

Will didn’t interrupt.

“I thought if I kept moving, I wouldn’t… attach to anything.” Nico shrugged faintly. “Didn’t work.”

Will’s gaze softened, but he didn’t make it heavy. “Yeah. Camp does that.”

“It’s inconvenient.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You like it,” Will repeated.

Nico exhaled through his nose. “I like that it exists.”

“That’s progress,” Will said, satisfied.

They fell into a more comfortable rhythm after that, trading small stories about camp life that would sound absurd anywhere else. Will recounted how Kayla had once attempted to choreograph a full musical number for morning drills. Nico countered with a deadpan description of the time a ghost had decided to critique the campfire sing-along for “historical inaccuracy.”

“You’re kidding,” Will said, laughing.

“I wish I was.”

“You let a ghost judge our music?”

“I didn’t let him. He was already dead. Hard to intimidate.”

Will shook his head, smiling into his plate. “You know what I like about this place?”

Nico eyed him cautiously. “The near-constant threat of violence?”

“Besides that.”

“The questionable architecture?”

Will kicked him lightly under the table. “Besides that.”

Nico sighed. “What.”

“It’s full of kids who shouldn’t have survived,” Will said quietly. “And they did. And they’re loud about it.”

The words settled between them, steady and real.

Nico’s expression shifted, subtle but noticeable. “You’re very sentimental for someone who just threatened an Ares camper with a thermometer.”

“He deserved it.”

“I know.”

Will met his eyes across the table, the torchlight reflecting gold against blue. “You’re part of that, you know.”

“Of what.”

“The surviving. The being loud about it.”

Nico almost laughed at that. “I’m not loud.”

Will’s smile turned slow and knowing. “You are. Just not with your voice.”

For a moment, Nico forgot to respond.

The noise of camp blurred slightly at the edges, fading into background warmth. He felt it again; that unsettling steadiness when Will looked at him like that. Not analyzing. Not pitying. Just seeing.

“So,” Will said lightly, breaking the intensity before it could become too much, “when we’re in Italy, are you going to critique my pronunciation the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I try really hard?”

“Especially then.”

Will grinned. “Rude.”

“It’s called cultural preservation.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You invited me.”

Will leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Yeah. I did.”

Nico’s stomach flipped again, deeply unhelpful.

He looked down at his plate, pretending to be very interested in the last piece of bread. “You’re going to regret it when I correct you in public.”

“I won’t,” Will said easily. “I’ll just pretend I planned it.”

Nico huffed a quiet laugh.

They finished eating slower than usual, neither of them in a hurry to return to the noise. Around them, the pavilion gradually thinned as campers drifted back toward their cabins, arguments unresolved, laughter lingering.

Will stood first, gathering his tray.

“Ready to pack?” he asked.

Nico rose as well, glancing once more at the empty stretch of table they were leaving behind.

“Yeah,” he said.

They walked away from the Hades table together, and Nico realised it  didn’t feel quite as empty as it usually did.

***

Will’s side of the cabin looked like a small hurricane had chosen a very specific target. It wasn’t that full, yet. Once one of the most populated cabins barely had campers in it. Now, it remained empty aside from the two boys deciding what to pack in Will’s suitcase. 

Clothes were draped over the back of chairs, half-folded and then clearly abandoned mid-process. A duffel bag lay open on the nearest bed, already stuffed with flannels in various shades of blue, two camp T-shirts, and, Nico noted with rising disbelief, three nearly identical hoodies.

“It’s winter,” Nico reminded him, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

Will didn’t even look up as he shoved another flannel into the bag. “I am always warm.”

Nico stared at him. “That’s not how weather works.”

“It is for me.”

“You’re not immune to temperature.”

Will paused, finally glancing up with a grin. “Technically, I kind of am.”

Nico hated that he had a point. Children of Apollo did run warmer than most. Still.

“Rome in winter is not the same as Long Island in fall,” Nico said flatly. “It gets cold. Damp cold. The kind that sneaks into your bones.”

Will straightened, hands on his hips. “You’re describing it like a monster.”

“It might as well be.”

Will tossed a scarf into the bag with dramatic flair. “Fine. I’ll survive.”

“That’s what people say right before they don’t.”

Nico stepped fully into the room and set his own smaller suitcase on the edge of the opposite bed. His packing was already precise, dark sweaters folded neatly, one heavy coat, boots, a small stack of books he absolutely would not admit he was bringing for comfort.

Will watched him for a moment.

“You pack like you’re going on a school trip,” Will observed.

“I pack like I don’t want to look like a tourist.”

“You are a tourist.”

“I am Italian,” Nico replied coolly.

“You grew up in America.”

Nico shot him a look sharp enough to slice fabric. “I was born in Italy.”

Will’s expression softened immediately. “I know. I’m just saying, you can’t scowl at every person holding a map.”

“I can and I will.”

Will laughed under his breath and zipped his duffel halfway before rummaging back through it. Nico glanced over again, and froze.

“Do you not own any formal pants?” Nico demanded, genuine horror creeping into his voice.

Will blinked. “Sorry?”

“Formal pants,” Nico repeated slowly, as if speaking to someone deeply unwell. “Nice ones. Not denim. Not… whatever that is.” He pointed at a pair of aggressively distressed jeans.

“They’re fine.”

“They have holes.”

“It’s fashion.”

“It’s vandalism.”

Will clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

Nico dragged a hand down his face. “We are going to a concert. Your mother’s concert.”

Will’s grin flickered into something softer at that. “Yeah.”

“You cannot show up looking like you just escaped a campfire.”

“I look great at campfires.”

“That is not the standard.”

Will flopped backward onto his bed dramatically, arms spread. “Okay, fashion dictator. What exactly am I supposed to wear?”

“Something tailored,” Nico said immediately. “Dark. Structured. Clean lines.”

Will turned his head to look at him, squinting slightly. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I have eyes.”

“You’ve imagined my outfit.”

Nico went very still. “I have not.”

Will propped himself up on his elbows, studying him with exaggerated suspicion. “You absolutely have.”

“We are buying pants there,” Nico declared, ignoring that entirely. “Non-negotiable.”

Will rolled onto his side, resting his chin in his hand. “You’re going to dress me, aren’t you?”

“If necessary.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Nico said, but there was already a faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Will sat up again, rummaging in a drawer this time. “What about you? You bringing something formal?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are.”

Nico shot him a look. “I know how to present myself.”

“You present yourself like you’re about to attend a funeral.”

“Those are dignified events.”

Will barked out a laugh. “I’m not letting you wear all black to the concert.”

“I always wear black.”

“Not this time.”

Nico narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in Italy,” Will said, pointing at him like this was obvious. “You have to at least pretend you’re happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Then show it.”

Nico opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Will softened slightly. “I’m not saying wear neon. Just… something different.”

Nico considered that far longer than necessary.

“I have a dark green sweater,” he muttered finally.

Will’s face lit up like he’d won something significant. “Yes. That’s progress.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

They fell into a quieter rhythm after that, zipping bags, checking lists, occasionally tossing something unnecessary aside. Will tried to sneak in a camp T-shirt “for sentimental reasons.” Nico confiscated it immediately.

“You are not wearing that to dinner with your mother.”

“You don’t even know if we’re having dinner.”

“We are absolutely having dinner.”

Will paused, watching him carefully. “You’re nervous.”

Nico stilled.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Nico repeated, but the edge was thinner now.

Will stepped closer, not crowding him, just enough that the space between them felt intentional. “She’s not a monster, you know.”

“I know that.”

“She’s just… loud. And affectionate. And she’ll probably hug you.”

Nico visibly flinched.

Will laughed softly. “See? Nervous.”

Nico exhaled slowly. “I’ve met gods. I’ve walked through Tartarus. I can handle a hug.”

“Good,” Will said gently. “Because she’s going to love you.”

There was that phrase again.

Love.

Nico looked away, fiddling unnecessarily with the zipper of his suitcase. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You don’t know that.”

Will shrugged lightly. “I know her. And I know you.”

The room felt warmer suddenly.

Nico forced a scoff. “You don’t know me.”

Will tilted his head. “I know you like to correct my pronunciation. I know you pretend you don’t care about camp and then stay up half the night helping younger campers with sword forms. I know you act like everything’s temporary, but you still unpack your books.”

Nico went quiet.

“I- I know you care about everyone far more than what you let on. I know you’re funny, and sarcastic, and actually enjoy things, I know you are known for holding grudges, you rarely tie your hair into a ponytail but Percy saw it once—”

Will’s voice softened further. “I know enough.”

Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but charged.

Nico cleared his throat first. “You still need pants.”

Will blinked, then laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Nico said lightly, “you invited me.”

Will’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah. I did.”

They stood there for a second longer than necessary, the air between them humming with something neither of them was ready to define.

Then Will grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “Okay. Tomorrow, we find me respectable trousers.”

“Tomorrow,” Nico agreed.

“And gelato.”

“Yes.”

“And you teach me how to order properly.”

“I will.”

Will nudged his shoulder lightly as they headed for the door. “You’re not backing out.”

Nico glanced at him, shadows softer around his feet than usual.

“No,” he said.

And this time, he meant it

***

Planes weren’t usual for demigods.

They were loud, metallic, full of electricity and recycled air and stored too many mortals in one place. Monsters liked patterns, and planes were nothing if not predictable patterns in the sky. Most demigods avoided them the way they avoided prophecy: carefully and with suspicion.

So logically Nico had offered shadow travel, to which Will had said absolutely not.

“I am not letting you drag us through the literal underworld of airports,” Will had insisted back at camp, arms crossed in that infuriatingly calm way of his. “Last time you shadow-traveled more than a few states, you looked like you hadn’t slept in a week.”

“I was fine.”

“You were translucent.”

“That was only the lighting.”

Will had stared at him.

So now they were standing near the edge of camp, luggage at their feet, the morning air cold and sharp with winter.

There had been only one problem.

Nico di Angelo, born in 1932, did not legally exist. There was no birth certificate in any current system, no social security number, no passport. Eighty-plus years of technical invisibility had been convenient at times (The ones he had out of the casino) less paperwork, fewer questions, not in the FBI wanted list, but it became significantly less convenient when one needed to cross international borders using mortal technology.

Thankfully for Nico, Will was very good at making friends.

And one of those friends was Lou Ellen Blackstone.

Children of Hecate were good at many things: illusions, mist manipulation, bending perception just slightly to the left. Lou Ellen was particularly gifted with the Veil, the subtle distortion that convinced mortals they were seeing what they expected to see.

Right now, she stood in front of Nico, wand tucked behind her ear, chewing gum like this was a casual Tuesday.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at him. “You need to look… bureaucratically real.”

“I am real,” Nico muttered.

“Sure, death boy. But to the TSA?”

Will snorted beside him.

Lou Ellen flicked her fingers, and the air shimmered faintly around Nico’s face. Not a glamour exactly, more like a gentle rewrite.

“Name?” she asked.

“Nico di Angelo,” he said automatically.

She paused. “We’re not changing it?”

Will tilted his head. “Why would we?”

Lou Ellen shrugged. “Sometimes fake identities are more fun.”

Nico gave her a flat look. I’m Italian. He thought, I don't need a fake identity to enter my country.

“Fine. Nico di Angelo it is.” She tapped her wand against his shoulder lightly. “Born… let’s not do 1932. That’s suspicious.”

“Is it?” Nico asked dryly.

“Yes.”

“1997?” Will offered helpfully.

Nico glared at him. “I am not fourteen.”

“You look fourteen.”

“I do not.”

Lou Ellen was grinning now. “Okay, okay. Let’s split the difference. Early 1994. Old enough to travel without raising eyebrows. Still believable.”

Nico didn't think that the air shifted again. A small leather passport materialized in Lou Ellen’s hand, edges crisp, emblem gleaming as if it had always existed.

She handed it to Nico.

He hesitated before taking it.

The weight of it felt… strange. Solid. Official. Proof.

For someone who had spent decades feeling half-detached from the present, it was unsettling to hold something that declared him part of it.

Will watched his expression shift. “You good?” he asked quietly.

Nico nodded once. “It feels fake.”

“It is fake,” Lou Ellen said cheerfully. “But only technically.”

Will stepped closer, shoulder brushing Nico’s. “It’s real enough for where we’re going.”

Nico glanced down at the passport again. His photo looked like him; slightly annoyed, dark-eyed, very much alive.

Alive.

He swallowed.

“Will’s mom is going to ask about my childhood,” he muttered.

Will blinked. “Why would she—?”

“Because parents do that.”

“Oh.” Will scratched the back of his neck. “Right.”

Lou Ellen raised a brow. “You’re worried about his mom?”

“No,” Nico said immediately.

“Yes, you are,” Will replied just as quickly.

Lou Ellen smirked. “Relax. If she asks, just say you grew up abroad. Mysterious. Tragic. European. People love that.”

“I am not crafting a persona,” Nico snapped lightly.

“You already are one,” she said.

Will nudged Nico gently. “You don’t have to tell her everything. Just… what you want to.”

Nico’s jaw tightened slightly. He had spent so long hiding entire decades of himself that the idea of selectively sharing felt foreign.

Lou Ellen clapped her hands once. “Okay! The Veil will smooth things over at security. As long as you don’t panic and accidentally summon skeletons, we’re golden.”

“I don’t just summon skeletons when I panic,” Nico muttered.

Will raised a brow. “You have done it before.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three.”

Lou Ellen stepped back, satisfied. “All right, lovebirds—”

“We are not—” they both started simultaneously.

She cackled.

“—have fun in Italy. Try not to attract anything ancient and murderous.”

Will saluted lazily. “No promises.”

Nico slipped the passport into his coat pocket, fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

Italy.

His birthplace. A country that had moved on without him. Streets that had changed. Buildings rebuilt. Generations passed.

And he was going back.

Will picked up his bag and gave him that steady, sunlit look, the one that didn’t demand, didn’t pity, just stayed.

“Ready?” Will asked.

Nico glanced toward the tree line, where the shadows shifted familiarly, welcoming.

For once, he didn’t reach for them.

He exhaled.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

***

Although Nico had agreed to the flight, and although he had told himself, repeatedly, that it was the practical choice, unease lingered beneath his ribs like a second pulse. It was not merely the plane itself. It was the exposure. The altitude. The way mortals crowded into tight metal corridors suspended thousands of feet above ground as if gravity were a polite suggestion rather than an ancient law. For someone who preferred shadows, enclosed spaces were tolerable; enclosed spaces in the sky were not.

Still, Will had looked at him in that steady way of his (sun-warm and unyielding) and Nico had relented.

If it hadn’t been for the plans they had made, the concert, the city, the promise of walking Roman streets without running, Will might have given in to shadow travel after all. He had hovered on the edge of it, Nico could tell. There had been that flicker of calculation in his eyes: exhaustion versus safety, strain versus risk. But ultimately, Will had decided. And once Will decided something, he followed through with disarming brightness.

The airport itself was a test of endurance. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the air sharp with disinfectant and coffee. Mortals moved in currents, rushing, weaving, apologizing without meaning it. Nico stayed close, instinctively keeping to Will’s side as though proximity alone might anchor him.

Security passed in a blur of murmured instructions and the subtle hum of the Veil smoothing over inconsistencies. Nevertheless, Nico’s shoulders did not relax until they were seated at the gate, boarding passes in hand.

“You’re doing fine,” Will said quietly, nudging his knee.

“I am aware,” Nico replied, though his voice carried more tension than confidence.

When they finally boarded, the narrow aisle felt interminable. Nico avoided brushing strangers, avoided eye contact, avoided the windows altogether. However, once they reached their seats, a new problem presented itself: the view.

“You’re not getting the aisle,” Will said lightly, already stowing their bags overhead.

“I don’t want the window.”

“Good. Because you’re taking it.”

Nico glared. “That is not how compromises work.”

“It is when I’m preventing you from staring at the floor for eight hours.”

And so Nico found himself seated by the window despite his objections, while Will settled beside him with infuriating calm. The cabin filled gradually, voices overlapping, seatbelts clicking, overhead compartments slamming shut. Engines began their low, ominous growl, which Nico felt more than heard.

He did not like that sound.

As the plane began to taxi, his fingers tightened around the armrest without his permission.

Will noticed, of course.

Without making a spectacle of it, he slid his hand over Nico’s. It was simply there, warm, steady, solid, yet it made him swallow a lump in his throat.

Nico hesitated only a second before lacing their fingers together.

“I swear,” Will murmured, leaning closer so his voice wouldn’t carry, “if you pass out before takeoff, I’m telling everyone you fainted because you saw a pigeon.” 

Nico could tell he didn’t mean it. If  anything, he’d check Nico deep in worry. Not becouse he was exclusive,  Will just did that with everyone. It had happened countless times.

“I have fought Titans,” Nico muttered, 

“And yet,” Will replied gently.

The engines roared louder; the plane surged forward. Nico’s stomach lurched as the ground fell away beneath them. For a brief, disorienting moment, every instinct in him screamed wrong. Humans were not meant to do this. Creatures of earth did not belong in the open sky.

A child of Hades couldn’t cross Zeus territory.

He closed his eyes.

After defeating Kronos, after going trough Tartarus, after dealing with Gaia and other immortal powerful beings, those dumb territory rules hadn’t mattered much.

Zeus would be too tired fixing up his parental mess to notice him, anyway. 

Will’s thumb traced a slow, absent pattern over his knuckles. “Breathe,” he said softly. “In. Out. Like you’re not about to dramatically curse the Wright brothers.”

“I am considering it,” Nico replied, though his grip did not loosen.

Eventually, gradually, the climb steadied. The violent angle softened into something smoother, almost level. When Nico opened his eyes again, clouds stretched beneath them like an endless, pale sea.

It was… strange.

Beautiful, even.

He did not comment on it.

Nevertheless, as the hours wore on and the cabin lights dimmed, exhaustion crept up on him with surprising insistence. Shadow travel always drained him; tension did, too. And despite himself, the steady vibration of the plane, combined with Will’s warmth beside him, began to dull the sharp edges of his nerves.

“You should sleep,” Will murmured.

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re blinking slowly.”

“That means nothing.”

Will shifted slightly, adjusting his shoulder. “You can lean, you know. I won’t tell anyone that the terrifying son of Hades needed a nap.”

Nico considered protesting again. However, the truth was undeniable: he was tired. More than tired, wrung out, like something twisted too tight.

So, reluctantly, he let his head tip sideways.

At first it was tentative, barely brushing Will’s shoulder. Yet when Will did not comment, did not tease, Nico allowed himself to settle more fully. The warmth was immediate. Solid. Grounding.

Their hands remained loosely intertwined between them.

“See?” Will said softly. “Not so bad.”

Nico made a noncommittal sound that might have been agreement.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, between engine hum and distant murmurs, Nico fell asleep.

Not the restless, guarded sleep he was used to; half-alert, shadows coiled at his feet, but something deeper. His breathing evened. His shoulders unknotted. At some point, his grip slackened, and his weight shifted more fully against Will, cheek pressed near his collarbone.

If a faint line of drool dampened the fabric of Will’s shirt, neither of them would discuss it.

Will did not move.

Though his arm eventually slipped around Nico’s shoulders, casual and protective, he kept his posture steady so as not to wake him. From time to time, he glanced down, just to make sure Nico was truly resting and not merely pretending.

Nico had never let someone see him sleep like that. Even when he was with Bianca, they had to be alert for monsters. Besides, casinos didn’t exactly provide the best sleeping environment. Or induced sleep at all.

He felt unguarded.

Peaceful.

And if Nico remained that way for most of the flight, curled slightly toward him, fingers occasionally tightening as though to confirm he was still there, then there was, in truth, no problem with it at all.

Because somewhere between earth and sky, suspended in a machine demigods were never meant to trust, Nico di Angelo slept better than he had in years.

And Will, watching the clouds drift past the window, did not once consider letting go.

***

The elevator doors had barely slid shut behind them when Nico felt it, the shift.

Not the subtle hum of divine presence, nor the familiar brush of shadows along polished marble floors. No. This was something far more dangerous.

Luxury.

The twelfth floor opened into a private corridor lined with soft golden sconces and thick carpet that swallowed the sound of footsteps. The air itself smelled expensive, citrus and polished wood and something faintly floral. When Will pushed open the suite door, the space beyond unfolded in quiet grandeur: tall windows overlooking Rome’s evening skyline, silk drapes drawn halfway, a seating area arranged with deliberate elegance, and, most alarming of all, two separate bedrooms branching off from the main living area.

Nico stopped walking.

“William Solace.”

His voice was low and lethal, each syllable precise.

Will, who had been mid-step toward the window, turned with cheerful oblivion. “Hmm?”

The look on his face was criminally innocent.

There it was, that wide-eyed, harmless expression. The one that suggested sunshine and apologies and absolutely no malicious intent whatsoever. Nico wanted, with alarming intensity, to peel that expression off and inspect what lay beneath.

This was manipulation. It had to be.

If they had been anywhere else, say, a field, a battlefield, perhaps the comforting darkness of a forest, Nico might have let shadows coil at his ankles in warning. He might have let skeletal fingers curl up from beneath the tile just to emphasize a point.

Unfortunately, they were twelve floors above ground in a five-star hotel in Rome.

Murderous displays of necromancy seemed… impolite.

“You should have told me this beforehand,” Nico said carefully, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. His gaze swept the suite again, crystal glasses, an entire dining table set with silverware, a balcony overlooking ancient rooftops. “This is excessive.”

Will blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Nico repeated.

“I didn’t think it would bother you,” Will continued, scratching the back of his neck. “Mom said it’d be easier this way. Fewer logistics. Safer. You know.”

Nico narrowed his eyes. “Easier for whom.”

“For us?” Will offered.

There was a pause.

Then Will added, casually, too casually, “She’s staying in this hotel.”

Nico’s blood ran colder than Tartarus.

“She’s what.”

“In this hotel,” Will clarified brightly, as if this were good news. “Different floor. Probably. I mean—definitely different room.”

“Will.”

“Hmm?”

“Your mother.”

“Yes.”

“Is in this hotel.”

“Correct.”

Nico stared at him as if calculating the structural integrity of the building and whether it could survive a controlled implosion.

“What if we meet her at breakfast?” Nico demanded. “Or in the elevator. Or—Olympians forbid—while I look half-asleep and unprepared and socially incompetent—”

Will’s laugh rang through the suite, warm and unbothered. “See? This is great. You’re already planning ahead. We can wake up early.”

Nico shot him a glare sharp enough to slice marble. “This is not a planning enthusiasm. This is a crisis management.”

“You’re not in crisis.”

“I am absolutely in crisis.”

Will dropped his duffel onto one of the sofas and walked closer, though he kept a careful distance, as if approaching a skittish animal. “Nico. It’s just my mom.”

“She is not just your mom,” Nico snapped. “She is a literal Grammy-winning, stadium-filling, sun-blessed musical icon.” 

Will winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”

“It is worse.”

For a moment, Nico pressed his fingers to his temples, as though steadying himself. He was no stranger to wealth or grandeur. The Underworld had its own kind of opulence, cold, ancient, unyielding. He had walked through palaces carved from obsidian and bone. Luxury did not intimidate him.

But this—

This felt personal.

This was being invited into someone’s world. Into their family. Into something bright and expansive and painfully alive.

“You invited me here,” Nico said quietly, tension threading through the words. “You didn’t tell me I’d be… inserted.”

Will’s expression shifted.

Not hurt, but the joking light dimmed just slightly, replaced by something steadier.

“I invited you because I wanted you here,” he said, voice softer now. “Not to ambush you.”

Nico crossed his arms defensively. “It feels like an ambush.”

“That wasn’t the goal.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not hostile.

Outside the window, Rome glowed under evening lights, the city breathing centuries beneath them. Nico exhaled slowly, trying to untangle the knot in his chest.

“And what,” he asked at last, “am I supposed to say if she sees us?”

Will blinked. “Hi?”

“William.”

“What? That’s a normal greeting.”

Nico’s eyes flashed. “Do I bow? Shake hands? Pretend I don’t know every lyric she’s ever written?”

Will stared. “You know her lyrics?”

“That is not the point.”

A grin tugged at Will’s mouth despite himself. “You do.”

Nico looked away sharply. “It’s culturally irresponsible not to.”

Will laughed again, softer this time, almost fond. “You don’t have to impress her.”

“I’m not trying to impress her.”

“Good. Because she’s more likely to be impressed if you don’t try.”

Nico hesitated.

“And,” Will added gently, “if we run into her at breakfast, you’ll survive. I promise.”

“You cannot promise that.”

“I can,” Will said firmly. “She’s loud. She hugs too much. She will absolutely embarrass me. But she’s not going to interrogate you.”

Nico eyed him skeptically. “She will hug me.”

“Yes.”

“I do not hug.”

“You survived leaning on me for eight hours on a plane.”

“That was because of my exhaustion.”

Will’s smile widened. “Sure it was.”

Nico felt heat creep up his neck and immediately scowled to compensate. “This is different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Will stepped a little closer now, not enough to crowd, just enough to be undeniably present. “You’re allowed to exist in nice places, you know.”

Nico stiffened.

“You don’t have to look like you’re trespassing,” Will continued gently. “You’re here because I want you here.”

There it was again, that infuriating sincerity.

Nico wasn’t sure if he wanted to shove him or—

No.

Absolutely not hug him.

He exhaled slowly, some of the sharpness bleeding from his posture. “If we encounter her unexpectedly,” he said carefully, “you are speaking first.”

“Deal.”

“And if she asks about me—”

“I’ll say you’re important to me.”

The words landed heavier than intended.

Nico’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

Will seemed to realize it a second too late, because he cleared his throat and added quickly, “Important— you’re my friend. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Nico echoed, though his voice came out quieter than before.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Nico glanced around the suite again, the polished surfaces, the city lights, the ridiculous extravagance of it all.

“I still cannot believe you didn’t warn me.”

Will grinned sheepishly. “Would you have come if I had?”

Nico opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

Will’s grin softened into something knowing but kind. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Nico rolled his eyes, though the tension had eased just enough to let something lighter in.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if I see her before I’ve had coffee, I’m summoning skeletons.”

Will laughed outright. “On the twelfth floor?”

“Especially on the twelfth floor.”

And though Nico still felt the edge of panic fluttering beneath his ribs, it dulled slightly at the sound of Will’s laughter filling the absurdly luxurious room, warm, grounding, impossible to ignore.

They moved before Nico quite registered the decision.

One moment they were still standing in the main sitting area of the suite, Nico trying to reorganize his thoughts, Will peering around with unfiltered curiosity, and the next they had drifted down the short hallway toward the first of the two bedrooms, as if drawn by some invisible current.

It was, objectively, absurd.

Each bedroom was large enough to rival entire cabins at camp. The first one they entered opened softly, almost ceremoniously, into a space washed in muted gold and ivory. The curtains were half-drawn, allowing late-morning Roman light to spill across polished wood floors and a thick cream-colored rug that looked too pristine to step on. The bed dominated the room, not in a gaudy way, but with quiet authority, broad, layered in crisp white linens, and topped with an arrangement of pillows that seemed architecturally deliberate rather than decorative.

A tall window stretched along the far wall, framed by gauzy inner drapes and heavier outer panels the color of aged champagne. Through the glass, Rome unfolded in textured layers: terracotta rooftops, pale stone facades, the distant dome of a basilica catching the sun like burnished metal. The city did not merely exist outside; it glowed.

For a moment, even Nico forgot his indignation.

“Oh my—are those freaking—?”

Will did not finish the sentence.

Because he had already crossed the room.

In three long strides, he reached the bed and pressed a hand experimentally into the mattress. His eyebrows shot up.

“No way.”

Before Nico could process what was happening, Will had dropped his duffel and thrown himself backward onto the bed with reckless enthusiasm. The mattress absorbed him with alarming grace, no squeak, no bounce, just a soft, indulgent give that looked almost engineered.

“Oh,” Will breathed, staring at the ceiling as if he had just encountered divinity. “Oh, this is illegal.”

Nico blinked. “It’s a bed.”

“It’s not a bed,” Will countered, sitting up slightly and pressing both hands down again as though testing structural integrity. “This is—this is premium hybrid memory foam with reinforced support zones. And these pillows? Nico, these are down. Actual down.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I absolutely can.” Will grabbed one of the pillows, squeezed it, then buried his face in it dramatically. “I missed this. Oh my gods, I missed this.”

“You grew up with this,” Nico corrected dryly.

“Yes, and then I moved to a cabin with twelve other teenagers and mattresses that feel like compressed cardboard,” Will shot back, voice muffled by fabric. “You don’t understand the loss.”

Nico hesitated at the edge of the bed.

He should have turned around.

He should have chosen the other room, claimed it with quiet dignity, and avoided whatever nonsense this was.

Instead, foolishly, curiously, he stepped closer.

Will rolled onto his side, peering up at him with bright eyes. “Just try it.”

“I do not need to try a mattress.”

“Live a little.”

“I have lived several lifetimes.”

“Great,” Will replied easily. “Then you’ve earned it.”

Nico exhaled sharply, but he pressed one hand down against the mattress.

It gave just enough to cradle the weight without resistance.

His brows drew together.

“See?” Will said, triumphant.

Nico sat cautiously on the edge.

The sheets were cool against his palms, smooth in a way that spoke of thread counts he did not want to imagine the price of. There was no stiffness, no rough weave. The faint scent of clean linen drifted upward, subtle, expensive, unmistakably fresh.

“It’s… adequate,” Nico conceded.

Will gasped theatrically. “Adequate? That’s the highest praise I’ve ever received from you.”

Before Nico could retort, Will grabbed his wrist lightly and tugged.

It wasn’t forceful.

It didn’t need to be.

Nico tipped sideways, landing beside him with a startled breath. The mattress shifted, then adjusted, accommodating both their weights seamlessly.

“This,” Will declared, spreading out as if to demonstrate spatial luxury, “is what good sleep feels like.”

Nico intended to push himself upright immediately.

He did not.

Because the truth was that indeed, they were tired.

Despite it being nearly dinner time, despite the thin excuse for food on the plane, (rubbery eggs, bread that tasted faintly of plastic), the nap and the single cup of coffee Nico had forced down at the airport café, exhaustion lingered heavily in his limbs.

Will had declined coffee altogether.

“I only drink it during late shifts in the infirmary,” he had explained earlier, leaning against the boarding gate with arms folded. “And I don’t even like it. Too bitter black, too sugary otherwise. I just drink it black because it works faster.”

“You voluntarily drink something you dislike?” Nico had asked.

“For efficiency,” Will had shrugged. “But I like to lay off it when I can.”

Instead, he had bought a red soda, overly bright, aggressively sweet, and sipped it with absent satisfaction. Nico had raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t get soda at camp,” Will had added defensively. “Let me live.”

Now, stretched out across a mattress clearly designed by mortals who took comfort very seriously, that sugar-fueled energy had faded.

Will sank deeper into the pillows with a contented sigh.

“Five minutes,” he murmured. “Just five.”

Nico meant to argue.

He meant to remind him that they had to unpack, maybe explore, possibly acquire appropriate formal pants before the universe intervened again.

Instead, he found himself lying back.

The ceiling above them was painted a soft matte cream, bordered by subtle molding that framed the room without ostentation. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in muted bands, warming the space without glaring. Somewhere below, distant city sounds drifted faintly upward, car horns softened by height, indistinct voices carried on the breeze.

It felt suspended.

Removed.

Safe.

Will shifted slightly closer, not intentionally pressing, but close enough that their shoulders brushed. The contact was warm, grounding, real.

Nico’s eyes slipped closed.

He told himself it was temporary. Just a pause. Just rest.

However, the mattress yielded perfectly beneath him, supporting every tension-worn muscle. The sheets cooled his skin; the pillow cradled his head without resistance. The faint scent of laundry and sunlight wrapped around him like something impossibly gentle.

His breathing slowed.

Beside him, Will’s did too.

Neither of them commented.

Neither of them moved away.

And despite the late hour, despite the hunger that should have gnawed at them, despite the absurdity of collapsing into sleep in the middle of a Roman afternoon—

Nico fell asleep first.

As though the city, the luxury, the sunlight, and the quiet warmth at his side had collectively decided he had earned it.

Will followed not long after, one arm half-curled across his own stomach, their shoulders still touching, the world beyond the tall window continuing on without them.

For the first time since landing, there was no tension in Nico’s jaw.

Only rest.

***

Nico did not wake all at once.

Rather, awareness returned in fragments, the softness beneath him, the warmth at his back, the steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing against his shoulder. For one suspended, treacherous moment, he did not move. He simply lay there, caught between sleep and sense, unsure whether he was still dreaming.

Then the warmth tightened.

An arm shifted more securely around his waist, and something, someone, pressed closer, as if claiming him instinctively.

Nico’s eyes flew open.

Will was curled against him.

Not loosely. Not distantly. But fully, unmistakably cuddling him, one arm draped across his middle, the other tucked beneath Nico’s shoulder as though he had replaced a pillow sometime during the night. His face was half-buried near Nico’s collarbone, breath warm and even, lips parted slightly in sleep.

Nico’s entire body went rigid.

His pulse kicked violently against his ribs. Heat surged up his neck and into his face so quickly he was certain it bordered on combustion.

If children of Hades could spontaneously develop fevers from embarrassment, he would have been patient zero.

Will murmured faintly, an indistinct, contented sound, and tightened his hold just slightly, as though Nico were nothing more than a particularly comfortable mattress accessory.

This was unacceptable.

Carefully, agonizingly carefully, Nico tried to peel himself free. He shifted an inch at a time, attempting to slide out from under Will’s arm without disturbing him. However, the mattress betrayed him. It adjusted with each movement, dipping subtly and forcing them closer instead of farther apart.

“Mm,” Will breathed, voice thick with sleep.

Nico froze.

Slowly, in what felt like some cruel trick of fate, he found himself no longer facing away, but turned directly toward him.

Their faces were inches apart.

Sleep had softened Will’s features in a way Nico was unprepared for. The usual alert brightness in his eyes was gone, replaced by the vulnerable stillness of someone completely unaware. His lashes rested dark against his cheeks. His hair, freed from its usual careless arrangement, fell messily across his forehead. Without his grin, without his teasing energy, he looked younger.

Gentler.

Nico swallowed.

He should move.

He did not.

Instead, he watched.

It was a dangerous indulgence. His gaze traced the curve of Will’s cheek, the faint crease near his mouth from smiling too often, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sunlight filtered faintly through the curtains, casting a muted gold glow across the sheets and catching in strands of blond hair.

He looked—

No.

Nico exhaled sharply through his nose, as though physically pushing the thought away.

This was absurd.

They had fallen asleep. That was all. Proximity was incidental. A byproduct of exhaustion and overpriced hotel bedding.

He attempted once more to extract himself, this time managing to shift enough that Will’s arm slipped slightly downward. Nico seized the opportunity and eased back, inch by inch, until he could sit up without dislodging him entirely.

Will stirred but did not wake.

Freed, Nico swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to cool his face. The room was quiet, the Roman skyline now washed in pale morning light rather than gold.

Morning.

Which meant—

Breakfast.

His stomach gave a subdued reminder that airplane food and a single coffee did not constitute sustenance. He glanced back at Will, who had rolled onto his side and claimed Nico’s vacated space without hesitation, clutching a pillow now in unconscious replacement.

There was no way Nico was waking him.

And there was absolutely no way he was going downstairs, risking an encounter with Will’s mother while still internally combusting from having been used as a human body pillow.

No.

He needed composure first. And food.

Room service, then.

Surely a suite like this offered it.

With quiet efficiency, Nico moved toward the door, careful not to let it click too loudly as he stepped into the hallway. He paused just long enough to ensure Will hadn’t stirred.

Silence.

Satisfied, he closed the door softly behind him.

His own room lay opposite the hallway, identical in structure, equally indulgent in design. When he entered, the symmetry was almost disorienting: the same expansive bed, the same tall window framing Rome’s waking rooftops, the same filtered morning light casting pale gold across polished wood.

However, this room was undisturbed.

Untouched.

His luggage still rested neatly where he had left it.

For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing.

The city beyond the window hummed faintly, distant traffic, the low murmur of life resuming. The air carried that subtle blend of stone and sun-warmed tile drifting in from the balcony crack.

He walked to the window and drew the curtain back slightly farther.

Rome looked ancient and alive all at once.

It steadied him.

Breakfast in the suite, he decided. Something simple. Contained. Controlled.

He would order it quietly. Eat. Regain equilibrium. And only then, only when his pulse no longer reacted treacherously at the memory of warm arms and sleepy murmurs, would he consider facing the rest of the day.

Because meeting a world-famous mother was one thing.

Meeting her after waking up tangled in her son’s arms?

That, Nico suspected, would require far more preparation than even Italy could offer.

***

The room service menu was intimidating.

Not because of the language, Nico’s Italian was fluent, instinctive, a relic of another lifetime, but because of the abundance. Pages of delicate script listed pastries he hadn’t tasted in decades, cheeses from regions he barely remembered, espresso variations so specific they bordered on ritual.

He picked up the hotel phone anyway.

“SÌ, buongiorno,” he began, voice smooth despite the tension curling beneath it. “Vorrei ordinare la calzone per—”

(Yes, good morning /I’d like to order breakfast for—)

He stopped.

For what?

For whom?

He didn’t know what Will wanted.

The realization hit with surprising force. It wasn’t that Will was difficult. Quite the opposite. Will ate whatever was available at camp, often between shifts, sometimes standing, sometimes barely tasting it. But that was precisely the problem. Nico had never needed to ask. Meals had been communal, chaotic, predictable.

This was different.

This was Italy. This was a luxury suite. This was Will having invited him—him—to Rome, paying for flights, arranging hotels, pulling strings with frightening ease.

It could not be random.

Nico lowered the phone slowly.

He could order something simple. Safe. But what if Will hated it? What if he didn’t eat sweets in the morning? What if he preferred something savory? Something American? Something—

He hung up.

The silence that followed felt louder than the dial tone.

He stared at the menu, jaw tight.

He actually cared.

That was the inconvenient truth threading through his thoughts. They were good friends—solid, real. Even if Nico had been short with him lately, even if he had deflected too often, snapped too quickly, retreated into sarcasm when sincerity felt too exposed, he still liked him. He respected him. Trusted him.

And that meant getting this right.

He could have guessed. He could have improvised.

Instead, he reached for a coin and rushed to the bathroom.

There were options. Cecil. Lou Ellen. Austin. Even Clarisse, if the situation grew truly dire.

But then he thought of Kayla.

Kayla would be awake. Kayla was responsible. Kayla had probably already done rounds in the infirmary twice over by now. Will had mentioned she was helping Austin and one of the younger campers while he was gone.

Nico exhaled, then said clearly but with a low voice, too scared it’ll be heard trough the thick walls. “Show me Kayla Knowles at Camp Half Blood.” 

It rang once.

Twice.

On the second attempt, the Iris-message shimmered into place.

Kayla appeared mid-motion, her blonde hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, faint circles under her eyes. The infirmary glowed behind her in pale morning light.

“Nico—?” she started, immediately scanning him. “Is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“Help,” Nico said flatly. “Urgently.”

That got her attention.

Her posture snapped upright, sleep fully evaporated. “What happened?”

“It’s not medical.”

She blinked.

“Then why do you sound like you’re about to summon the apocalypse?”

Nico dragged a hand down his face. “I need to order breakfast.”

There was a pause.

Kayla stared at him.

“You Iris-messaged me,” she said slowly, “from Italy—”

“Yes, Rome.”

“—Rome. You Iris-messaged me from Rome. For breakfast advice.”

“Yes.”

She squinted. “Is this a prank?”

“No.”

She waited.

Nico did not elaborate.

Kayla crossed her arms. “Okay. Context.”

Nico inhaled once, sharply. “We’re in the hotel suite. I was going to order room service. I realized I don’t know what Will likes for breakfast when given actual choices.”

Kayla’s expression shifted, from confusion to something dangerously close to a grin.

“Oh.”

“Do not,” Nico warned.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are absolutely doing something.”

She leaned slightly closer to the shimmering edge of the message. “You care.”

“I am attempting to be considerate.”

Kayla’s smile widened. “You care.”

Nico glared.

She relented, though her eyes sparkled. “Okay. Practical answer. Will likes balance. He won’t go for anything too sugary unless it’s a treat. He pretends he doesn’t like sweet things but he absolutely does. He’ll choose fruit if it’s there. Yogurt. Eggs if he’s trying to be responsible.”

“That is not helpful. That is every breakfast.”

Kayla laughed softly. “Fine. He loves fresh bread. Especially if it’s warm. And he’ll always drink orange juice if it’s real, not from concentrate. Coffee only if he thinks he needs to function.”

“He doesn’t like coffee,” Nico said automatically.

Kayla’s brows lifted. “He told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

There it was again, that look.

Nico felt irritation rise defensively. “It was relevant.”

“Sure,” she said, not sounding convinced.

Nico paced a few steps across the plush carpet. “Something Italian. But not overwhelming.”

“Cornetti,” Kayla replied instantly. “Like croissants. Maybe prosciutto and cheese. Fresh fruit. Espresso on the side in case he wants it.”

Nico nodded slowly.

“That’s… reasonable.”

Kayla tilted her head. “You know, you could just wake him up and ask.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Nico said stiffly, “that would require interaction.”

Kayla stared. “You two literally crossed an ocean together.”

“That is irrelevant.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then softened. “You’re okay, though? Really?”

Nico hesitated.

He thought of sunlight in Will’s hair. Of arms around his waist. Of the quiet, steady warmth that had unsettled him far more than turbulence ever had.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I’m fine.”

Kayla nodded, satisfied enough. “Okay. Order the bread. And maybe one pastry you pretend is for you but is actually for him.”

“I do not pretend.”

“You absolutely do.”

He ignored that.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

She smiled gently. “Anytime. Try to relax, Nico. It’s just breakfast.”

He almost laughed.

Nothing about this felt simple.

The Iris-message faded, leaving him alone again in the quiet suite, menu still open in his hand.

This time, when he picked up the phone, his voice was steadier.

“Yes,” he said in fluent Italian. “We’ll have cornetti. Fresh fruit. Eggs. Prosciutto and cheese. And orange juice. Freshly squeezed, per favore.”

He paused.

“And one extra pastry.”

For a moment, he stood by the window after hanging up, watching the city fully wake beneath him.

He told himself it was only breakfast.

And yet, beneath that rational thought, something quieter lingered, a warmth not entirely attributable to Roman sunlight.

He cared.

And that, he suspected, was far more dangerous than anything twelve floors below.

***

The knock from room service had come and gone in efficient silence. Now the small dining table near the window was dressed in white linen and porcelain—silver domes lifted, steam curling lazily into the air, the scent of warm bread and espresso threading through the suite.

Nico had just poured orange juice into a glass, freshly squeezed, vivid and bright like liquid sunlight, when he heard the faint shuffle of footsteps behind him.

He turned.

Will stood in the doorway, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand, hair sleep-tousled beyond redemption. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, collar crooked, and there was a faint crease along his cheek from the pillow.

Nico’s fingers tightened around the glass, otherwise he was sure he would've dropped it.

Will blinked slowly at the table, then at Nico, and then back at the table as if unsure whether he was still dreaming.

“Neeks,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

Nico visibly twitched.

“What’s this?” Will continued, stepping fully into the room. “Did jet lag give you extra appetite or did you finally decide to embrace decadence—”

“Eat, Will,” Nico interrupted, perhaps a shade too quickly. “It’s for you too.”

Will paused mid-step.

“For me?” he echoed, eyebrows lifting.

Nico focused very intently on adjusting a fork that did not need adjusting.

“Well,” Will said slowly, glancing around, “that explains why you’re in my room.”

Now, Nico physically flinched.

Heat flooded his face so abruptly he was certain it rivaled the Roman sun outside. 

“I—this is—” he began, then stopped. “It’s the common area.”

Will tilted his head, clearly amused. “Uh-huh.”

Of course he wouldn’t know.

Of course he hadn’t woken up to the fact that he had been using Nico as a human pillow.

The unfairness of that stung slightly.

Will’s lips twitched. “Relax. I won’t bite.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Nico muttered, reaching for the fruit bowl and stealing a blueberry before he could think better of it.

Will laughed under his breath and approached the table properly now, eyes widening as he took in the spread.

There were golden cornetti arranged in a basket lined with linen, their flaky layers catching the light. Thin slices of prosciutto folded like silk beside wedges of soft cheese. A plate of scrambled eggs, light, almost custard-like. Fresh figs, strawberries, and dark grapes. Small porcelain cups ready for espresso.

“Okay,” Will said slowly. “Did I do something heroic in my sleep?”

Nico kept his gaze on the fruit. “No.”

“Then why the princess treatment?”

Nico almost choked.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “You are… worthy of it.”

Will froze.

Nico immediately regretted everything.

“You invited me here,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other in an attempt to dilute sincerity. “You paid for the flight. The suite. It seemed—appropriate.”

Will’s expression softened in a way that made Nico want to throw himself out the window.

“That’s not why I invited you,” Will said quietly.

Nico ignored that entirely and gestured toward the bread basket instead. “They’re called cornetti.”

“Like croissants?” Will asked, already reaching for one.

“Similar,” Nico said, grateful for the change of subject. “But lighter. Often sweeter. Italian breakfasts are not… heavy.”

Will tore into it with visible enthusiasm. The pastry flaked instantly, crumbs scattering across the plate.

His eyes widened.

“Oh,” he said reverently. “Oh, that’s good.”

Nico allowed himself the faintest curve of a smile. “You’re supposed to dip it in espresso.”

“I don’t like espresso.”

“You don’t like American coffee.”

“That’s different?”

“Yes.”

Will considered that, then reached for the small cup Nico had poured for himself. He dipped a corner of the cornetto experimentally, then took a bite.

He froze.

“…Okay. That’s unfairly good.”

“Italian espresso is not designed to taste burnt,” Nico said smoothly. “It is designed to taste alive.”

Will huffed a laugh. “You sound like a brochure.”

Nico stole another blueberry. “You sound uncultured.”

“Wow. I wake up and get insulted and fed? What a morning.”

“You are very dramatic for someone currently eating half the table.”

Will glanced down at his plate, where he had already assembled a precarious stack of prosciutto and cheese atop torn pastry. “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”

“You had soda and airplane food,” Nico replied. “That does not count as sustenance.”

Will pointed at him with the remaining half of his cornetto. “You remembered.”

Nico hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

“Coincidence,” he said stiffly.

“Sure.”

They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes, sunlight warming the table, the city stretching lazily beyond the window.

Will reached for the orange juice next. “Okay, this is fresh.”

“Yes.”

“You’re spoiling me.”

“That was not the objective.”

Will grinned anyway.

Nico, after a brief internal debate, nudged a small plate across the table.

On it sat a single additional pastry, slightly larger, dusted lightly with powdered sugar, filled with dark chocolate.

Will’s gaze flicked to it.

“What’s that?”

“I ordered one for myself,” Nico said, entirely too casual. “But I do not want it anymore.”

Will stared at him.

“You hate chocolate in the morning.”

“That is irrelevant.”

Will’s smile turned soft and knowing. “You ordered it for me.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Nico crossed his arms. “Do you want it or not?”

Will did not hesitate. “Yes.”

He picked it up immediately, breaking it open. Dark chocolate filling melted slightly at the center, rich and glossy.

He took a bite, then actually closed his eyes.

“This is life-changing,” he declared.

Nico watched him, trying very hard not to look pleased.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “There is a reception tonight.”

Will opened one eye. “For the concert?”

“Yes.”

Will chewed thoughtfully. “Right. The after-party thing.”

Nico selected a grape, rolling it between his fingers. “Do you… desire one?”

Will frowned slightly. “A party?”

“A pastry,” Nico corrected smoothly.

Will studied him.

“You’re being weirdly subtle,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Nico sighed softly. “Do you want another?”

Will hesitated then, not because of the food, Nico realized, but because of something else.

“Parties,” Will said slowly, “are… complicated.”

Nico’s gaze sharpened.

“In what sense?”

Will shrugged one shoulder. “They’re loud. A lot of people. A lot of expectations.”

Nico understood that more than he wanted to admit.

“So,” Nico said carefully, “if you do not wish to attend, we do not have to.”

Will blinked. “You’d skip it?”

“Yes.” 

Without hesitation.

Will stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head lightly. “No. I want to go. I just—” He paused, searching. “It’s different when it’s not camp. Or when I’m not just someone’s kid.”

Nico tilted his head slightly. “You are more than that.”

Will’s eyes flicked up.

The sincerity landed heavy between them.

“…Thanks,” Will said quietly.

Nico immediately reached for another blueberry to avoid further eye contact.

“So,” he added briskly, “you will attend. In proper trousers.”

Will groaned dramatically. “We’re back to the pants.”

“We never left the pants.”

Will laughed, sunlight catching in his hair, chocolate on his fingers, the morning wrapped around them like something warm and improbable.

And though Nico would never say it aloud, watching him there, fed, relaxed, smiling, felt worth every carefully chosen detail.

Nico reminded himself that they needed to go buy pants, formal attire, and something that wouldn’t expose wills skin. Right now, it was sunny, but the winter sun in Rome was deceptive.

From the terrace doors, the sky shimmered in pale shades of rose and powder-blue, the kind of soft, romantic light that made the domes and rooftops glow as though dusted in gold. Yet beyond the glass, Nico knew the air would slice like a blade once evening came. Rome in winter was beautiful, yes, but it was merciless after sunset.

Will leaned back in his chair, porcelain cup cradled between his palms, steam curling lazily upward. “So,” he said, eyes flicking toward the skyline, “have you been to Rome before?”

The question was light, casual. Still, Nico hesitated. “A really. Really long time ago,” he answered at last.

Will tilted his head. “Before the casino?”

Nico nodded slowly. “Before the Lotus Hotel and Casino. Before Bianca and I… stopped counting years.”

He set his cup down carefully, watching the faint tremor in the porcelain rather than Will’s face.

“I was born in Venice,” he added quietly. “In Venice. We lived there for a while before… everything.” A faint, almost distant smile touched his lips. “It was different then. The canals smelled stronger, salt and damp stone. The boats had less technology. The voices were louder. People talked with their hands more.” His gaze drifted toward the Roman skyline. “Rome in the 1930s was quieter. Fewer cars. Less noise. More uniforms.”

He didn’t elaborate on that.

“Now,” Nico continued, gesturing faintly toward the streets below, “it’s louder. Faster. Tourists everywhere. Cafés on every corner selling espresso that tastes better than anything from that plane.”

Will snorted softly at that, but he didn’t laugh.

Instead, he frowned.

“Are you sure,” he asked slowly, “you haven’t been in this… decade?”

Nico stilled.

His fingers began to play with the rim of his cup, tapping it once. Twice. A soft, porcelain chime.

He forced a shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

Will didn’t answer immediately. That was the thing about him, he could wait. Could sit in silence without flinching, as though patience were stitched into his bones.

“Nico,” he said gently, “if something’s bothering you—”

“It’s not.”

The reply came too quickly.

Will deflated almost imperceptibly. His shoulders softened, his mouth pressing into a thin line, not frustrated, not angry. Just… concerned. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

And Nico hated that.

Hated how easy Will made it to breathe. How he never pushed too hard. How he would’ve walked away from the subject entirely just to spare Nico discomfort.

The truth was, it wasn’t unbearable. Not like Tartarus. Not like the jar. Not like Bianca turning to dust in front of him.

It just… stung.

Because who was he supposed to tell? Every demigod he knew carried grief like a second spine. Kids who died in the Battle of Manhattan. Unclaimed campers crammed into Hermes cabin who never even learned what made them special before monsters found them. Minor gods’ children forgotten. Apollo’s cabin nearly wiped out.

He had spent years thinking the world singled him out.

It hadn’t.

It was just cruel to everyone.

And yes, he had been outed by Cupid. Yes, he had fallen into Tartarus. Yes, he had survived on pomegranate seeds while trapped in a jar for seven months. Yes, he had loved someone who loved someone else. Yes, Jason—

Jason’s death still hadn’t settled into something solid enough to hold.

But so had everyone else lost something.

Nico glanced up.

Will was watching him now, openly anxious, blue eyes sharp with alarm.

“It’s just…” Nico exhaled slowly. “Before Gaea. We had a mission. I got pulled into Tartarus—”

Will’s jaw literally dropped.

“—and imprisoned in a jar,” Nico finished, as though discussing the weather. “But I’m fine now.”

The words hovered there, absurdly small compared to what they contained.

Silence.

Then, unexpectedly, Will smiled.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Nico blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. A son of the Big Three who survived Tartarus, brought three gods to war, and told Kronos ‘your death would be great for me’—”

Nico froze.

“—is scared of meeting my mom,” Will finished, amused with warmth threading through his voice. “A singer.”

Nico stared at him.

“How do you—” He cut himself off. “Who told you that?”

Will lifted one shoulder casually, but there was something knowing in his expression. “You think stories like that don’t travel around camp? Clarisse practically recited it once during a sparring match. I thought she was exaggerating.” He grinned. “Turns out, not.”

Nico felt heat rise to his face, though whether from embarrassment or something else, he couldn’t tell.

“You said that,” Will continued softly, leaning forward now, elbows on the table, “to Kronos. A Titan. You stared him down.”

The Roman sunlight shifted, bathing the suite in warmer pinks as afternoon edged closer. Outside, church bells rang faintly through the air.

“And you’re nervous about my mom?” Will teased gently.

Nico opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because the thing was, it wasn’t the same.

Titans had bad intentions, were cruel. Monsters, gods, primordial beings, they all followed rules. Power. Fear. Pride. Nico didn't mind looking down on them, defeating them, ending their lives.

But mothers? Famous singers? Human expectations?

That was unfamiliar territory. He wasn’t the son of death per se, he was the son of the god of the dead. Who wouldn't look at him once, and decide that looking another time wasn't good for them?

Will studied him, and then, slowly, his teasing faded into something softer.

“You don’t have to impress her,” he said quietly. “She already likes you.”

Nico’s head snapped up. “She does not.”

“She does,” Will insisted. “I told her about you. About how you dragged me into shadow travel that one time. About how you pretend you don’t care but absolutely do. About how you brought Hades to fight for Olympus.”

Nico swallowed.

The room felt warmer suddenly, despite knowing that outside, Rome’s winter chill was waiting patiently for nightfall.

“You talk about me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Will’s smile turned almost shy.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Of course I do.”

For a moment, Nico couldn’t speak.

Fighting was one thing. Being talked about like that, being seen like that, shared as if he was something important and exclusive, felt far more dangerous.

And far more terrifying.

“Get changed,” Nico said abruptly, pushing back his chair before the warmth in his chest could betray him. “We’re going shopping.”

Will blinked at the sudden command. “Shopping?” A slow grin spread across his face. “In– Right now? You’re twisting my arm, di Angelo.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird. You’re the one issuing dramatic decrees like some tiny gothic emperor.”

Nico shot him a look. “Five minutes.”

Will leaned back, amused and entirely unbothered. “Yes, Your Darkness.”

Nico turned before his face could give him away.

***

The hallway felt too quiet as Nico slipped into his own room, shutting the door behind him with careful precision. The latch clicked. Silence followed.

His pulse was bright. too bright, thudding high in his throat. He dragged both hands down his face as if he could physically wipe the heat away.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

The mirror across the room caught him mid-motion.

He looked up.

It was just Nico.

Pale skin. Dark hair falling messily into his eyes. Shadows naturally carved beneath them as though he’d been born tired. Sharp collarbones. Too-thin wrists.

Death-looking Nico. Boy Nico.

How could someone like Will Solace ever look at that and see something worth holding?

The thought came so quickly it startled him.

See something.

Nico’s stomach dropped.

He straightened sharply. “No.”

The word echoed faintly against the polished walls.

He couldn’t, wouldn’t, like Will.

That was settled. That had always been settled.

The only thing a child of Hades could expect from liking an Apollo kid, especially this Apollo kid, was heartbreak. Bright, blinding, inevitable heartbreak. The sun did not belong in the Underworld. Light did not stay with shadow.

And even if—if—Will were interested, then what?

Nico’s chest tightened.

He would ruin him. Drain him. Stain something soft and golden with all the heaviness he carried. Will was warmth and steady hands and laughter that filled rooms. Nico was jars and Tartarus and grief that clung like smoke. Would will even– Well, this was modern times but still…

He refused to entertain it further.

Instead, he turned to the bed where his clothes lay folded neatly.

Normal. That was the goal.

He pulled on a deep, dark red shirt, so dark it nearly bled into black unless the light struck it directly. Subtle skulls patterned the fabric, woven rather than printed, visible only if someone looked closely. Black trousers followed, tailored enough to fit his narrow frame without swallowing him whole. Over it, he shrugged into a very dark brown jacket, sharp at the shoulders.

Normally, he wore more black. Less color. Today, for reasons he did not wish to examine, he felt… different. Not brighter.

Just less hidden.

He adjusted the cuffs, exhaled slowly, and forced his heartbeat into something manageable.

By the time he stepped into the hallway, his face was composed.

***

Will was already there.

And Nico’s carefully regulated pulse betrayed him instantly.

Baggy jeans hung low on Will’s hips, casual and effortless. The white sweater he wore was soft-looking, the knit loose enough that one side dipped slightly, exposing the elegant line of his collarbone. The Roman light filtering through the hallway windows caught in his hair, turning it almost molten.

Around his neck hung a thin cord.

At the end of it, a guitar pick.

Of course.

Of course he would wear something like that. Something simple and meaningful and so unmistakably him.

Will looked up when he heard the door close.

For a second, he simply stared.

Then his eyes softened.

“Red,” he said quietly. “That’s new.”

Nico felt heat crawl up his neck. “It’s dark.”

“It’s red,” Will insisted, stepping closer, studying him in a way that made Nico acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. “It suits you.”

Nico’s throat went dry.

“It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm,” Will hummed thoughtfully. “Still.”

There was something about the way he said it, not teasing, not casual. Observant.

Nico looked away first.

“You look ridiculous,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the sweater.

Will glanced down at himself. “Ridiculously good?”

“Ridiculously bright.”

Will laughed softly. “You don’t hate it?”

Nico didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t.

The white made Will look warmer somehow, like the winter sun outside, soft pinks and golds waiting beneath the blue sky before night inevitably froze everything over. It made him look… reachable.

Which Nico hadn't considered at all.

“Ready?” Will asked.

Nico nodded once, sharp and composed. They began walking toward the elevator together, shoulders almost brushing. Almost. And as the doors slid closed in front of them, Nico caught his reflection again beside Will’s.

Shadow and sunlight.

He told himself it meant nothing.

He told himself he had already decided.

His heart, unfortunately, had not been consulted.

***

“It’s Italy, Will,” Nico insisted, folding his arms as though that single word should be explanation enough.

Will sighed, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Nico, this isn’t the 1930s anymore. You could go to a concert in pajamas if you wanted.”

Nico stared at him, utterly unconvinced.

Who the hell wore pajamas to a concert?

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he let his gaze drag slowly over Will’s outfit again, the baggy jeans, the loose, now green, sweater, the air of someone who had never once worried about whether he looked appropriate for anything in his life.

And yes, Nico knew what kind of concert it would be. He’d heard Will’s mom’s songs before, more times than he would ever admit. Leo had played them on repeat during those long, chaotic stretches when he and Jason used to hang around together. Leo had a way of appearing everywhere, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. Nico hadn’t minded. Leo was warm. Leo was alive. Leo had stayed, even after Jason’s death, quieter and a little cracked around the edges, but still there.

Alt-country, Nico remembered. That was the genre. Soft guitars. Gravelly emotion. Lyrics about highways and heartbreak and home.

Which was exactly why Will’s jeans and sweater combination felt… wrong.

Especially when Will had casually mentioned, like it was nothing, that he only owned one pair of jeans and needed to buy another.

One pair.

Nico felt personally offended by the concept.

God, Will needed formal attire. Proper attire. Clothes for actual restaurants with linen tablecloths and polished silverware and waiters who didn’t look like they’d just come from rehearsal. Nico had already decided, without informing Will, that they would be going somewhere elegant. Somewhere that served pasta the way it was meant to be served. Not the overly sweetened nonsense Nico had once caught Will attempting at camp. Something even better than Nico could have done himself.

“Go try something else,” Nico said at last, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Will gave him an odd look. “You’re serious.”

“Very.”

With a dramatic exhale, Will disappeared back into the dressing room, curtain swishing closed behind him.

Nico stood there among racks of winter clothing, the store smelling faintly of cedarwood and new fabric. Outside the tall windows, Rome glowed in winter light, soft pink and muted gold brushing across stone buildings. It looked warm from here.

It wasn’t.

By nightfall, the cold would settle into your bones like a patient ghost.

Maybe Nico was the one who needed to adjust, he thought grimly. Maybe he should attempt something more… country. Something that fit the genre.

Absolutely not.

He would rather have tea with his father and Persephone while Demeter was present, smiling sweetly and plotting agricultural (and his fathers in the process) doom, than wear a cowboy hat.

That was final.

Still, he glanced at a rack nearby, fingers brushing over fabrics thoughtfully. Black jeans. Clean cut. Structured. Those could work. Paired with a dark green viscose button-up, deep enough to almost pass for black, but not quite. Subtle. Controlled. The fabric would fall cleanly against his frame without clinging.

Yes. That would do.

He also needed to tie his hair back. It had grown longer lately, the dark strands brushing his jaw and threatening to fall into his eyes whenever the wind picked up. He hadn’t had time to cut it. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to.

He ran a hand through it absently.

The dressing room curtain rustled.

Will stepped out.

And for a moment, Nico genuinely wondered if Apollo had personally intervened.

Will wasn’t glowing.

He just… looked like it.

The white t-shirt fit closer this time, the fabric soft and slightly fitted without being tight. It wasn’t buttoned all the way up, of course it wasn’t. Nico scoffed quietly under his breath at the sight of that infuriating gold collarbone again. The brown pants were tailored but relaxed, warm-toned and grounding, making his hair look even brighter by contrast.

It was simple.

Effortless.

And unfair.

Will shifted awkwardly under Nico’s silence. “Well?”

Nico forced his expression into something neutral, dragging his gaze away before it lingered too long.

“That’s good,” he said evenly.

Good.

As if his pulse hadn’t just jumped. As if he hadn’t momentarily forgotten every critical thought he’d prepared.

Will smiled, slow, satisfied.

“You’re impossible to impress,” he teased gently.

Nico lifted one shoulder. “I have standards.”

“Mm.” Will stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “You’ve been staring.”

Nico’s head snapped up. “I have not.”

Will’s grin widened, sunlight catching in his eyes. “Sure.”

Heat crept up Nico’s neck again, sharp and unwelcome.

It didn’t matter, he told himself firmly.

It didn’t matter that Will seemed to look good in every possible combination of fabric and color. It didn’t matter that he could probably walk out wearing a paper bag and still radiate something annoyingly golden.

None of it mattered.

They were shopping.

That was all.

And yet, as Nico turned away to hide the warmth climbing into his face, he couldn’t shake the unsettling realization that no matter what Will wore, jeans, sweaters, concert shirts, he would always look like sunlight against Nico’s shadow.

And Nico, despite every logical warning in his mind, found himself orbiting anyway.

When he turned back, Will’s glow was not subtle this time. It wasn’t just the lighting, or Nico’s imagination, or some poetic exaggeration he would later deny under interrogation. Will visibly brightened, shoulders straightening, smile widening, eyes sparking with that unmistakable, infuriating warmth. He was reflecting the dim sun's light.

“So,” he said, clasping his hands together with faked innocence, “can we buy you a cowboy hat now?”

“No.”

“I—please, Nico.”

The way he said it should’ve been illegal. Soft, coaxing, dipped in honey and sunlight. Nico felt the heat rush up his spine before he could stop it, felt the instinctive urge to give in simply because Will’s voice wrapped around him like that.

He refused.

“Don’t insist, Solace,” Nico replied coolly, narrowing his eyes.

Will’s mouth curved downward into a dramatic pout.

It was unfair. Entirely unfair. Feelings should’ve come with warning labels. Aphrodite had never been his favourite goddess.

Nico kept his expression severe, even as he felt his resolve wobble slightly. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look fantastic,” Will corrected. “And you will do too. Death boy in a cowboy hat? That’s iconic.”

“Call me that again and I’m leaving you here.”

Will’s grin only widened. “Death boy.”

Nico stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it dangerous. “Neeks is already pushing it.”

Will blinked once, then twice, clearly pleased he’d struck something. “Oh, Neeks definitely stays.”

Nico inhaled slowly through his nose.

“I’ll do any babysitting job you sign up for,” Will offered suddenly, as if unveiling a priceless treasure. “Any. For a year.”

That gave Nico pause.

Fortunately for both of them, Will had not sworn on the River Styx.

Because Nico would have taken that oath and twisted it into gold.

Babysitting was a curse upon his existence. Sticky fingers. Endless questions. Small demigods with far too much energy and not enough fear of the Underworld. He would also  rather sit at a tea table with Hades, Persephone, and Demeter, not so politely discussing seasonal agriculture and the best plants to kill his father, than spend another afternoon mediating sibling disputes in the Hermes cabin.

And Annabeth, he knew, always had projects. Endless projects.

Nico tilted his head slightly, studying Will like he was appraising a very useful artifact.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely,” Will said without hesitation. “I’ll even take the mini version of the Stoll brothers if you want.”

Nico’s brows lifted.

“That’s bold.”

“I’m feeling brave.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Will laughed under his breath, stepping closer again, close enough that Nico could catch the faint scent of soap and fabric softener and something unmistakably him.

“So?” Will prompted.

Nico pretended to consider it longer than necessary, tapping his finger against his own sleeve thoughtfully.

“Agree,” he said at last.

Will’s triumphant expression was immediate. “Yes! Cowboy hat secured.”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Nico cut in smoothly. “I agreed to the babysitting trade. I did not agree to wearing agricultural headwear.”

Will squinted at him. “That was implied.”

“It was not.”

“It absolutely was, Nicky.”

Nico stepped forward, invading Will’s space just enough to make his point. “You want me in a cowboy hat? You wear all black for a week at camp. No glowing. No sunshine metaphors. Full Underworld aesthetic.”

Will blinked.

“All black?”

“Head to toe.”

Will hesitated.

Nico smirked faintly. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll look bad?”

Will scoffed. “Please. I look good in everything.”

“That,” Nico said dryly, “is unfortunately true.”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it.

Will stilled.

For half a second, the teasing vanished, not replaced with mockery, not replaced with smugness. Just something quieter. Disbelief, even.

Then he smiled again, softer this time.

“Careful, death boy,” he murmured. “You’re complimenting me.”

Nico rolled his eyes, turning sharply toward the register. “Buy your shirt, Solace.”

Behind him, Will laughed, bright, unrestrained, and followed.

Death boy wasn't unusual, even if it annoyed Nico. His dad wasn't the god of death, but of the dead. But he'd let it slide once or twice. And though Nico would deny it later, he didn’t entirely hate the way the word Neeks sounded in Will’s voice.

***

Finding cowboy hats in Rome, Nico quickly discovered, was not a simple endeavor.

The city offered wool coats, tailored blazers, silk scarves, leather boots polished to mirror-shine, but wide-brimmed Western absurdity? That required effort.

They wandered through narrow streets where cobblestones gleamed faintly beneath the winter sun. The sky above was painted in soft gradients of pink and pale blue, the light warm to the eye but deceptive against the skin. A breeze slipped through the alleys, carrying scents of espresso, roasted chestnuts, and distant woodsmoke.

Will walked beside him with entirely too much enthusiasm for someone hunting cowboy hats in Italy.

“Admit it,” Will said, bumping Nico’s shoulder lightly. “This is the most random, and therefore exciting,  thing you’ve done all week.”

“I survived Tartarus,” Nico replied flatly. “This doesn’t even rank.”

“Debatable..”

Eventually, after three boutiques, one confused leather artisan, and a shopkeeper who insisted they try fedoras instead, they found a small, cluttered store tucked between a souvenir shop and a café. The window display was chaotic: belts, postcards, scarves, and, miraculously, a rack of hats.

Nico paused at the threshold.

“Of course it’s dusty,” he muttered.

Will grinned. “Adds authenticity.”

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and cedarwood, like trunks stored in attics for decades. Sunlight filtered through the narrow front window, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

They tried several.

One was too wide. Another too stiff. One made Will look like he was auditioning for a spaghetti western filmed incorrectly in Florence.

Nico did not laugh.

Much.

Then Will picked up a black one.

It was sleek, structured, the brim curved just slightly, not excessively, but bold. A subtle stitched phrase lined the inner band:

Give me the sun.

Wil looked at it, eyes wide. Nico noticed the way his smile tightened immediately. Will adjusted it on his head, fingers brushing the brim, his posture unconsciously straightening. The black contrasted sharply with his hair, made his eyes look impossibly bright.

He looked, ridiculous.

And good.

And—

Will’s ears were pink. He took it out before handing it to Nico.

He cleared his throat. “Too dark. I think this one fits you.”

Nico stepped closer, pretending to inspect the stitching, though his attention was far less disciplined than he would’ve liked.

The phrase caught his eye again.

Give me the sun.

Something mischievous rose in him before he could stop it.

“So,” Nico said lightly, folding his arms, “would you give yourself to me?”

The words slipped out smooth and effortless.

Will froze. Completely.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—what—Nico—”

The stammer was immediate and glorious.

Nico burst into laughter, bright and unrestrained, the sound startling even himself. It echoed lightly off the shop’s wooden shelves. “Relax, Solace,” he said, still grinning. “I’m joking.”

Will swallowed, adjusting the hat again as if it had suddenly grown heavier. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Will looked like he might combust on the spot, yet in a beat, his expression shifted, less flustered, more thoughtful. “You’re like sunshine,” he said quietly.

And then, Nico froze. The laughter died instantly. The joke suddenly was much less funny. He stared at Will as though he’d just grown a third head. Had he heard that right?

“What,” Nico said flatly.

Will met his gaze, steady now despite the faint redness lingering on his cheeks. “Your laughter,” he clarified. “It’s… refreshing. It heals me, Neeks.”

The world tilted slightly.

Sunshine?

Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. Raised in shadows. Born in 1930. Survivor of Tartarus. Jar occupant. Grief magnet.

Sunshine?

For a split second, he genuinely wondered if Will had hit his head on one of the shelves.

He searched Will’s face for mockery, and regrettably, found none. 

Just sincerity.

And warmth.

The kind that made Nico’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t have language for.

He stared for a moment too long, something horrid and vulnerable flickering across his expression before he abruptly turned away.

“I’m buying this one,” he announced, far too stiffly, getting a random brown hat from the shelf.

Will blinked. “No! Death boy, we need to see—”

Nico shot him a glare sharp enough to rival celestial bronze.

“Shut it, Solace,” he snapped, though the bite lacked real venom. “You’re an annoyance. Oh my god. You couldn’t be more cheesy if you tried. You’re the epitome of—”

He stopped.

Because Will was looking at him with wide eyes and a barely restrained smile, as though Nico had just handed him something precious.

Nico inhaled slowly.

The shop suddenly felt warmer than it should’ve. The scent of leather seemed thicker. The light too golden.

He turned toward the register before his composure unraveled further, pulling out his wallet with deliberate calm.

Behind him, Will adjusted the hat once more.

And though Nico refused to look back, he could feel it, the warmth of it. The way Will stood there, glowing slightly under Roman winter light, black hat crowning golden hair.

Sunshine, he’d said.

Nico focused on counting euros.

Because that was safer.

***

“What hour’s the concert?” Nico asked, tracing the rim of his water glass as they waited for their food.

They had chosen, carefully.

Not one of the restaurants with laminated menus in five languages and waiters calling out in rehearsed English, but a narrow trattoria tucked into a side street where the sign was hand-painted and slightly chipped. The windows were fogged faintly from the warmth inside, and laughter rose easily from the tables around them.

Locals.

Men arguing softly about football. An elderly couple sharing a bottle of red wine. A group of university students gesturing dramatically over plates of pasta.

Of course, Nico was technically a tourist now.

The thought still felt wrong.

He hadn’t had as much time in Italy as he’d once imagined he would. Seventy years lost inside the Lotus Hotel and Casino had a way of doing that. But his Italian was fluid, precise; his accent unmistakable. When he’d asked a passerby earlier for a good place to eat, the man hadn’t hesitated. Had answered him like he belonged.

Because he did.

He was native.

Just not… to this version of the city.

“9:30,” Will replied now, reaching lazily for another slice of prosciutto from the small wooden board between them. The cured meat was delicate, translucent at the edges, glistening faintly with olive oil. “Mom got us good tickets. We can even go in from the back entrance. You know. Just in case.”

Nico hummed, though his gaze drifted briefly to the window, where winter sunlight washed the cobblestones in warm shades of honey and blush.

“Sure,” he said at last, shaking his head slightly. “But only in case of emergencies. Just that.”

Will lifted his hands in surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Details.”

Their food arrived then, carried out by a middle-aged woman with dark curls pinned loosely at her neck. The air shifted instantly as plates were set down, steam rising, scents blooming rich and immediate.

Cacio e pepe for Nico.

The pasta was simple, perfectly so, thick strands coated in glossy pecorino and cracked black pepper, the aroma sharp and warm. For Will, amatriciana, tomato sauce deep and vibrant, flecked with guanciale, the scent of cured pork mingling with basil and something faintly smoky.

Will inhaled dramatically. “Okay. If this ruins me for camp food forever, I’m blaming you.”

“You should,” Nico replied smoothly. “It’s educational.”

Will grinned, twirling his fork before taking a bite. His expression shifted instantly, eyes widening slightly, shoulders relaxing.

“Oh,” he said, mouth still half-full. “Oh, that’s unfair.”

Nico allowed himself a small, satisfied look before tasting his own.

The cheese was sharp and creamy at once. The pepper lingered pleasantly at the back of his throat. It tasted like memory. Like something steady and old.

For a few minutes, they ate without speaking.

Not awkward silence.

Comfortable.

The kind that settled naturally, like the warmth of the restaurant wrapping around them while outside the winter air waited patiently for nightfall. Cutlery clinked softly against porcelain. Someone nearby laughed, loud and unrestrained. A cork popped somewhere behind the counter.

Will leaned back slightly after a while, studying Nico with an expression that was less teasing than usual.

“You look different here,” he said quietly.

Nico glanced up. “Different how?”

“Lighter,” Will replied. Then, his mouth opened and closed, like he was debating whether to say something. At the end, he just shrugged. “ Just… less tense?”

Nico considered deflecting.

Instead, he shrugged faintly. “It’s familiar.”

Will nodded slowly, as though that made perfect sense.

“You belong here,” he said.

The statement was simple. Unembellished.

And somehow heavier than anything else said that afternoon.

Nico looked down at his plate, at the swirl of pasta and melted cheese.

“I do,” he admitted softly. “Even if it doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

Will didn’t argue.

He reached for another piece of bread instead, tearing it in half and offering Nico the larger portion without comment.

Nico took it.

Outside, the sky had begun its slow shift toward evening, pink deepening into violet. By night, Rome would turn freezing, sharp and unforgiving.

But for now, inside the small restaurant filled with murmured Italian and the scent of wine and pepper, it was warm.

And they stayed like that for a while, eating, sharing bread, existing in a silence that didn’t demand anything more.

***

The plates had long been cleared, replaced by small porcelain cups of espresso that sent thin ribbons of steam into the cooling air. Outside, the pinks of late afternoon had begun surrendering to deeper violets, and the warmth inside the trattoria felt increasingly precious against the promise of Rome’s freezing night.

Will had grown quieter.

Not distant, just thoughtful. His fingers traced the rim of his cup the way Nico had earlier, absent-minded, like he was circling something he hadn’t decided how to say.

“…Can we please go through the back, Nico?” he asked at last, softer than before.

Nico looked up immediately.

He frowned, not in refusal, but in curiosity, and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, sure. Is there any particular reason you want to?”

Will’s gaze dropped to the table. He nudged his empty cup slightly to the left.

“Not a big fan of wild crowds,” he admitted.

The words were simple, but they didn’t land lightly.

“I went to one when I was little,” he continued after a moment. “With… well, Lee.” A small breath. “Michael was more into pop and rock. Lee liked anything loud.” His mouth twitched faintly at the memory. “Michael used to say that when you were in crowds, you had to hold hands and not look back until you reached your seat. That way nobody got separated.”

Nico listened without interrupting.

“I mean,” Will added quickly, as if trying to minimize it, “my mom’s concerts are more organized than that one. Security and assigned seating and all that. But… it was scary. Just—mass people moving.”

His fingers curled slightly against the table now.

“All at once. Like a wave.”

His voice thinned at the edges, and Nico caught it, the subtle shift. The flicker of something under control, but not entirely.

There was more there.

Nico didn’t press.

“I get it, Will,” he said quietly. “It’s fine.”

He meant it.

“Lee and Michael sound like strong people.”

And they were.

Nico had seen it.

He’d seen Michael Yew loose sonic arrows during the Battle of Manhattan, the vibrations splitting the air like thunderclaps. He’d watched him move between offense and healing without hesitation, sharp and relentless.

He’d seen Lee Fletcher too, steady, composed, older than his years, when he had arrived into camp. Sadly, he hadn't made it to the battle.

And he’d barely noticed Will back then.

Will had been thirteen. Running everywhere with a panicked expression, golden hair whipping around his face as he tried to be everywhere at once, bandaging, shouting, helping. Too young. Entirely too young.

Nico had been focused on surviving. On Kronos. On not dying.

On not losing anyone else.

He pushed the memory away firmly before it could settle.

The clatter of dishes nearby brought him back to the present, the warm glow of the restaurant lights, the hum of Italian conversation, the scent of coffee grounds and citrus peel from someone’s limoncello at the next table.

Will looked up again, clearly embarrassed by his own admission. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Nico said immediately.

Will blinked.

“Crowds are unpredictable,” Nico continued, tone even. “Unpredictable things are annoying.”

“That’s your clinical assessment?”

“Yes.”

Will huffed out a quiet laugh.

Nico leaned back slightly, folding his arms, not defensive, just composed.

“If it makes you feel better,” he added dryly, “I also prefer fast exits and easier environments. You know, in case you just want to Irish goodbye from time to time.”

Will’s smile widened just a little.

“That might be the most you’ve ever admitted to sharing a preference with me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Will shook his head fondly.

“Thanks, sunshine,” he murmured.

Nico didn’t react outwardly to the nickname this time.

Instead, because he refused to let the mood grow too heavy, because he could feel the shadows of old battlefields trying to creep into a perfectly good afternoon in Rome, he did what he did best when things tilted too close to pain.

He pivoted.

“So,” Nico said, straightening slightly, eyes sharpening with sudden focus, “logistically speaking, what’s the venue layout? Is it amphitheater style or enclosed seating? Because if we’re using the back entrance, we need to calculate how long it’ll take to reach your seats without getting stuck in a bottleneck.”

Will stared at him.

“…Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

Will blinked twice, then laughed, this time fuller, freer.

“You giant nerd.”

Nico lifted his chin faintly. “Preparedness is not nerdiness.”

“It absolutely is.”

Nico ignored that.

Outside, the last of the sunlight slipped away, and the glass of the restaurant windows reflected the interior instead of the sky. The temperature would be dropping fast now. Rome’s winter nights did not play kindly.

But inside, at their small table tucked among locals and low conversation, the air remained warm.

And Will looked lighter again.

The restaurant had begun to thin out, the early diners replaced by the slow rhythm of evening regulars. Outside, the sky had deepened into indigo, and through the window Nico could see the first hints of breath-fog from passing pedestrians. Rome’s warmth was gone now; the cold had arrived quietly and claimed its place.

Will leaned forward slightly, elbows brushing the edge of the table.

“We can still try that,” he said. “You know. The hand-holding thing. I used to see Lee play it with Michael all the time. They’d arrive somewhere together without looking back, like it was a challenge.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I guess you need a lot of trust for that.”

Nico tilted his head.

“Not to look back?” he asked, faintly amused.

Will nodded. “Albeit dramatic, but yeah—”

“Will,” Nico interrupted gently, “Lee was quoting an ancient myth.”

Will blinked. “What?”

“You know. Orpheus and Eurydice?”

The confusion on Will’s face was so complete that Nico couldn’t help it, he snorted quietly.

It had been a while since he’d talked about myths like this. Not to use them  strategically or in battle against monsters and emperors.. Just… because he liked them.

They were old stories. Older than Rome’s stones. Older than empires.

And somehow, he still remembered so many of them from when he’d been obsessed with Mythomagic cards as a child. Back when Hades had been his favorite, dark, powerful, misunderstood. If only he’d known how literal that preference would become.

Not many people knew about that phase. Percy did. Bianca had. Hazel. Jason.

Jason.

Nico’s stomach tightened faintly.

And Piper and Leo had probably figured it out too at some point—

Oh my god.

How did so many people know?

“Forget it,” Nico muttered quickly, suddenly aware he’d drifted.

“No, no.” Will leaned closer, interest lighting his features. “Tell me. What’s the myth about?”

The sincerity in his voice dissolved Nico’s instinct to retreat.

He exhaled slowly, then folded his hands together on the table.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you interrupt me by talking or with commentary, I’m leaving.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

Will grinned but gestured for him to continue.

Nico looked down at the faint reflection of the overhead light in his espresso cup before beginning.

“Orpheus,” he said, voice settling into something smoother, almost reverent, “was a musician The best of his time. Apollo is often cited as his father or mentor, he gave the legendary musician a golden lyre and taught him to play with such divine skill that he could charm nature, animals, and even move inanimate objects.”

Will’s eyes softened slightly at that.

“He fell in love with Eurydice,” Nico continued. “And she loved him. But she died. A snake bite, depending on the version.”

Will’s smile faded.

“So Orpheus did the only logical thing,” Nico said dryly. “He went to the Underworld.”

Will blinked. “Of course he did.”

“He played for Hades and Persephone,” Nico went on, ignoring that. “And his music was so beautiful that even the dead wept. Hades agreed to let Eurydice return to the world of the living.”

Will straightened slightly. “That’s… surprisingly generous.”

“There was a condition,” Nico added.

“Of course there was.”

Nico’s gaze flicked up, catching Will’s. “He had to walk ahead of her on the path back to the surface. And he was not allowed to look back at her. Not once. Not until they were both fully in the light.”

The restaurant noise seemed to dim around them.

“He walked,” Nico said quietly. “And he trusted that she was behind him. That she was following.”

Will didn’t speak now.

“But right before they reached the exit, right before the sunlight, he doubted. Just for a second. He turned around.” Nico’s fingers curled faintly against the table. “And she vanished.”

Silence settled between them.

“Gone,” Nico finished. “Forever.”

Will let out a slow breath.

“That’s brutal.”

“It’s Greek,” Nico replied lightly, though there was something distant in his eyes. “Happy endings are optional.”

Will studied him carefully.

“So the whole ‘don’t look back’ thing,” he said slowly, “is about trust.”

“Yes.”

“And doubt ruins it.”

“Usually.”

Will leaned back, processing that.

“And Lee was quoting that?” he asked.

“Unintentionally, probably,” Nico said. “But yes. It’s the same idea.”

Will shook his head softly. “That’s… kind of beautiful.”

“It’s tragic.”

“Tragic can still be beautiful.”

Nico huffed faintly at that.

Outside, a gust of wind swept down the street, rattling the window lightly. The cold was settling deeper now, claiming the night.

Will reached across the table without fully thinking about it and tapped Nico’s knuckles once.

“If we try it,” he said quietly, “I won’t look back.”

Nico’s breath caught—”Let’s hope you don’t,” he replied evenly.

Because he knew better than most what happened when someone did.

“Do you know more myths?” Will’s voice carried that unmistakable eagerness again, the kind that made Nico instinctively retreat.

“Yes,” Nico replied dryly, deliberately vague, lifting his espresso cup as though that concluded the discussion.

He hoped that would be enough. A short answer. A closed door.

If he looked nonchalant, if he shrugged it off, maybe Will wouldn’t press further. Wouldn’t lean in with that bright curiosity and ask him to unpack the parts of himself Nico kept buried.

Because Nico knew how this worked.

When the monster was out, no one could tame it.

If Will asked about myths, Nico would tell him. All of them. The obscure ones. The cruel ones. The ones he used to memorize when he was small and obsessed with Mythomagic cards, when gods had been colorful illustrations instead of distant, flawed parents. He would talk about strategy, symbolism, genealogies, tragic arcs—

And then Will would look at him differently.

Wouldn’t he?

No one cared about stupid kids and their beliefs. About boys who memorized ancient stories like lifelines. He would be weird. Too intense. Too strange. And Will would eventually step back.

And Nico would be alone again.

“Awh, come on, death boy,” Will coaxed gently, resting his chin briefly in his hand. “Spare me some time. Tell me another story?”

“Can’t you search them yourself?” Nico countered, raising an eyebrow.

“But I want to hear them from you.”

That did it.

The simplicity of it.

Not from a book. Not from a screen.

From you.

Nico inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose.

Damn you, Will Solace. Damn your charming voice and your infuriating kindness. Damn your stubborn streak that rivaled any hero in a tragedy.

“I doubt there’s many you don’t know,” Nico muttered.

Will shrugged lightly. “Camp doesn’t exactly own a vast library. And I was kind of busy trying not to let people bleed out.”

Fair point.

Nico’s mind sifted rapidly through possibilities.

Theseus? Too obvious.

Achilles? Overdone.

Icarus? Practically nursery-level.

Cupid and Psyche—absolutely not.

Tantalus? No. Too grotesque.

Gods, why were so many of the old myths so disturbingly violent?

His thoughts circled before landing somewhere softer.

He looked up at Will again.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll tell you about Baucis and Philemon.”

Will’s expression brightened immediately.

“Who?”

“An old couple,” Nico began, settling back slightly, fingers lacing together on the table as his voice took on that steady cadence again. “They lived in a small village. Poor. Forgotten. But kind.”

Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the glass. Inside, the lights cast warm halos over the wooden tables.

“One day,” Nico continued, “Zeus and Hermes decided to visit the village disguised as travelers. They knocked on door after door asking for food and shelter.”

“And?” Will prompted softly.

“And every single person turned them away.”

Will grimaced.

“Except Baucis and Philemon,” Nico said. “They welcomed them in. Even though they had almost nothing.”

He described the humble cottage, the cracked clay floor, the wooden table worn smooth by years of use. The simple meal: olives, bread, watered-down wine. How the old couple apologized for not having more.

“They gave everything they had,” Nico said quietly. “Without knowing they were hosting gods.”

Will listened without interrupting, elbows on the table now.

“At some point,” Nico continued, “they noticed the wine bowl refilling itself. No matter how much they poured, it remained full.”

Will’s brows lifted. “Subtle.”

“Very,” Nico replied dryly. “They realized who their guests were. And instead of asking for wealth or immortality or anything extravagant—”

“They asked for something small?” Will guessed.

Nico nodded.

“They asked to serve the gods as caretakers of their temple. And they asked that when one of them died… the other wouldn’t have to live without them.”

Will went very still.

“The gods agreed,” Nico finished. “When their time came, they were turned into two trees—an oak and a linden—growing side by side. Their branches intertwined.”

Silence lingered between them.

Outside, a car passed slowly down the street, headlights sweeping briefly across the window.

“That’s…” Will exhaled softly. “That’s beautiful.”

“It’s less violent than most,” Nico admitted.

“No,” Will said, shaking his head slightly. “It’s more than that.” Nico noticed how Wills studied him carefully, eyes roaming his face. “You always choose the ones about loyalty,” he observed.

Nico stiffened faintly. “I don’t choose them,” he said quickly. “They’re just less annoying.”

Will’s lips curved knowingly, but he didn’t push.

“I like hearing you tell them,” he said instead. “You make them feel… alive.”

The warmth in his voice made something inside Nico twist in a way that felt dangerously close to hope.

He looked down at his hands, pretending to inspect a faint smudge of espresso on his thumb. “It’s just stories,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Will replied softly. “But they matter to you.”

Nico didn’t answer that.

He couldn’t.

Because the truth was that they did.

And the more Will asked him to share them, the harder it became to keep pretending they didn’t.

***

“Hurry up, you giant sap!” Will shouted from the doorway.

Nico considered, briefly, the moral implications of strangling him with shadows.

“Gods, you’re insufferable,” he muttered instead, rolling his eyes as he combed his fingers through the last unruly strand of hair. He let his bangs fall loose around his face, the rest tied neatly into a low ponytail. The black trousers fit him sharply, and the dark green viscose button-up clung just enough to look intentional. Around his neck rested a thin silver chain, the small pendant engraved with a single B.

For Bianca.

At some point, some quiet, unceremonious moment, he had realized something important. He would miss her forever. That wouldn’t change. But grief did not demand eternal misery. He could remember her and still laugh. He could carry her and still breathe. The ache remained, yes, but it no longer devoured him whole.

He stepped out.

And immediately regretted it.

Will stood there in a white T-shirt and brown pants, wearing, of course, the ridiculous cowboy hat that read give me the sun. In his hand, he held the matching brown one, clearly intended for Nico. His shirt, as always, was scandalously unbuttoned at the top.

“Why can’t you ever dress normally?” Nico asked flatly.

Will didn’t answer.

He simply stared.

And then—

He glowed.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Actually glowed. Like a human lightstick someone had shaken too hard.

Nico blinked. “Will, why the fuck are you becoming a glowstick?”

Will dragged his hands down his face and shook his head quickly. “Nothing,” he squeaked.

The light dimmed.

Nico stared at him for a moment, weighing whether this was a medical emergency or the funniest thing he’d seen all week. A smirk betrayed him first.

“Well,” he said smoothly, stepping closer, “at least now I won’t lose you in the crowd. I’ll just follow the aggressively golden light.”

Will huffed. “Lamps are overrated.”

That did it.

Nico wheezed.

Actually wheezed, doubling over slightly, hand braced against the wall as laughter escaped him in broken bursts. Will looked absurdly pleased with himself.

“Careful, Neeks,” Will said smugly. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the concert.”

“Oh, please,” Nico shot back, straightening. “If anyone’s dramatic here, it’s you, Nightlight.”

Will froze.

“…Did you just call me Nightlight?”

Nico’s eyes glittered. “What? Only you get embarrassing nicknames?”

Will narrowed his eyes slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Will stepped forward and plopped the brown cowboy hat onto Nico’s head without warning.

Nico stiffened. “Solace.”

“Di Angelo.”

They stared at each other.

Nico reached up slowly… adjusted the brim…

“…I hate that this almost works,” he muttered.

Will beamed.

And for a brief moment, under the warm light spilling through the window, with ridiculous hats and silver pendants and laughter still hanging in the air, Nico didn’t feel like the ghost of a boy born in 1932.

He felt seventeen.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

To be friends with Will, to laugh with him, to stand beside him without the world ending, was enough.

It had to be.

Nico smiled, softer this time. “Come on. Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to be late, right?”

He offered his hand like it was nothing. Casual. Ordinary.

Will blinked in surprise, but he took it without hesitation. Their fingers laced together naturally, instinctively, as though they’d done it a hundred times before.

Nico’s pulse steadied.

He just needed to feel that Will was real. Solid. Warm. Here.

The contact grounded him in a way shadows never could. Even when his mind tried to whisper selfish things, dangerous things, he pushed them aside. This was enough. Friendship. Laughter. Shared myths and terrible cowboy hats.

This was enough.

“We need to practice,” Nico said lightly as they started walking. “For when we leave the concert.”

Will glanced at him. “Practice?”

“Holding hands properly,” Nico replied, tightening his grip slightly. “If we’re not supposed to look back.”

A faint smile tugged at Will’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Not looking back.”

They walked like that through the narrow Italian street, past warm-lit windows and the hum of evening voices, past the scent of fresh bread and distant music tuning up somewhere in the city.

Nico didn’t look back.

Not at the shadows stretching behind them.

Not at the things he had lost.

He focused on the warmth in his hand, on the steady rhythm of their steps, on the promise of music and noise and something almost normal.

For once, the past could wait.

***

“My boy!”

Naomi’s voice carried warmth like sunlight spilling across a stage. She swept toward Will in a shimmer of rhinestones and country glamour, sparkling hat tipped just so, boots catching the light, her outfit a cascade of silver-threaded fabric that moved like she was already mid-performance.

Her hair, light auburn brushed with blonde highlights, curled softly around her ears, framing a smile so bright it was almost blinding.

So very, very Solace.

She wrapped Will in a careful bear hug, mindful of makeup and costume, but fierce all the same. “I’m glad you came through the back, honey—” She pulled back just enough to look him over, hands on his shoulders. “Oh, look at you. Handsome as ever. I go on in twenty, so I only have a minute—”

And then she noticed Nico.

Her expression didn’t sour. It sharpened.

Recognition. Curiosity. Something observant and quietly assessing.

Nico suddenly felt like he was standing in the center of a spotlight he hadn’t agreed to. He straightened instinctively, heat creeping into his cheeks despite himself.

“Hello, Miss Solace,” he said politely, voice steady even if his pulse wasn’t. “I’m Nico.”

“Ah,” she said softly, and there it was again, that perceptive gleam. “Nico.”

She said his name like she was testing the weight of it.

“Will’s told me about you.”

Nico’s stomach betrayed him with a strange, twisting sensation. He didn’t dare look at Will.

Naomi stepped a little closer, not invasive, just warm. “I hope my son’s treating you right.”

There was humor in her tone. But something else, too. Sincerity.

Nico nodded. “He is.”

“Good,” she replied simply.

And then, before Nico could prepare for it, she pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t overwhelming. It wasn’t suffocating.

It was warm.

Stage-light warm. Summer-afternoon warm. The kind of warmth that didn’t ask questions, it simply pulled you in when you needed it. For a second, Nico froze. Then, hesitantly, he relaxed into it.

She smelled faintly of vanilla and hairspray and something floral he couldn’t name.

When she let go, the absence of it was immediate. Unexpected.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said gently. “I hope you enjoy the show.”

Nico managed a small nod. “I will.”

Naomi turned back to Will, adjusting the brim of his ridiculous hat with a mother’s practiced affection. “You,” she said, poking his chest lightly, “better take care of this one.”

Will blinked. “Mom—”

“I mean it,” she added, lowering her voice only slightly. “He’s lovely.”

If Nico had been warm before, he was incandescent now.

Will, meanwhile, looked like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said faintly.

Naomi grinned, satisfied. She stepped back, giving them one last sweeping look, assessing, approving, and then she was gone, already humming the opening lines of one of her songs as she disappeared down the corridor toward the stage lights.

Silence lingered for half a second.

“Nico,” Will said slowly, turning to him, “why are you redder than my mom’s glitter jacket?”

Nico narrowed his eyes immediately. “Shut up, Nightlight.”

Will stared. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

But despite the teasing, despite the embarrassment, despite the way his heart hadn’t quite settled, Nico felt… strangely steady.

Naomi Solace had looked at him and seen something worth smiling at.

And somehow, that felt almost as warm as the hand still holding his.

***

Their seats were perfect.

First row of the side section, elevated just enough to see everything without being swallowed by the crowd. Below them, the floor was a living ocean of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, nearly forty thousand people filling the stadium in a restless, humming mass. The air buzzed with anticipation, layered conversations, the crackle of speakers warming up.

Nico leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the railing in front of him. The metal was cool beneath his skin. Solid. Grounding.

He could see the entire stage from here, the sweeping runway that stretched into the crowd, the towering LED screens framed in steel, the rigging above holding intricate webs of lights and pyrotechnics. Massive speakers hung like dark monoliths. Everything felt enormous.

He felt enormous.

And small at the same time.

Beside him, Will adjusted his stupid cowboy hat, eyes bright in a way that rivaled the stage lights themselves. Nico pretended not to notice how often their shoulders brushed. Pretended not to like it.

Leo would never let him live this down.

The thought made Nico snort quietly to himself. If Leo ever found out he’d willingly attended a country-alt  concert in Italy, front row seats, no less, he’d weaponize it for eternity. Nico could already hear it.

Hey, Valdez, how’s the forge? Oh, nothing much. Just hung out backstage with a literal superstar last weekend.

He almost smiled at the imaginary argument.

The stadium lights dimmed.

Not gradually, suddenly.

Forty thousand voices dropped into a collective inhale. The darkness wasn’t complete; it shimmered faintly with glow bracelets, phone screens, tiny blinking LEDs like stars scattered across an artificial night sky.

The first thing nico saw? Fire.

Flames erupted along the front of the stage in controlled bursts, bright orange and gold, heat rolling outward in a wave Nico could feel even from their seats. Sparks shot upward in glittering arcs, falling like metallic rain. The smell of smoke and ignited fuel drifted through the air, sharp and electric.

The bass hit next.

A deep, vibrating pulse that traveled through the floor, through the railing, through Nico’s bones. His ribs hummed with it. His pulse tried to match it.

And then the spotlight snapped on.

Naomi Solace stepped into it like she’d been born there.

She didn’t just walk, she commanded the stage. Her boots struck the platform with rhythmic confidence, rhinestones catching the light in blinding flashes. The massive screens behind her magnified her presence, every smile, every tilt of her hat broadcasted larger than life.

Her grin was incandescent.

“Hello, Italy,” she drawled, Texas accent rich and unapologetic, voice carrying effortlessly across the stadium.

The crowd exploded.

The sound was overwhelming, not chaotic, but tidal. A roar that rose and crested and crashed over everything. Nico felt it physically press against him, vibrating through his chest, buzzing in his ears. He could smell sweat now, perfume, smoke, the faint sweetness of spilled soda somewhere below.

“Who’s ready for a show?”

The answering scream was deafening.

Nico blinked, heart racing, not from fear, but from awe.

He understood Apollo in that moment.

Not the arrogance. Not the ego.

But the light.

She radiated. Every movement precise yet effortless. 

Nico’s thoughts cut off the moment Naomi began to sing.

Her voice didn’t simply fill the stadium, it claimed it.

At camp, hearing her through speakers had been impressive. Clear. Polished. Controlled. But live? Live was something else entirely. The sound wrapped around the crowd like silk and thunder at once. It rose effortlessly, dipped low and smoky, then climbed again with a strength that made the air itself feel charged.

She opened with “Power.”

The first notes were slow, just a pulse of drums and a low guitar riff humming beneath her voice. The screens behind her flickered with streaks of gold and deep crimson, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. When the chorus hit, the lights exploded outward in synchronized beams, washing the stadium in molten amber.

The bass vibrated through Nico’s shoes, up his legs, into his chest. He felt it under his ribs. In his spine.

“Power” wasn’t loud for the sake of it. It was deliberate. Moving. A song about reclaiming yourself after being made small. Nico didn’t miss the irony.

He found himself nodding slightly to the rhythm, fingers tightening unconsciously around the railing. He liked this. The strength of it. The defiance.

He vibed with it more than he expected.

When she laughed between lyrics, it felt spontaneous. When she hit the first high note of the opening song, the stadium lights burst into synchronized gold beams that swept across the audience like sunlight breaking over a field.

Nico felt warmth spill over him again, this time from stage lights instead of hugs.

He watched the way her curls bounced as she moved, the way she reached toward the crowd like she could personally touch all forty thousand people at once. The scent of smoke faded, replaced by the metallic tang of pyrotechnics and the faint ozone smell from the lighting rigs.

Will was singing along beside him.

Not loudly, just enough that Nico could hear the familiar lyrics woven through the thunder of the crowd. His voice was steady. Soft.

Nico glanced sideways.

Will’s eyes were shining, not glowing this time, just shining, with pride. With something tender.

And Nico felt it again. That strange, swelling sensation in his chest. Not jealousy. Not confusion.

Understanding.

Naomi was brilliant.

But she wasn’t his type.

Well—maybe objectively she was beautiful. He wasn’t blind. But she was a girl, and that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? From as far back as he could remember, it had been boys. Always boys. Even when he didn’t have the words for it in 1932. Even when he tried not to think about it at camp.

He didn’t look at Naomi the way the crowd did.

He looked at Will.

At the way the stage lights reflected gold in his hair. At the way his fingers tapped against Nico’s hand in time with the music. At the warmth still shared between their palms.

The bass dropped again, harder this time, and fireworks erupted above the stadium, bursting into white and gold blossoms against the night sky.

Ash drifted faintly through the air like soft snow.

Nico inhaled smoke and electricity and sugar and summer heat.

Song after song followed, some fast, some playful, some softer with only acoustic guitar and spotlight. Naomi moved across the stage like she belonged to every inch of it. Flames burst at the edge of choruses; silver sparks cascaded down during bridges; colored lights swept across the audience in waves of pink, blue, and gold.

At one point, confetti cannons shot thin strips of shimmering paper into the air. A few pieces drifted high enough to reach their section. One landed on Nico’s sleeve, metallic silver, warm from the stage lights. He brushed it between his fingers before letting it fall.

Then the stage shifted.

The lights dimmed to a cooler blue.

Naomi stepped to the center runway alone, hat tipped lower this time. The screens behind her faded into an image of rain sliding down glass. The crowd quieted instinctively.

“I wrote this one a while back,” she said softly. “It’s called ‘It’s Raining Here in Georgia.’”

The first chords were gentle. Acoustic. Almost fragile.

When Nico glanced at Will, the shift in him was immediate.

The brightness in his posture had softened. His jaw was set just slightly tighter. His fingers, still laced with Nico’s, stilled completely.

Maybe it was just the tone of the song, melancholic, heavy with longing.

Or maybe it meant something more.

Nico didn’t ask. Not now.

Naomi’s voice carried differently in this one, less commanding, more exposed. It trembled at the edges in a way that felt intentional, like she was allowing the cracks to show.

“Draw another line, say a quick goodbye,
Nothing special on the table, I know.
Will you stay regardless?”

Her voice dipped lower, almost pleading.

“Begging someone please,
Hear me, hear me, hear me.
See me, see me, see me.
Hear me out, just this once…”

The stadium was silent. Forty thousand people holding their breath.

“Never cared to take the time, baby,
Look at me like that…”

Nico felt something tighten painfully in his chest.

“Don’t tell me, I know, I know, I know,
That the boy who loved me got lost, lost, lost.
And I’m not enough, enough, enough,
But I’ll try to make it not feel like the worst.”

The final word lingered in the air, stretched thin and aching.

Nico swallowed.

He didn’t cry. He refused to.

But the lyrics settled somewhere deep and uncomfortable inside him. The fear of being left. Of not being enough. Of someone you loved becoming unreachable.

He thought of Bianca.

He thought of the Underworld. 

He thought of Percy.

And, he thought, briefly, traitorously, of the way Will’s fingers had gone still during the line about the boy who loved me got lost.

He turned his head slightly, studying Will’s profile in the cool blue light. The stage glow painted his features softer. Thoughtful. Sad.

Nico’s thumb brushed faintly against the back of Will’s hand. Small. Grounding.

He didn’t say anything.

The music swelled toward the bridge, violins rising beneath the melody, drums building slowly like distant thunder. The scent of artificial rain machines, clean and misty, drifted faintly into the air from the stage effects.

Naomi hit the final chorus stronger this time, not pleading, but resolute.

The crowd erupted in applause as the last note faded.

Nico exhaled only then, realizing he’d been holding his breath.

He leaned slightly closer to Will, not enough to draw attention, just enough to share warmth in the cool wash of blue lights.

He’d ask later.

Maybe.

For now, he just listened to the echo of the lyrics lingering in his chest, and tried not to let them carve too deep.

The stage warmed again, gold bleeding into amber, amber into soft white. The screens behind Naomi filled with slow-moving sunlight through trees, dust motes suspended in beams of light like captured stars.

The first guitar notes of “My Little Bit of Sunshine” rang out, clear, bright, almost tender.

Nico felt it before he even looked.

Will.

He turned his head just slightly.

Will’s entire face had changed. The sadness from before had dissolved into something softer, something luminous. His smile wasn’t wide or loud; it was quiet and steady, like it belonged there. Like the song had settled into him naturally.

Leo had once teased that the song was written for Will.

Will had denied nothing. Confirmed nothing. Just rolled his eyes and told Leo to stop being weird about his mom.

But watching him now, Nico knew.

“Oh, where have you been, my little sunshine?
Oh, I have missed you, my blue-eyed one…”

Naomi’s voice wrapped around the lyrics like velvet, rich and glowing. The melody carried a wandering feeling, like long roads and distant horizons, but it always circled back to warmth.

The stage lights stretched outward in long golden rays that swept over the crowd. When they passed over their section, Nico felt their heat kiss his skin. The air smelled faintly sweet again, something like warmed sugar and smoke.

“I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve gleaming lakes,
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on the sun’s hot temper…”

The imagery painted itself behind her in soft animations, lakes shimmering under moonlight, forests swaying in wind, city skylines rising tall and lonely.

Will’s fingers tightened around Nico’s hand during the line about the graveyard.

Nico noticed.

He always noticed.

“And what did you hear, little sunshine?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?”

The drums deepened here, mimicking distant thunder. The sound rolled across the stadium like an approaching storm, but Naomi’s voice cut through it, steady and unwavering.

“I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’…
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’…”

The crowd swayed gently, phone lights raised now, tiny constellations flickering in response. Nico watched the glow reflect in Will’s eyes. They really were blue. Not just blue, clear. Almost translucent under certain light.

When the lyric came—

“And it’s the day I saw you, that I understood,
The only love I need is from you.”

—Will exhaled quietly.

Not obvious.

But Nico felt it.

The final verse softened further, instruments fading until only piano and voice remained.

“Photokinesis is a myth, but for those I exist,
And you, my light, I love.
My light, with blue eyes.
My blue-eyed sunshine.”

The stadium didn’t erupt this time.

It breathed.

A collective, softened sigh from forty thousand people suspended in warmth.

Nico swallowed.

He understood Apollo again.

Not the chaos. Not the ego.

The devotion.

If light were a person, Naomi Solace might be just it. And if it was something, it might look like this. Might sound like this. Might feel like Will standing beside him, hand warm and steady, face illuminated by something more than stage effects.

Nico glanced at him again.

Will wasn’t looking at the stage anymore.

He was looking at the crowd, at the lights, at the sea of people singing along. But there was something introspective in his expression. Something thoughtful.

Nico wondered, briefly, if Apollo had blessed Naomi.

Or if she’d simply been brilliant on her own.

Either way, she was hypnotizing.

The last chord faded into a sustained hum, and golden confetti rained down like fragments of sunlight. A piece landed in Will’s hair.

Without thinking, Nico reached up and brushed it away.

His fingers lingered for half a second too long.

Will blinked at him, surprised, but he smiled.

And Nico, standing in a stadium bathed in artificial sun, realized that even when shadows called for him to survive, wherever he was with Will, It already felt like standing in the light.

***

“Yeahhh,” Naomi drawled, swirling the wine lazily in her glass. The liquid caught the lamplight, deep ruby against crystal. “Beyoncé is such an icon. The control? The stage presence? Untouchable.”

Will grinned around a mouthful of pasta. “You say that every time someone mentions her.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” Naomi replied easily. “Consistency is important.”

They had meant to attend the official after party, some glittering rooftop thing full of industry people and camera flashes, but when Naomi suggested a quiet dinner upstairs instead, Will hadn’t even hesitated. His shoulders had relaxed immediately, tension melting away.

So now they were in Naomi’s hotel suite.

It was large but not gaudy, cream-colored walls, tall windows overlooking the city lights, gauzy curtains shifting slightly with the air conditioning. A small dining table had been set near the windows. Candlelight flickered between plates of pasta, fresh bread, olive oil, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of red wine already half-empty.

The scent of garlic, basil, and warm bread hung comfortably in the air.

Backstage earlier had been chaos, crew members darting around with headsets, cables snaking across the floor, the metallic scent of stage smoke still clinging to everything. The band had practically mobbed Will.

“Look at you!” the drummer had laughed, pulling him into a side hug. “You were this tall when we first met!”

Will had remembered every single one of them. Names. Stories. Inside jokes from tour buses when he’d been small enough to fall asleep on stacked equipment cases.

It had been… soft. Familiar.

Nico had watched it all quietly, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

And then Naomi had appeared, kissed Will’s cheek without smudging her makeup, and said, “Dinner. Both of you. Non-negotiable.”

Nico hadn’t even tried to protest.

Now, Naomi leaned back in her chair, studying Will over the rim of her glass. “So,” she asked casually, “what’s your father up to these days?”

Nico nearly choked on his water.

Will, however, only laughed. “Oh, Mom.”

“What?” Naomi smiled innocently.

Will set down his fork. “He’s… better. Since Zeus turned him mortal for a while.” He shrugged lightly, as though that were a normal sentence. “He actually liked parts of it. Volunteering. Charity work. He still does some of that now. And he visits camp more often.”

Naomi’s expression softened at once.

“Your dad was always kind,” she said gently. “Even when he had the ego of a god who’s been called ‘the most beautiful being in existence.’”

Will snorted. “That tracks.”

“And well,” she added with a fond shake of her head, “he is the sun itself. That does things to a person.”

Will’s smile turned quieter. Fonder.

Nico watched the exchange carefully, the ease between them, the lack of bitterness. Naomi wasn’t naïve. She knew exactly who Apollo was. But there was no venom in her voice.

Just memory.

She turned to Nico then, perceptive as ever. “And you, Nico? Are you enjoying Italy?”

Her tone was gentle. Intentional.

She didn’t ask about his father.

Didn’t pry.

“Will told me you’re native.”

Nico nodded faintly. “Yes. I am.” His accent softened naturally here, vowels rounding in a way they didn’t in English. “It’s… strange. Familiar, but not.”

Naomi tilted her head slightly, understanding more than he’d said aloud.

“That makes sense,” she said quietly.

Nico hesitated, then took the opportunity. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“What was ‘It’s Raining Here in Georgia’ about?” he asked carefully. “I really liked it.”

Will glanced at his mom, curiosity flickering there too.

Naomi’s fingers paused against her wine glass. For a moment, the city lights reflected in her eyes.

“When I got pregnant with Will,” she began slowly, “my family didn’t handle it well.”

The air shifted, still warm, but heavier.

“I was young. Not married. And the father…” She gave a small, wry smile. “Well. I didn’t exactly know he was a god at the time.”

Will coughed lightly into his fist. “Minor detail.”

Naomi reached across and squeezed his hand briefly.

“They worried,” she continued. “About reputation. About money. About what people would say. I remember sitting at our kitchen table back home in Georgia, rain hitting the windows so hard it felt like the house might float away.” Her voice softened. “I felt very alone.”

Nico listened intently.

“The song isn’t just about romantic love,” she said. “It’s about that fear of not being enough. Of asking someone to stay when you think they might not. Of loving something so fiercely that it terrifies you.”

She looked at Will then, really looked at him.

“But the day he was born?” Her smile broke fully. “I understood something. I didn’t need anyone else’s approval. He was enough. More than enough.”

Silence followed, but not awkward.

Warm.

Will shifted slightly, clearly embarrassed but smiling anyway. “Okay, wow. Emotional.”

Naomi laughed softly. “You survived.”

Nico felt something tight in his chest loosen.

“Gods can be complicated,” Naomi added, swirling her wine again. “They’re brilliant. Powerful. But rarely present in the ways mortals need.”

“Gods, indeed,” Nico said quietly, a knowing edge in his voice.

Naomi caught it.

Her gaze sharpened just slightly, not probing, but aware.

“Well,” she said after a moment, lifting her glass, “here’s to the complicated ones.”

Will raised his water.

Nico hesitated only a second before lifting his own.

“To complicated gods,” Will amended.

“And the children who survive them,” Naomi finished gently.

Their glasses clinked.

Outside, the lights of Italy shimmered against the dark sky. The faint hum of traffic drifted upward, distant and steady. The candle between them flickered, casting soft gold over the table.

For a moment, Nico allowed himself to sit in it, the warmth, the safety, the quiet understanding.

Not all families were perfect.

But this one, might as well be.

This one felt real. 

That was all Nico needed it to be.

They had drifted into easier conversation after the toast, music, touring disasters, the time Will had tried to climb stage scaffolding at age six and had to be bribed down with apple juice. The candles had burned lower, wax pooling at their bases. Outside the tall windows, Rome glittered in soft gold, traffic moving like slow rivers of light beneath the dark sky.

Naomi leaned back in her chair, studying Nico with the same thoughtful sharpness she’d shown backstage, only softer now, warmed by wine and familiarity. The lamplight caught the subtle shimmer of her eye makeup, though most of the stage glamour had faded. She looked less like a star and more like a mother at the end of a long day.

“Nico,” she said gently, tilting her head, “you’re very handsome.”

Nico blinked.

It wasn’t said teasingly. It wasn’t dramatic. Just simple. Observational.

“Honestly, that green suits you beautifully,” she continued, gesturing lightly toward his shirt. “It brings out your eyes. No wonder Will—”

“MOM!” Will nearly knocked over his water glass in his haste to interrupt. His ears went bright red, matching the mortified expression on his face. “Stop. Right now.”

Naomi’s lips curved slowly, wickedly amused. “What? I was going to say no wonder you insisted on wearing that color palette lately.”

Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

Nico, meanwhile, sat very still.

Will what?

Now that was interesting.

He folded his hands loosely in his lap, feigning calm, though his curiosity prickled like static along his skin. “Sorry,” he said lightly, voice smooth, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Naomi laughed, a warm, musical sound that felt less like mockery and more like indulgence. “Ah, ah. Not my place to talk,” she said, lifting her wine again. “Some discoveries are best left to the young.”

Will shot her a betrayed look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

And just like that, the topic dissolved. Naomi pivoted gracefully to a story about a disastrous wardrobe malfunction in Nashville, and the moment passed as if it hadn’t held weight.

But it had.

Because Naomi Solace (radiant, famous, perceptive Naomi Solace) had called him handsome.

Nico stared down at the flickering candlelight reflected in the polished table surface, trying to process that. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew he wasn’t hideous. But handsome? Gorgeous, almost implied in her tone?

He had dark circles under his eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. His hair was long and perpetually a little unruly. His skin had never quite shaken that Underworld pallor.

He looked like someone carved out of shadow.

Surely it had been the wine.

That had to be it.

He glanced up, just briefly, and caught Will looking at him.

Not casually.

Not distractedly.

Looking.

There was a small smile playing at the corner of Will’s mouth. Not teasing. Not smug.

Something softer.

“Something the matter, Neeks?” Will asked quietly.

The nickname, said so naturally, tugged Nico out of his spiraling thoughts.

He shook his head once, controlled. “No.”

But he didn’t look away immediately this time.

The candlelight cast gold across Will’s features, warming the blue of his eyes into something almost oceanic. There was still a faint flush lingering high on his cheeks from earlier embarrassment. His hair caught the light like spun sunlight.

Nico felt heat rise to his own face and immediately dropped his gaze, reaching for his glass just to have something to do with his hands.

“Good,” Will said after a moment, still watching him. “You were staring.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“You started it.”

Naomi observed the exchange over the rim of her glass, saying nothing, though the knowing curve of her mouth returned.

The room felt warmer than before. Or maybe that was just Nico’s pulse.

Outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance before fading into the hum of the city. The candle between them flickered again, shadows dancing briefly across the walls, shadows that felt softer tonight, less consuming.

Nico wasn’t sure what unsettled him more.

Naomi’s compliment.

Or the fact that Will hadn’t contradicted it.

“So,” she said, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into olive oil, “tell me something fun. I’ve talked about myself enough tonight. Camp gossip. I want updates.”

Will groaned softly. “Mom.”

“What? I’m invested. I practically co-parent that place emotionally.”

Nico huffed a quiet laugh.

“Well,” Will said, leaning back, “the strawberry fields are doing great. The Hermes cabin tried to ‘improve’ irrigation again.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “And by improve, you mean?”

“They flooded half of Cabin Nine,” Nico supplied dryly.

Naomi gasped. “No.”

“Yes,” Nico continued, deadpan. “There was a canoe involved. Indoors.”

Will pointed at him. “Okay, but that part was impressive.”

“You encouraged them.”

“I did not.”

“I heard you saying ‘that's awesome!’ to Cecil.”

Naomi watched them bicker with poorly concealed delight. “Oh, I love this. Keep going.”

Will rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Fine. What about you, Nico? Any dramatic Underworld updates? Earthquakes? Ghost unions forming?”

Nico pretended to consider it. “The ghosts are negotiating better haunting hours. Work-life balance is important.”

Naomi snorted into her wine. “See? This is the content I miss.”

Will leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Mom still thinks all ghosts do is brood.”

“I do not,” Naomi protested.

“You do,” Will and Nico said in unison.

She placed a hand over her chest. “I am wounded.”

“You raised him,” Nico pointed out mildly, nodding toward Will.

“That explains so much,” Naomi replied solemnly.

Will looked between them, betrayed. “Wow. Okay. I see how it is.”

The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. The kind that filled the room without echoing too loudly.

After a moment, Naomi’s expression shifted into something more curious than teasing. “Alright,” she said, tapping her fingers lightly against the glass. “Serious question.”

Will immediately looked suspicious. “Why.”

“I just want to know things,” she said innocently. Then she looked at Nico. “What do you like to do when you’re not saving the world?”

“I… read,” he said after a moment. “Myths, old ones, mostly. And I compare them to modern ones.” And daydream of my lost mythomagic cards.

Naomi’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I love that. Stories evolve. They survive because they adapt.”

Will nodded. “He recites them, too. Very dramatically.”

“I do not.”

“You just did it earlier!”

Naomi leaned forward, chin in hand. “Favorite one?”

Nico hesitated only briefly. “Orpheus and Eurydice.”

Will gave him a knowing look but didn’t comment.

Naomi nodded slowly. “Ah. The tragedy of looking back.”

Nico met her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

The moment hovered, but didn’t grow heavy. Naomi seemed to sense the edge and gently stepped away from it.

“Alright,” she said brightly, shifting again. “Next question. If neither of you were demigods, what would you be?”

Will answered immediately. “Doctor.”

Nico blinked. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

Will shrugged. “I like fixing things.”

Naomi’s smile softened.

“And you?” she asked Nico.

He considered it more seriously. The candlelight flickered against his thoughtful expression. “Historian,” he said at last. “Or archivist. Someone who preserves what people forget.”

Naomi’s gaze warmed. “That fits you.”

Will nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

Nico felt that strange warmth again, less startling now. Just steady.

Naomi leaned back, satisfied. “You know,” she added casually, “I’m glad he’s not alone out there.”

Will frowned slightly. “Mom.”

“I mean it,” she continued, looking between them. “Camp is wonderful, but it’s dangerous. The world is complicated. It matters who stands beside you.”

Nico held her gaze. There was no accusation there. No interrogation.

Just quiet gratitude.

“We manage,” he said simply.

Will bumped his shoulder lightly against Nico’s. “We do.”

Naomi smiled at that, lifting her glass one last time before setting it aside for good. “Good,” she said softly. “That’s all a mother really wants to hear.”

Outside, the city continued humming under the night sky. Inside, the candles burned lower, the conversation drifting into small stories and shared teasing, normal, light, almost ordinary.

And for a while, it was just that.

Ordinary.

***

The hallway outside Naomi’s suite felt softer somehow, quieter than it had earlier, when crew members and security had been moving in brisk patterns. Now it was late. The carpet swallowed their footsteps, thick and muted beneath their shoes. Warm wall sconces cast low golden halos along the corridor, stretching their shadows long and thin behind them.

Neither of them spoke.

Not because something was wrong.

Just… full.

The door clicked shut behind them with a gentle finality. The distant hum of the hotel’s air system filled the silence as they walked toward the elevators. Nico could still faintly smell garlic and wine on his sleeves, mixed with the lingering trace of stage smoke that seemed permanently woven into Will’s clothes.

They stopped in front of the elevator.

A soft chime sounded somewhere above. The numbers glowed in descending order.

Will stood beside him, hands in his pockets now, cowboy hat gone, (thank the gods) tucked under his arm. His shoulders had relaxed fully, the bright, public version of him dimmed into something quieter. Human. Tired.

Nico glanced sideways.

Will’s hair was slightly mussed from the evening. There was a faint smudge of eyeliner at the corner of his eye, probably from hugging his mom earlier. He looked softer like this. Less radiant sun, more late-afternoon glow.

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth metallic whisper.

Inside, the space was lined with brushed brass and mirrored panels, the lighting subdued and warm. A faint instrumental version of some pop song played overhead, barely audible beneath the hum of the machinery.

They stepped in.

The doors closed.

For a moment, all Nico could hear was the gentle whir of cables pulling them upward and the quiet shift of weight as Will leaned back lightly against the railing.

Nico pressed their floor number.

The ascent began.

He watched their reflections in the mirrored walls, two figures standing close but not touching. The lighting inside the elevator painted their skin in amber tones. Nico’s green shirt looked deeper in this light, almost forest-dark. Will’s white T-shirt glowed faintly.

“Your mom’s nice,” Nico had said earlier, back in the hallway.

It hadn’t been elaborate. It hadn’t needed to be.

Will had hummed in response. A small sound. Content.

Now, in the elevator, the silence wasn’t awkward. It was dense with the weight of the day, the concert’s thunder still echoing faintly in Nico’s ears, the emotional undercurrent of dinner lingering like the last note of a song.

He could still picture Naomi under the stage lights.

He could still hear the lyrics.

He could still feel the warmth of that hug.

The elevator passed another floor. The number glowed softly above the door.

Will shifted slightly beside him, their shoulders brushing for just a second. The contact was brief but deliberate enough to be noticeable.

Neither of them commented on it.

Nico let his gaze drift again to their reflection.

They looked… older tonight. Not in age. In experience. As if something subtle had settled into place between them. No dramatic declarations. No confessions.

Just shared space.

The elevator slowed with a faint mechanical sigh.

A gentle ding.

The doors slid open to their floor.

The hallway here was even quieter than the one below. Most guests were likely asleep. The lighting was dimmer, cooler. The air smelled faintly of linen and polished wood.

They stepped out together.

Their footsteps echoed slightly now, less muffled than before. Nico felt the fatigue settle more heavily into his limbs as the adrenaline of the night fully drained away. His ears rang faintly from the concert. His chest still carried a ghost of the bass.

They walked side by side toward their room.

Will yawned softly, not bothering to hide it this time.

“Long day,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Nico agreed quietly.

They reached their door.

Will pulled out the key card, slid it in. A soft green light blinked. The lock clicked open.

For a split second, before stepping inside, Nico glanced down the empty hallway behind them.

No shadows creeping. No looming danger. No ghosts whispering at the edges of his mind.

Just a hotel corridor in Italy.

He stepped into the room.

And the door closed gently behind them.

***

Nico woke to the unmistakable sensation of the world tilting beneath him.

At first, he thought he was still dreaming. The ceiling above him seemed to shift in slow, nauseating circles, the pale plaster blurring at the edges as though someone had set the entire room gently spinning. His stomach dipped in response, and he shut his eyes again, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.

That had been a mistake.

The pounding behind his temples made itself known immediately, low at first, then insistent. A deep, rhythmic ache that felt almost synchronized with his heartbeat. He inhaled carefully. The air in the room carried a stale sweetness, faint but present, grapes and something oaky beneath it.

Wine.

The memory didn’t arrive with clarity. It hovered instead, frustratingly out of reach.

He forced himself upright.

The movement was too quick. His vision flickered, the dim sunlight filtering through the curtains suddenly too bright. The suite was washed in a muted gold glow, the kind that suggested the day was already well underway. The light didn’t feel gentle; it felt accusatory.

Nico swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The carpet felt unusually soft under his bare feet, almost unstable. He stood and immediately the room lurched sideways.

He caught himself on the nightstand, fingers digging into polished wood as his balance betrayed him. The mechanical clock on the bedside table ticked steadily, indifferent to his suffering. Each tiny click sounded amplified, metallic, sharp against his skull.

He swallowed.

His mouth was dry. Desert dry. His tongue felt thick and unfamiliar.

Slowly, carefully, he lay back down.

The ceiling resumed its slow rotation.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, pressing the heel of his palm against one eye. The pressure helped marginally. Not enough.

He tried to retrace the previous night. Dinner with Naomi. Laughter. Conversation. Will glowing in that quiet, proud way he did when his mother looked at him like that.

After that?

A blank stretch.

He rolled onto his side and glanced down at himself.

He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

The same dark shirt. The same jeans. Slightly wrinkled now. He frowned at the fabric, tugging at the hem as though it might offer an explanation. He never slept in jeans. Ever. They were uncomfortable, restrictive. He preferred loose clothes, something he could curl into.

So why—

He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to remember undressing.

Nothing.

After nearly an hour of drifting in and out of shallow, aching half-sleep, the headache dulled just enough to become survivable. It remained a heavy presence behind his eyes, but no longer sharp enough to pin him to the mattress.

With deliberate slowness, he pushed himself upright once more.

This time, he waited before standing.

The room stayed mostly still.

Encouraged, he stood carefully and padded toward the bathroom. The mirror above the sink greeted him with a version of himself that looked… suspicious.

His hair was a mess, curls flattened on one side and sticking out on the other. There was a faint crease along his cheek from the pillowcase. His skin looked slightly pale—more than usual, and his eyes were faintly bloodshot.

He leaned closer to the mirror.

He smelled it more clearly now. The faint trace of alcohol clinging to his breath.

Nico froze.

He exhaled experimentally.

Yes.

Wine.

His mind raced.

No. That didn’t make sense. He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t just drink to the point of blackout without remembering it. Not casually. Not here.

He turned on the faucet and splashed cool water over his face. The shock of it helped, grounding him slightly. Droplets slid down his neck, soaking into the collar of yesterday’s shirt.

He stripped out of his clothes slowly, each movement measured, as though moving too quickly might dislodge whatever fragile balance he’d regained. The denim felt heavier than usual as he peeled it off. He stepped into clean clothes, soft black joggers, a loose gray shirt. The familiar comfort settled against his skin like reassurance.

Still, unease lingered.

When he opened the bedroom door and stepped into the common area of the suite, he wasn’t prepared.

The room itself was neat. The curtains half-drawn, letting in wide swaths of afternoon light. The couch cushions were aligned. No overturned furniture. No chaos.

Just the table.

Four empty wine bottles stood there like silent witnesses.

Nico stopped walking.

His brain stalled.

“…Oh.”

He blinked.

“Oh shit.”

He took two careful steps closer, as though the bottles might vanish if he moved too fast. They didn’t.

They were real.

He reached out and pinched his own forearm, hard.

Pain bloomed instantly.

Still real.

Four bottles. All empty. Laid neatly on their sides near a pair of abandoned wine glasses, one tipped slightly, leaving a faint crescent stain on the wood.

His gaze dropped to the labels.

Recognition struck immediately.

The first bottle bore the elegant cream label of Antinori Tignanello—a Super Tuscan he’d seen in upscale restaurants. Expensive. Smooth. Strong.

The second was Ornellaia Bolgheri Superiore, deep red with gold script. Definitely not cheap.

The third, unmistakable: Sassicaia. Even he knew that name. Legendary.

The fourth bottle lay slightly apart, its label facing upward—Gaja Barbaresco.

Nico stared at them in disbelief.

These weren’t random supermarket wines. These were curated. Selected.

And emptied.

His mind tried to assemble a timeline.

Dinner. Conversation. Naomi had mentioned something about celebrating. Had someone suggested opening a bottle? One bottle would have made sense. A toast.

But four?

His stomach churned slightly.

Didn’t Will dislike alcohol? He’d said that before. Said he didn’t really care for it. Besides, Naomi wouldn’t have encouraged it—not like this. Not until he was older. He was almost eighteen, yes. Nico was nearly seventeen. Technically still underage.

Then again…

Camp.

At camp, things had been… different. Demigods lived with the quiet understanding that longevity wasn’t guaranteed. Celebrations came when they could. Wine had appeared on occasion, diluted, passed carefully between friends around a fire.

But this— This was something else.

He glanced around the room again, searching for further evidence of chaos. There were no shattered glasses. No stains on the carpet. No signs of argument or recklessness.

It looked… controlled.

Which somehow unsettled him more.

His gaze flicked toward Will’s closed bedroom door.

Silence.

Was he still asleep?

Nico turned toward the mechanical clock positioned at the center of the suite’s wall. Its brass hands gleamed in the light.

2:07 PM.

His stomach dropped.

They had gone to bed at what hour, exactly? He tried to recall checking the time last night. Midnight? One? Later?

Fragments teased him. Laughter. A warmth in his chest. Will’s hand gripping his shoulder. Someone saying, “Just one more.”

But the pieces refused to connect.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, thinking harder, as though sheer effort could force memory back into place.

Had something happened?

Had they argued?

No. The room didn’t carry that tension. It felt calm. Ordinary. Almost deceptively so.

Then why couldn’t he remember?

He crouched slightly, examining the bottles again as though they might whisper answers.

Four.

Had they really drunk that much?

Or—

A colder thought slipped in.

Had someone else been here?

He straightened abruptly, scanning the suite with sharper awareness now. The air felt heavier. Too still.

He listened carefully.

Nothing but the faint hum of air conditioning and the steady ticking of the clock.

Still.

His reflection in the darkened television screen caught his eye. Pale. Uneasy.

“What the fuck happened?” he whispered to the empty room.

The question lingered there, unanswered, stretching between him and the closed door down the hall.

Nico stood there for another long moment in the middle of the suite, staring at the bottles as though they might rearrange themselves into an explanation. When they stubbornly refused, he exhaled slowly and dragged a hand down his face.

He needed to reset.

Water. Toothpaste. Clean clothes. Something solid and ordinary.

Without glancing again at Will’s closed door, he turned and walked back into his room. The carpet felt steadier now, though the headache still pulsed faintly behind his eyes. He shut the door quietly, soft click, controlled, and leaned against it for a second.

Even if Will was awake in there, even if he walked out right now, Nico wasn’t going to face him like this. Not with wine on his breath, yesterday’s clothes, and whatever expression of vague panic he was currently wearing.

No.

Shower first.

The bathroom lights flicked on, bright and almost intrusive. He winced but didn’t turn them off. Instead, he twisted the shower handle and let the water run, watching steam slowly begin to curl upward as the temperature warmed.

When he stepped under it, the heat wrapped around him instantly, comforting, steady, grounding. It slid over his shoulders and down his back, easing the tightness in his muscles. He closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, letting the water soak into his hair.

Okay.

Think.

It was obvious he’d been drunk. That much required no detective work. The headache, the dry mouth, the missing memories, the four empty bottles in the other room, it all aligned too cleanly.

But had Will been drunk too?

That was the question.

Because if Will hadn’t been drinking, if he’d stayed clear-headed, then this was fine. Completely fine. Will would remember. He’d explain everything calmly, probably with that soft half-smile, maybe a teasing comment about Nico’s low tolerance.

That would be manageable.

Hopefully.

Nico dragged a hand through his wet hair and reached for the shampoo. The familiar scent filled the small space, sharp and clean. He worked it into his scalp methodically, fingers pressing lightly as though he could scrub the fog out of his thoughts.

But another possibility crept in.

What if Will did remember?

And Nico had said something.

Or done something.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh, gods,” he muttered under his breath, water nearly swallowing the words.

A chain of curse words followed in rapid succession, quiet but heartfelt. His mind raced through worst-case scenarios with ruthless efficiency.

What if he’d gotten emotional? What if he’d over-shared? What if he’d confessed something dramatic and humiliating? What if he’d started rambling about camp, about mortality, about feelings he preferred to keep folded neatly away?

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

He wasn’t dumb. Even drunk, he wasn’t completely reckless. He knew that about himself. He didn’t lose all sense of control.

Right?

He leaned his forehead briefly against the cool tile wall.

What stupid thing was there even to say?

That Will was pretty?

Well. That was objectively true.

That Nico was pretty gay?

Also not groundbreaking information.

It wasn’t like he’d declared undying love or anything absurd like that.

It wasn’t like he liked Will.

The thought slid in quietly.

He rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, watching suds spiral toward the drain.

It wasn’t like that.

Will was… Will. Bright. Loud. Warm. Good in a way that made Nico both comfortable and uneasy. But that didn’t automatically translate into—

He reached for the soap, scrubbing at his arms with slightly more force than necessary.

He was just overthinking because he couldn’t remember.

That was the real issue.

Memory loss made everything feel bigger than it probably was.

The water continued to run warm over him, steady and constant. Gradually, the pounding in his head eased further, fading from sharp ache to dull pressure. His breathing evened out. His thoughts slowed just enough to become coherent again instead of spiraling.

If something catastrophic had happened, the suite wouldn’t look so normal.

There wouldn’t be neatly placed wine bottles. There wouldn’t be silence.

There would be signs.

Probably.

He sighed and shut off the water.

The sudden quiet felt heavy after the constant rush. Steam fogged the mirror completely now, softening the room’s edges. He stepped out carefully, wrapping a towel around his waist and rubbing another through his hair.

His reflection slowly emerged as he wiped a clear patch into the fogged mirror with his palm.

He looked more like himself now. Cleaner. Less haunted.

His hair curled damply around his face, longer than he liked. He tilted his head, examining it critically.

He needed to cut it soon.

Before it started falling into his eyes constantly.

Before Will made another comment about him being able to do a hairflip.

The thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

He brushed his teeth thoroughly, as if determined to erase every trace of last night. Mint flooded his senses, sharp and clean, replacing the lingering sweetness of wine.

After drying off completely, he pulled on his comfortable sweatpants, soft, worn-in gray, and a plain black shirt that hung loosely on his frame. The fabric felt reassuring. Familiar. Like armor, but softer.

When he stepped back into the bedroom, fully dressed, he paused.

The suite beyond the door was still quiet.

Will’s door was still closed.

Nico inhaled slowly.

Okay.

He was clean. Presentable. Functional.

Whatever had happened last night, he could face it now.

Probably.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Will’s voice drifted across the suite with that effortless warmth he carried like a second skin. Nico had barely taken three steps out of his room before he saw him—already dressed, already composed, already irritatingly functional.

Shorts.

In winter.

Nico physically grimaced.

Will sat cross-legged on the sofa, a pencil tucked behind his ear, a small book resting in his hands. Not a novel. Not anything dramatic. A sudoku book. Of course. The soft scratch of graphite filled the quiet room as he filled in another square.

“Slept well?” Will added, glancing up.

For a split second, Nico forgot every spiraling thought he’d had in the shower.

Will looked… unfair. Sunlight from the tall windows pooled over him, catching in his hair and outlining his shoulders in gold. His shirt was simple—just cotton—but it clung slightly at the collarbone. His expression was open, relaxed. Awake.

Nico could have melted on the spot.

It was embarrassingly regular at this point. The way Will existed so easily. The way his voice softened when he said Nico’s name. The way he made rooms feel less suffocating just by being in them.

Nico rubbed his eyes, though he hadn’t been sleepy for a while.

“Fuck off, Solace.”

Will’s grin widened, undeterred.

“When did you wake up?” Nico asked, scanning the room automatically.

The table.

The wine bottles.

Gone.

Completely gone.

His stomach tightened.

Had he hallucinated them?

“Ah, bitter,” Will teased lightly. “A little after twelve, I think.” He flipped a page casually. “I left to say goodbye to Mom. She’s heading to Spain next—Barcelona, I think. Which is awesome, really. Maybe I should invite Leo to lea—”

Spain.

Leo.

Left.

Each word hit Nico like a misplaced drumbeat.

Left? He’d left? That meant he’d been up. He’d known what happened. He’d functioned. He’d said goodbye to his mom.

Why wasn’t he hungover?

Why wasn’t he confronting Nico about something embarrassing?

Why wasn’t he demanding an explanation?

Spain. Leo. So that was it, right? Leo could translate. They’d talked about that before. This was normal. Just plans. Just life moving forward. Or maybe Leo liked something from Spain and Will wanted to show him. Yeah. 

Except Nico’s head was pounding again, harder now.

“…Neeks?”

Will had stopped talking. The pencil was no longer moving. He was watching him, brow faintly furrowed.

“Something wrong?”

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

Nico’s temples throbbed. His thoughts were colliding into each other without forming anything solid. The missing memories clawed at him again. The bottles, four of them. He’d seen them. He was sure of it.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Are you hungover?”

Will blinked, then shook his head. “Oh—no. I just had a few sips. You know me. Not really a fan.”

A few sips.

Nico stared at him.

So they had been drinking.

But if there had been four bottles, four, and Will had only taken sips…

Then Nico—

No. That didn’t make sense. He would have died. Or at least ended up face-down on the carpet. There would have been chaos. Noise. Something.

“I am fucking hungover, Will,” Nico said finally, voice edged with frustration. “What happened after dinner last night?”

For half a second, Will just stared at him.

And then he started laughing.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just… fondly.

“Oh, Nico,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You only had four glasses—” He paused, counting silently on his fingers. “Actually… maybe five? But definitely not more than that.”

Nico’s brain stalled.

“Four glasses,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah.” Will tilted his head. “We opened a couple bottles because Mom insisted on trying different regions. We stayed talking a little after we got here, and then a knock at the door and some staff handed us them. It was very educational.” His smile turned sheepish. “You got enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic,” Nico echoed.

“Yeah,” Will continued, clearly enjoying himself now. “Like some kind of dramatic wine critic. ‘Too bold.’ ‘Too arrogant.’ ‘This one tastes like posh people turned liquid.’ That was my favorite.”

Despite himself, Nico felt his mouth twitch.

“That sounds fake.”

“It was not fake,” Will said solemnly. “You were very serious about it.”

Nico tried to assemble this new information against the image burned into his mind earlier that morning.

Four bottles.

Empty.

“Then why were there four empty bottles on the table?” he demanded.

Will blinked again.

“There weren’t four empty bottles.”

“There were,” Nico insisted. “I saw them. Tignanello. Ornellaia. Sassicaia. Gaja.”

Will stared at him for a long second.

Then his expression shifted, from amusement to realization.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Neeks.”

He set the sudoku book down carefully.

“I came back at around twosih to pick them up. Mom took the unfinished ones with her when she left. She didn’t want them to go to waste, and she didn’t trust hotel staff.” His mouth curved slightly. “There were four bottles open, yeah. But only two were actually empty. The others still had some in them. And even so, one had been half drinked by mom at dinner.”

Nico went very still.

“You moved them,” he said.

“Yeah. I cleaned up before I left. You were dead asleep. Like, fully gone.”

The tension in Nico’s chest loosened by a fraction.

“So I didn’t drink four bottles,” he muttered.

“Gods, no.” Will looked horrified. “You would not be standing.”

Nico exhaled, long and slow.

Okay.

Okay.

That made sense.

“You got sleepy around… one, I think,” Will added gently. “You weren’t embarrassing. Just loud. And philosophical.”

Nico closed his eyes briefly.

“Define philosophical.”

“You gave a speech about how Italians should be proud about having the best food, good architecture, and taste. Then you went onto war—” Will’s eyes sparkled. “And then you told me to tell my mom she had ‘regal energy.’ She loved that, by the way.”

Nico felt heat crawl up his neck.

“That’s it?” he asked carefully.

Will’s expression softened.

“That’s it.”

A beat passed.

Nico studied his face, searching for any hidden layer. Any suppressed memory of something worse.

There was nothing there but warmth and mild concern.

“And you didn’t—” Nico hesitated. “I didn’t say anything… weird?”

Will’s brows lifted slightly.

“Weird how?”

Nico opened his mouth.

Closed it.

The words refused to form.

Will was still watching him carefully now.

“You called me dramatic,” Will offered helpfully. “But that’s not new.”

Nico huffed despite himself.

The pounding in his head hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer felt catastrophic. Just inconvenient.

“So,” Will said gently, leaning back into the couch, “your crisis this morning was because you thought you drank four entire bottles of premium Italian wine by yourself?”

Nico glared.

“I saw them.”

“And immediately assumed you committed accidental self-destruction.”

“Yes.”

Will laughed again, softer this time.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Nico crossed his arms, though the gesture lacked real bite. “You’re wearing shorts in winter.”

Will looked down at his legs. “It’s not that cold.”

“It is,” Nico muttered.

A quiet settled between them, not tense now, just calmer. Grounded. He was just a slightly dramatic demigod with a low tolerance and an overactive imagination.

Still, Nico eyed Will one more time.

“Next time,” he said carefully, “if I start rating wine like a critic, stop me.”

Will grinned.

“Never.”

***

Rome in winter carried a different kind of beauty, less crowded, less frantic. The air was crisp but not cruel, and the pale sunlight washed the old stone buildings in soft gold. The city felt ancient in a way that pressed gently against the ribs. History wasn’t loud here; it lingered.

It was their last full day before leaving for Venice. Two days there. Two days in the city Nico still, stubbornly, called home.

They stood tucked into a narrow alleyway off a busier street, each holding a paper cup of hot chocolate so thick it barely moved when tilted. The warmth seeped into Nico’s fingers, grounding him as tourists drifted past the storefronts, pausing to peer at leather bags, postcards, miniature colosseums carved from cheap marble.

“Oh my god, Nico!”

Will’s voice snapped through the calm.

Nico followed his gaze, and froze.

A small shop window. Bright packaging. Glossy card packs stacked in neat rows.

Mythomagic.

His stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt.

“What.”

“Yeah, see!” Will stepped closer to the window, grinning. “There’s Hades—and my dad! I need that one. Old Lester won’t see—”

The rest of the sentence dissolved into static.

Nico’s vision blurred slightly at the edges, not from tears yet, just from the sudden rush of heat flooding his face. His pulse kicked up hard and fast, like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

Mythomagic.

Here.

In Rome.

With Will pointing at it.

Did Will like it?

Of course he didn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Mythomagic was childish. It was niche. It was the kind of thing you played alone when you didn’t quite fit anywhere else.

It was the thing Nico had clung to when everything else felt unstable.

“Do you like t-the game?” Nico managed, the words catching awkwardly in his throat.

He hated the way his voice sounded; thin and defensive already.

Will glanced at him, puzzled. “Uh, not really. Don’t play it.” He shrugged lightly. “Kayla, Grover, and Frank like it though. You do too.”

“I—I don’t!” Nico shot back immediately, far too fast.

Will frowned slightly. “You literally bonded with Grover over it. And Frank.”

A spike of panic shot straight through Nico’s chest.

“How the fuck do you know?”

Will blinked, and then laughed, not unkindly. “Nico, it’s a normal game. There’s no problem with it. It’s fun, I suppose. Just don’t have the time to play it. Dad kinda likes it, but wishes he had more points.”

That should have been harmless.

Normal.

But something inside Nico cracked open anyway.

He didn’t even realize he was crying at first. It wasn’t loud. No choking sob. Just sudden heat behind his eyes, then the sting of cold air on wet skin.

Because it wasn’t just about the game.

It was about every time he’d mentioned it and been brushed off.

Every time he’d tried to explain the point system, the strategy, the rarity of certain cards, and watched someone’s attention drift away.

It was about Percy laughing and calling for Annabeth instead.

It was about feeling twelve again. Small. Obsessive. Too much.

It was about liking something wholeheartedly and being made to feel like that wholeheartedness was embarrassing.

“You’re not, like… turned off?” Nico asked, voice tight, eyes narrowing as if daring Will to confirm his worst fear. “By me being a giant nerd?”

There it was.

The real question.

Will stared at him, alarm replacing amusement instantly. He set his hot chocolate down on a nearby stone staircase without even looking, hands already moving.

Then he stepped forward and pulled Nico into a hug.

Nico didn’t resist, he was too surprised to.

“Sunshine,” Will murmured, voice close, warm against his ear. “It’s alright. I don’t know who told you it was weird. It’s just a game.”

Just a game.

And Will was right.

Objectively, logically, painfully right.

But Nico’s chest still hurt.

Because it had never been just a game.

It had been a lifeline.

It had been something predictable in a world that kept shifting under his feet. Cards had rules. Points. Clear systems. Gods reduced to numbers and abilities instead of impossible expectations.

It had been safe.

And somewhere along the way, he’d internalized the idea that liking it, loving it, made him ridiculous.

Percy’s offhand comments. The teasing. The way conversations shifted away from him when he got too animated about strategy.

It hadn’t been malicious. That almost made it worse.

He buried his face into Will’s neck before he could overthink it.

He could be selfish for a second.

He inhaled.

Will smelled like clean soap and winter air and something distinctly him, warm and steady. His arms wrapped fully around Nico without hesitation, holding him like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Nico felt heat flood through him again, but not from embarrassment this time.

Relief.

Slow. Spreading.

Will hadn’t laughed.

Hadn’t flinched.

Hadn’t looked at him differently.

Instead, he’d bought into the joke about his dad’s points.

Instead, he’d wanted a card.

Instead, he was holding him in the middle of a Roman alleyway like nothing about Nico was inconvenient.

Nico’s breathing gradually steadied.

He felt stupid. Dramatic. Overreactive.

But also, seen.

“You’re allowed to like things,” Will said quietly, as if sensing the spiral he’d just interrupted. “You’re allowed to care about them. That’s not embarrassing. That’s you.”

Nico’s fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of Will’s shirt.

The ancient stones around them, the murmur of tourists, the faint clink of cups from a nearby café, it all felt distant for a moment. Smaller than the warmth anchoring him in place.

It had never been about Mythomagic.

It had been about fearing that loving something too openly would make someone love him less.

And standing there, wrapped in Will’s arms in a cold Roman alley, Nico felt that fear loosen its grip.

Just a game.

Maybe.

But not just to him.

And maybe that was okay.

He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Will.

The thought came quietly, without drama, as he stood there still half-curled into him. Will’s arms were warm and solid, steady in a way Nico wasn’t sure he would ever stop needing. The city hummed around them, distant footsteps, a scooter whining past the mouth of the alley, the low murmur of tourists drifting between ancient walls, but inside that circle of warmth, everything felt contained.

Safe.

“You said… you’re turned on by me, then?” Will murmured lightly, leaning back just enough to look at him. There was that grin. That insufferable, sun-bright grin. And then, because of course, he winked.

Nico blinked.

For half a second his brain refused to process the words. Then it did.

The warmth in his chest flipped into something sharper, hotter. His ears burned. His stomach dropped in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety this time.

“You are unbelievable,” Nico muttered, but his voice lacked any real venom.

Will only raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

Nico was still close enough to feel the warmth of Will’s skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Still close enough to catch that faint scent of soap and winter air and something unmistakably him. His pulse thudded once, hard.

It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even particularly planned. His teeth grazed lightly at the side of Will’s neck, just enough pressure to startle, not enough to hurt. Warm skin under his mouth. A soft, surprised intake of breath above him.

Will went completely still.

Nico pulled back immediately, a slow, unapologetic smile spreading across his face. He shrugged, as if to say, What?

Will’s expression was priceless, eyes wide, cheeks flushing faintly pink, brain clearly buffering.

“Neeks—” he started.

But Nico had already stepped away.

He picked up his chocolate, now only lukewarm, and took a calm sip, as if he hadn’t just short-circuited the son of Apollo in broad daylight. The bitterness grounded him, steadied him. He swallowed, glanced once at Will’s frozen form, and allowed himself a small, victorious huff of amusement.

He turned and walked straight toward the shop door.

The little bell above it chimed as he stepped inside.

Warmth enveloped him immediately, heated air carrying the faint scent of cardboard and plastic packaging. The walls were crowded with colorful displays: gods in dramatic poses, holographic borders, limited editions advertised in looping gold script. Mythomagic in all its chaotic glory.

For a moment, Nico just stood there.

His reflection flickered faintly in the glass of a display case, dark hair slightly messy, eyes still a little red from earlier, but calmer now. Lighter.

Outside, through the shop window, he could see Will still standing in the alley, one hand unconsciously touching his own neck as if confirming that had actually happened.

Nico felt warmth bloom in his chest again, softer this time. Less frantic. Less afraid.

Maybe he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Will.

But right now, watching him slowly reboot outside a Mythomagic store in Rome, Nico felt something settle into place.

He didn’t have to minimize himself. He could like his game. He could bite Will. He could exist exactly like this, dramatic, nerdy, sharp-edged and soft all at once.

And Will would still follow him inside.

***

By the time the sun began its slow descent over Rome, their hands were full.

Four Mythomagic card packs, after a very serious internal debate over editions. Two plushies (one dramatically brooding Hades Nico claimed he was “ironically” buying, and one absurdly bright Apollo that Will refused to leave behind). A hardcover Mythomagic guidebook Nico had pretended not to want until Will silently handed it to the cashier. And, somehow, an unreasonable amount of food; paper bags crinkling with pastries, small containers of fried artichokes, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and a bag of candied almonds Will had insisted were “medically necessary.”

They walked slowly now, weighed down by purchases and the pleasant exhaustion of a day well spent. The sky had shifted into warm shades of amber and rose, light catching against ancient stone and turning the entire street into something almost theatrical.

That was when a  lady appeared.

She was small, silver-haired, wrapped in a thick wool coat, her eyes sharp and affectionate in equal measure. She had spotted Nico from across the street like a missile locking onto a target.

“Oh, ma che bello ragazzo!” she exclaimed, hands already reaching. 

(Oh, what a handsome boy!)

Nico froze.

He knew that tone.

Before he could escape, she was in front of him, cupping his face between surprisingly strong hands. She launched into rapid Italian, something about his eyes, his hair, how he reminded her of her grandson who never called enough and had terrible posture and needed to eat more.

Will blinked beside him, entirely lost.

The woman pinched Nico’s cheek, firmly.

Nico made a strangled noise of protest.

Another pinch.

More Italian.

At some point, Nico managed a polite but desperate string of replies, nodding quickly, edging backward inch by inch until he finally slipped free with an awkward half-bow and grabbed Will’s sleeve.

They escaped down the street at near-jogging speed.

Only once they had turned a corner did Nico slow down, exhaling sharply.

Behind him, Will burst into laughter.

Not polite laughter.

Not controlled.

Full, bright, uncontested laughter.

“But you’re just so—” Will started, reaching out and lightly punching Nico’s cheek in imitation of the woman.

Nico swatted his hand away instantly. “Don’t.”

Will grinned, entirely unrepentant. “She loved you.”

“She assaulted me.”

“She pinched your cheek.”

“She assaulted me,” Nico repeated firmly.

Will was still laughing, eyes bright in the fading light. “What was she even saying? I caught, like, three words. Something about a grandson?”

Nico grimaced. “She said I looked exactly like him. Then she complained that he doesn’t visit enough and that I should eat more because I’m too thin and that my curls are ‘a blessing from God’ and I shouldn’t cut them.”

Will’s laughter doubled.

“Shut up,” Nico muttered darkly.

“Oh, don’t be grumpy. It was funny.”

“For you,” Nico said, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” Will admitted easily.

They resumed walking, their shoulders occasionally bumping from the uneven pavement and the clutter of bags. The city felt softer now, evening settling in properly. Streetlights flickered to life one by one.

Nico adjusted his grip on the Mythomagic bag, still faintly embarrassed.

He hated being called adorable.

He hated the way strangers felt entitled to touch his face.

He hated how small it made him feel sometimes.

But when he glanced sideways at Will, he didn’t see mockery.

He saw fondness.

And that did something complicated to his chest.

“You are kind of adorable, though,” Will added after a moment, quieter now. Less teasing. More honest.

Nico stopped walking.

“Say that again and I’m throwing your Apollo plush into the Tiber.”

Will clutched the plush protectively to his chest. “You wouldn’t.”

Nico stared at him.

Will narrowed his eyes. “…You absolutely would.”

“Correct.”

They kept moving, but the air between them had shifted, lighter, charged in a different way. Not romantic. Not defined. Just something warm and quietly growing in the spaces between jokes and shared glances.

Rome hummed around them, ancient and alive.

And Nico, despite the cheek-pinching incident, found himself smiling.

***

“IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS,” Nico snapped at the Iris-message, the rainbow in the fountain trembling slightly with the force of his voice. “Two days, Percy Jackson. I’m not some kind of child—”

“But you are—”

“Oh my—!” Nico dragged a hand down his face. “You cannot be serious.”

Across the shimmering projection, Percy leaned casually against what looked like the railing at camp, wind pushing his dark hair around. He looked far too relaxed for someone who had just chosen violence.

“You’re like my little brother, Nico,” Percy said, frowning faintly now. “I just wanted to check you’re alive. Is that so bad?”

“Yes,” Nico shot back immediately, “when you start the conversation by yelling ‘how’s your honeymoon.’”

Percy blinked.

Then grinned.

“What? It was funny.”

“It was not funny,” Nico hissed. “What if Will had heard you? You’re so lucky he was out or you’d be dead by now—”

“But he didn’t,” Percy said with a shrug, laughter slipping into his voice. “Relax.”

Relax.

Nico wanted to throttle him through the Iris-message.

The rainbow light flickered faintly as water splashed in the fountain beneath it. They were tucked into a quiet corner near the ruins, away from tourists, but still, his pulse hadn’t settled.

Because Percy didn’t understand.

Percy had never understood.

It wasn’t about embarrassment. It wasn’t about pride. It was about balance.

Nico was sure, mostly sure, that Will liked him as a friend. A good friend. A close one. The kind you traveled with. The kind you trusted in foreign cities and ancient ruins and alleyways full of Mythomagic cards.

And Nico liked him too.

A lot.

As a friend.

Very clearly, obviously, strictly as a friend.

Will being gorgeous was just… incidental. A cosmetic detail. Like Rome being ancient. Or Venice having canals. It was simply a fact of existence, not something Nico actively dwelled on.

Often.

At all.

Percy tilted his head slightly. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s the ears. They go red.”

Nico considered ending the call by shoving his hand through the rainbow.

“You cannot just shout things like that,” Nico muttered, lowering his voice despite knowing Will wasn’t within earshot. “It makes it weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Percy replied easily.

Nico stared at him.

Percy stared back.

Then Percy’s expression shifted, less teasing now, more thoughtful. “You like him,” he said simply.

Nico’s stomach dropped.

“As a friend,” Nico said immediately, too quickly. “Obviously.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t ‘uh-huh’ me.”

Percy smirked faintly. “Nico.”

There was something infuriating about the way Percy could say his name like that. Older-brother tone. Annoyingly perceptive.

“You deserve good things,” Percy added, more quietly. “If something good is happening, you don’t have to act like it’s a disaster.”

Nico swallowed.

That wasn’t the direction he’d expected.

“This isn’t—” He stopped, recalibrated. “Nothing is happening.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

The rainbow shimmered between them, softer now.

Nico exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaking out of him despite himself.

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” he admitted finally, staring at the rippling water instead of Percy’s face. “He’s—” He hesitated. “He’s important.”

There. That was safe enough.

Percy’s expression softened.

“You won’t,” he said. “You’re not twelve anymore, Nico. You don’t scare people off just by caring.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because once, he had believed that.

That caring too much, wanting too much, needing too much would make people step back.

He folded his arms defensively. “I don’t scare people off.”

“You literally threatened to kill me thirty seconds ago.”

“That was different.”

Percy laughed.

The tension cracked, just a little.

“Look,” Percy said, glancing over his shoulder like someone might be calling him. “I just wanted to check in. Make sure Italy hasn’t swallowed you. And to say; try to have fun, okay? Not everything is a trap.”

Nico huffed quietly.

Easy for Percy to say.

“I am having fun,” Nico muttered.

“Good.”

There was a pause.

“And Nico?”

“What.”

“If this turns into an actual honeymoon someday, I’m still going to make fun of you.”

The rainbow flickered violently as Nico lunged forward to splash it.

“PERCY—”

But Percy was already laughing as the Iris-message dissolved into mist.

The fountain returned to normal. The ruins stood silent around him. Rome carried on, indifferent to demigod crises.

Nico stood there for a long moment, breathing in the cool evening air.

He wasn’t on a honeymoon.

He wasn’t ruining anything.

He liked Will.

As a friend.

A very important friend.

And that was enough.

Probably.

Sometimes Nico genuinely wondered how Percy functioned on a daily basis.

How he woke up, trained, joked, went on quests, dated Annabeth, existed in the world, while being spectacularly oblivious to certain things. Like the fact that Nico had once had a painfully obvious crush on him. A crush so transparent it might as well have been printed across his forehead.

And yet Percy hadn’t noticed.

At least, that was what Nico told himself.

Maybe Annabeth had explained it later. Maybe she’d framed it gently, turned it into something smaller, less humiliating. Or maybe Percy had known and simply chosen not to acknowledge it.

Nico tried not to dwell on that version.

Because if Percy had been able to miss something like that, then surely he could also be wrong now.

Surely he was misreading whatever was happening between Nico and Will. Surely the teasing, the honeymoon jokes, the knowing looks were just Percy being Percy. Annoying. Overdramatic. Projecting.

It wasn’t like Nico was obvious.

Right?

The thought dissolved as he reached their suite door.

He unlocked it absently, still half-caught in his own spiraling mind, and then stopped.

Will was there, standing near the window. Jeans. Hoodie. The blue one this time. The sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms.

And he was crying.

Tears clung to his lashes. One tracked down the side of his face before he wiped it away quickly, as if hoping Nico wouldn’t notice.

Nico’s entire body went rigid.

“What happened?” he asked immediately, the words sharper than he intended. Panic surged up so fast it made his hands feel cold.

Will blinked at him, clearly startled.

“Nothing, I just—” He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand and, somehow, smiled.

He always did that.

Whenever someone panicked, whenever tension spiked, Will’s first instinct was to soften it. To smooth it over. To make himself smaller so the other person didn’t have to feel alarmed.

The smile made Nico’s chest ache.

“Nothing?” Nico repeated, stepping closer. “You’re crying.”

“It’s nothing, Nico.”

Too gentle.

That was the problem.

Will said it like he meant to reassure him. Like he was the one trying to keep things steady.

Nico felt something twist uncomfortably inside his ribs.

“Who did you talk to?” Will asked quickly, almost too quickly. “You were gone a while.”

The shift was obvious.

Deflection.

“Solace,” Nico said automatically, not even thinking. “Stop—“

Will’s brows knit faintly at the name.

“Who?” he asked..

And Nico realized, belatedly, that Will actually expected an answer,  probably hoping they wouldn’t go back to discussing Will's tears, but Nico knew they would.

“Percy,” Nico corrected stiffly.

Will hummed quietly, as if filing that away. He nodded once, like that explained everything. “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

And he said it so gently, so carefully, that Nico felt the words press against him like a padded wall.

Don’t push.

Don’t make this heavier.

Don’t force me.

Nico knew that tone.

He’d used it himself.

He stood there, a thousand questions pressing at the back of his throat. Had someone said something? Had something happened at camp? Was it about Naomi leaving? Spain? Apollo? Siblings?

Or—

Was it about him?

The thought hit harder than it should have.

Had Percy actually said something stupid? Had Will overheard something earlier? Had Nico done something without realizing?

His stomach tightened.

He took another step closer anyway, slower this time.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Nico said quietly.

Will’s smile faltered for half a second before he steadied it again.

“I’m not pretending.”

Which wasn’t an answer.

Silence stretched between them, fragile.

Nico hated this feeling.

He hated not knowing.

He hated that instinct to retreat, because part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to respect the boundary immediately, to nod and say okay and let Will breathe.

But another part of him, the part that had panicked at the sight of tears, wanted to reach out and hold on.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Nico said carefully.

Will’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

Something flickered there. Vulnerability. Conflict. The urge to speak and the urge to swallow it back.

“I know,” Will said softly.

Another pause.

Nico exhaled through his nose.

Instead of pushing, he stepped forward and, hesitantly, he rested his hand against Will’s sleeve. Not gripping. Just there.

“I’m here,” Nico said.

Will’s composure cracked just slightly at that. His smile trembled at the edges. 

“I know,” Will repeated.

Nico  didn’t ask again. He didn’t press. He simply remained there, a steady presence, until the sharpness in the room dulled and the silence softened into something breathable. Eventually they drifted toward the couch together, the evening light fading from gold to blue outside the window. Rome quieted in layers, the distant traffic thinning, footsteps below becoming sporadic, the world settling.

They sat close without speaking about it. At some point, Will’s hand found Nico’s hair.

It wasn’t deliberate. Just absentminded fingers slipping into dark curls, gently combing through them, twisting a strand and letting it fall. The motion was slow and grounding, repetitive in a way that usually made Nico melt into the cushions.

This time, he stayed alert.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Will said at last, voice softer than before. “I just… a car passed outside. It was playing a Taylor song.”

He let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh.

“It was the one me and Lee used to sing to annoy Michael. We’d be off-key on purpose. Loud. Dramatic.” His fingers stilled in Nico’s hair. “And then it just—hit.”

Will’s chest tightened; his breathing shortened without him seeming to notice at first.

“I remembered the battle. Their faces. The smoke. The—” His voice faltered. “Their deaths.”

His breath hitched.

Nico straightened immediately.

Will’s inhale came too fast. Then another. And another. His shoulders lifted with each one, sharp and uneven, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

“I couldn’t save them all,” Will said, the words spilling out between breaths. “But I tried. I tried, Nico. I did everything right. I—” His voice cracked. “I still see the looks on people’s faces. When they realize the person they love isn’t waking up. I see that disappointment. That anger. It’s like it’s burned into me.”

His breathing was spiraling now, too fast, too shallow.

“Nico,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if to physically steady his heart. “They haunt me.”

Tears slipped freely down his face.

Nico didn’t think.

He moved.

He shifted so he was fully facing Will and took his wrists gently but firmly, grounding him. Not restraining, just anchoring.

“Look at me,” Nico said quietly, steady even if his own heart was racing. “Will. Look at me.”

Will’s eyes flickered up, unfocused at first.

“Breathe with me,” Nico continued, lowering his own breathing deliberately. Slow inhale through his nose. Controlled exhale. “Not fast. With me.”

He exaggerated it slightly so Will could follow the rhythm. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

At first, Will couldn’t match it. His breaths kept stuttering, breaking apart halfway through. Nico didn’t let go.

“Again,” he murmured. “You’re here. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

He counted under his breath, voice low and steady, letting the numbers fill the space where panic had been clawing. Gradually,  (painfully slowly) Will’s breathing began to sync with his. The sharp edges softened. The desperate gasps turned into fuller breaths.

Nico stayed close, one hand sliding up to rest flat against Will’s back, feeling the frantic rise and fall beneath his palm until it steadied.

Time stretched.

Eventually, the hyperventilation faded into quiet, shaky breaths.

Will sagged slightly forward, exhausted by it.

Nico didn’t comment on the tears. He simply brushed his thumb lightly along Will’s sleeve, grounding him in small, repetitive movements.

Minutes passed before Will spoke again.

“But it’s not just that,” he said, staring at a point somewhere beyond the room. “I’m scared.”

The word hung there.

“Of what?” Nico asked gently.

“Of most people,” Will admitted. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the earlier panic but heavier somehow. “I’m scared I’ll damage them. Either by not saving them… or by losing control.”

He swallowed.

“You know what my father is capable of,” Will continued, looking down at his hands. “Plagues. Disease. Sickness that spreads without mercy. Sometimes I get so angry, Nico. So angry I feel it in my veins. And I think—what if that’s not just emotion? What if it’s something else?”

Nico felt his chest tighten.

“What if I’m infected?” Will whispered. “What if the reason some of my patients didn’t make it… is because I’m sick? What if I’m the thing that’s wrong?”

The room went still.

Nico couldn’t move at first.

The words hit something deep and raw inside him, the quiet, poisonous self-blame that demigods carried like an inheritance. The idea that maybe the disaster wasn’t around you.

Maybe it was you.

He stared at Will, at the vulnerability laid bare in his expression, at the fear he tried so hard to hide beneath humor and warmth.

Nico wasn’t good with speeches.

He wasn’t good with neat reassurances.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him.

He pulled Will into his chest and held him there, tight enough to be felt but not enough to hurt. His chin rested against the top of Will’s hoodie, fingers gripping fabric like he was anchoring both of them at once.

For a moment, Will stiffened in surprise, then he melted into it.

Nico pressed his eyes shut.

He wished he had the right words. The kind that healed cleanly. The kind that erased doubt.

All he had was this.

I’m so sorry.

He didn’t say it aloud.

But he hoped Will felt it in the way his arms tightened.

I know life’s unfair.

He knew it better than most. The randomness. The cruelty. The way being powerful didn’t protect you from losing.

I just wish it was less unfair for us sometimes.

He tightened his hold slightly, hand sliding up to cradle the back of Will’s head instinctively, protective in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

Will wasn’t infected.

He was human enough to feel guilt for things that were never his fault.

Nico wasn’t good with words. But he could try to help in other ways.

They remained like that for a long while, wrapped around each other on the couch as the evening deepened outside. The room had grown dim without either of them noticing; the last of the daylight had slipped behind the Roman rooftops, leaving only the muted glow of streetlamps filtering through the curtains. Nico could feel the steady rhythm of Will’s breathing against his chest now, no longer frantic, no longer splintered. Slow. Tired. Human.

When they finally parted, it wasn’t abrupt. It was gradual, reluctant in a quiet way. Nico leaned back first, just enough to look at him properly. Will’s lashes were still damp, his eyes rimmed faintly red, but the storm had passed. There was something fragile lingering in his expression, something that made Nico’s chest tighten all over again.

Nico offered him a small smile. Not bright. Not forced. Just real.

Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his thumb gently beneath Will’s eye, catching the last tear before it could fall further. The gesture was instinctive, almost reverent. Will’s skin was warm beneath his touch, softer than Nico expected, smooth and alive under his fingers. The warmth traveled up his hand and into his chest in a way that made him linger half a second longer than necessary.

He wanted to keep touching him.

Instead, Nico pulled his hand back and cleared his throat lightly, as though the moment hadn’t stretched.

“Want some pudding?” he asked, rising from the couch before his thoughts could betray him. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how domestic the offer sounded. “I know we agreed to go out all day, but you don’t feel well and we can just stay inside.”

Will winced slightly at that, already drawing breath to protest.

“I don’t mind,” Nico interrupted gently, stepping closer so the words didn’t feel like distance. “We can… we can always come another time.”

He said it softly, without defensiveness, without sacrifice woven into the tone. Just sincerity. If Venice waited, it would still be there tomorrow. The ruins weren’t going anywhere. He wasn’t keeping score.

Will looked at him carefully then, studying his face as if searching for cracks in the offer. As if testing whether Nico meant it or whether he was quietly shelving something important out of obligation.

Nico held his gaze steadily.

Eventually, Will’s shoulders eased. A slow smile formed, not the bright, performative one he used to deflect, but something quieter and grateful.

“I’d love to, Nico.”

“To come again or stay inside?” Nico asked, one brow lifting slightly.

“Both.”

The simplicity of the answer made something warm bloom in Nico’s chest.

He laughed, the sound softer than usual but lighter than it had been all evening. “Be right back,” he said, turning toward the kitchenette. “I’ll get pudding.”

As he moved, he felt the weight of the day settling into something manageable. The fear hadn’t vanished. The grief hadn’t disappeared. But it no longer filled the entire room.

Behind him, he could feel Will’s gaze lingering, not heavy, not anxious, just there.

***

They ended up building a small nest on the couch.

Blankets were dragged from Nico’s room, half-folded and carelessly layered. The coffee table was pushed aside to make room for bowls of pudding, a bag of chips Will had insisted on buying earlier, and the ridiculous amount of candy they hadn’t meant to purchase but absolutely did. The lamp in the corner cast a warm amber glow over everything, softening the room into something intimate without trying too hard.

“So,” Will said, settling back against the cushions, spoon already in hand. “What are we watching? Please tell me it’s not three hours of a  black-and-white movie.”

Nico shot him a look as he opened the streaming menu. “It’s not just black and white ,” Nico replied coolly. “It’s romance.”

“It’s dust and suffering.”

“It’s art.”

Will grinned, bumping their knees together. “You like dust and suffering.”

Nico sniffed faintly. “I have refined taste.”

“You cried during that animated dog movie.”

“That dog died.”

“It got reincarnated.”

“It still died.”

Will laughed so brightly it felt like sunlight breaking through earlier storm clouds. Nico tried not to stare at him, but failed a little.

They compromised on, not surprisingly,  Star Wars.

“Oh, this one,” Will said, leaning forward as the opening scene rolled. “I love this movie.”

“You have terrible taste,” Nico muttered automatically.

Will gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me? This is a classic.”

“The villain monologues for twelve minutes.”

“And it’s iconic.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

Will nudged him with his shoulder. “You’re unnecessary.”

Nico blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “That didn’t even make sense.”

“I know,” Will said cheerfully, taking another bite of pudding. “But you started it.”

The opening crawl of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope filled the screen.

Will sat up straighter immediately. “Iconic.”

“It’s just yellow text,” Nico said.

“It’s not just yellow text. It’s history.”

“It’s dramatic exposition.”

“It’s beautiful dramatic exposition.”

The music swelled.

“…Okay, fine,” Nico admitted. “The music is good.”

Will gasped. “You admit it?”

“I said it’s good. Don’t get used to it.”

They fell into easy commentary as the movie unfolded. Nico provided dramatic critiques of battle strategies, pointing out logical flaws in siege formations. Will countered with enthusiastic defenses, insisting that emotional narrative always trumped military accuracy.

“That is not how you hold a sword,” Nico said flatly as the hero lifted his weapon awkwardly.

Will tilted his head. “You’re judging him?”

“I’m judging the choreographer.”

“Wow,” Will replied solemnly. “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to a professional medieval combat consultant.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “Please. I could do better.”

“Okay,” Will said immediately, sitting up straighter. “Show me.”

“In this apartment?”

“Yes.”

“With a spoon?”

“Yes.”

Nico grabbed his spoon, stood, and demonstrated a surprisingly fluid stance. He adjusted his grip, shifted his weight, and mimicked a defensive maneuver with unexpected precision.

Will stared.

“…Okay,” he admitted slowly. “That was hot.”

Nico nearly dropped the spoon.

“It was accurate,” Nico corrected quickly, sitting back down and pretending his ears weren’t warming.

“Sure,” Will said, smiling into his pudding.

As the movie continued, their shoulders began brushing more often than not. Will leaned into Nico without thinking; Nico pretended not to notice while very much noticing.

At one point, Luke made a spectacularly foolish decision.

“He’s an idiot,” Nico muttered. “If he goes alone he’ll get everyone killed.”

Will hummed thoughtfully. “Or he’s just scared and thinks protecting them means isolating himself.”

Nico huffed. “That’s still stupid.”

Will glanced at him sideways, soft amusement in his eyes. “You sound personally offended.”

“I’m not offended,” Nico snapped lightly. “I just—”

He stopped.

Will waited.

Nico exhaled through his nose. “I just think people should trust the ones who want to stand with them.”

The words hung between them, quieter than the film’s soundtrack.

Will’s expression shifted, subtle, fond. “That’s a very heroic opinion for someone who claims to prefer tragic romances.”

Nico frowned faintly. “I don’t—.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I just enjoy them.”

Will laughed again, the sound effortless now.

Later, when a dramatic romantic confession scene appeared on screen, Will groaned dramatically.

“Oh no. Here we go. The ‘I was trying to protect you by pushing you away’ speech.”

Nico scoffed. “Predictable.”

“Emotionally repressed men are predictable,” Will added.

Nico snorted before he could stop himself. “Says the son of Apollo.”

Will pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. “Rude.”

“I didn’t mean—” Nico began, then paused. He hadn’t meant it sharply, but it had come out that way.

Will  just smiled. “I don’t mind,” he said lightly. “You’re allowed to be a little prickly. It’s part of the charm.”

“I’m not charming,” Nico muttered.

Will turned toward him fully. “You really are.”

Nico blinked, caught off guard by the simple certainty in his voice.

Before he could respond, Will leaned over and stole a spoonful of Nico’s pudding.

“Hey—” Nico protested.

“Charm tax,” Will replied smugly.

“That’s theft.”

“You were rude.”

“You said you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t,” Will agreed cheerfully. “But I still want your pudding.”

Nico stared at him, then huffed a laugh despite himself.

They watched quietly for a bit, until Luke appeared staring at the twin suns.

 “He’s so dramatic,” Nico muttered.

“He’s bored,” Will replied. “There’s a difference.”

“He’s whining.”

“He’s seventeen,” Will said. “That’s normal.”

Nico glanced at him. “You’re seventeen.”

“Exactly. If I lived on a desert planet with no Wi-Fi, I’d also be dramatic.”

“That explains a lot.”

Will flicked a pillow at him.

When Obi-Wan showed up, Nico nodded approvingly. “Now , he’s cool.”

“Of course you like the mysterious old guy,” Will said.

“He actually knows what he’s doing.”

“He literally lets himself get struck down.”

Nico pointed at the screen. “That’s called sacrifice.”

Will gave him a look. “You relate to that way too much.”

Nico went quiet for half a second, then shrugged. “It’s a good move.”

Will didn’t push. He just bumped their knees together and stole another spoonful of pudding.

“Stop,” Nico said automatically.

“You left it unattended.”

“It was in my hand.”

“Still unattended.”

They kept up a steady stream of commentary. Nico analyzed the Death Star like it was a real military structure.

“The ventilation shaft is such a weak point,” he said. “That’s terrible design.”

Will laughed. “You’re judging the Empire’s architecture?”

“Yes.”

“You would survive a villain monologue just to critique the floor plan.”

“Someone has to.”

When Princess Leia appeared, Will sat up. “She’s my favorite.”

“Of course she is.”

“She’s brave, she’s smart, she takes charge—”

“She also insults everyone within five minutes.”

Will grinned. “And?”

Nico shrugged and opted for silence.

They both went quiet during the trench run.

“Okay,” Will said softly, leaning forward. “This part is actually stressful.”

“Mhm,” Nico replied, but he was leaning forward too.

When the torpedoes hit and the Death Star exploded, Will actually clapped once before catching himself.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am,” Nico said.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Nico tried to flatten his expression. It didn’t work.

They let the next movie autoplay.

“You’re not going to stop it?” Nico asked.

“Nope.”

“Greedy.”

“You’re still here.”

Fair.

As Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back started, Will stretched his legs out and accidentally kicked Nico.

“Sorry.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.”

“You’re aggressive.”

“You’re dramatic.”

They were both smiling.

Hoth came on screen.

“Snow battles are cooler than desert battles,” Will said.

“Objectively wrong,” Nico replied. “Snow limits visibility and mobility.”

“Wow,” Will said. “You’re fun at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

“I know.”

There was no awkwardness in that statement. Just familiarity.

When Han got frozen in carbonite, Will winced. “That’s rough.”

“He’ll be fine,” Nico said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Let me feel things.”

“You’re always feeling things.”

Will laughed at that, softer now. “True.”

At one point, Nico made a dry comment that came out sharper than he meant.

“Luke should’ve trained more instead of rushing in like an idiot.”

Will tilted his head. “He was trying to help his friends.”

“He almost got himself killed.”

“Yeah,” Will said gently. “Because he cared.”

Nico opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. “…Ok. That’s fair.”

Will smiled. “You don’t have to attack every emotional decision, you know.”

“I’m not attacking.”

“You kind of are.”

Nico looked down at his spoon. “Sorry.”

Will just laughed lightly and nudged him. “I don’t mind. You get intense when you care about stuff.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

“…Shut up.”

“See?”

Nico huffed, but there was no real edge to it.

By the time Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi started, they were sitting closer without noticing. Will had ended up half-leaning against Nico, shoulder pressed to his side.legs more tangled. Nico hadn’t moved away.

“Ewoks are overpowered,” Nico said.

“They’re adorable.”

“They’re tiny.”

“They’re resourceful.”

“They’re too little for so much power.”

“They win,” Will countered smugly.

When Vader finally turned on the Emperor, the room got quiet.

Will’s voice dropped. “That’s… actually really sad.”

Nico nodded faintly. “He wasn’t all bad.”

“No,” Will agreed. “He just made a lot of bad choices.”

Silence settled for a moment, not heavy, just thoughtful.

Then the celebration scene began.

Will grinned. “See? Happy ending.”

“After mass destruction.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like that.”

Will glanced up at him. “Yeah. I kind of do.”

They didn’t look away right away.

Eventually, Will broke the eye contact first, smiling a little to himself. “Next time,” he said casually, “we’re watching the prequels.”

Nico groaned. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are.”

“I just value my time.”

Will laughed, bright and easy, and let his head tip fully against Nico’s shoulder this time. Nico froze for half a second, then relaxed.

They kept talking long after the movie ended. It became background noise as the credits rolled and autoplay suggested another film neither of them committed to watching.

They talked about  favorite characters. About whether the Force made more sense than demigod powers. About which planet they’d actually survive on. About who at camp would absolutely try to build a lightsaber and set something on fire. (Leo.)

Their jokes overlapped. Their opinions clashed in a way that felt fun instead of sharp. When Nico got too blunt, Will just smiled and called him out without taking it personally. When Will got overly excited, Nico pretended to be annoyed while clearly listening to every word.

They debated music next, Will passionately defending bright, overproduced pop anthems while Nico admitted, reluctantly, that he liked certain dramatic orchestral scores more than he’d ever say out loud at camp.

They argued about whether ghosts in horror films were misunderstood or malicious. They shared stories about camp mishaps, about embarrassing childhood moments, about small victories that had felt monumental at the time.

At some point, Will ended up half-lying against Nico, head tilted back, still talking animatedly about a ridiculous campfire story. Nico found himself watching the way Will’s hands moved when he got excited, the way his smile shifted depending on the joke.

Their knees stayed tangled.

Their conversation never strained.

When Nico made another dry, slightly sharp comment, Will only laughed and bumped their shoulders again, unbothered and warm.

“You’re softer than you pretend,” Will said at one point.

“You’re louder than you realize,” Nico replied.

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Will smiled. “Do you like when I’m loud?”

Nico hesitated just a fraction too long.

Will noticed, and didn’t press.

By the time the clock crept toward midnight, their bowls were empty, the blankets a mess around them, and the room filled with the comfortable kind of quiet that only comes after hours of talking.

They hadn’t gone back out into the city.

They hadn’t needed to.

And somewhere between space battles, stolen pudding, and easy laughter, the weight of the earlier panic felt farther away than it had any right to.

“Nico,” Will said suddenly, turning toward him with genuine curiosity, “can you explain Mythomagic cards and the game?”

For a second, Nico just stared at him.

Because that— that was not teasing. Not joking. Not humoring him.

That was real interest.

And Nico swore he saw an angel.

“You… want me to explain it?” he asked carefully.

“Yes,” Will said, smiling. “You’ve been carrying those cards around all day like they’re sacred relics. I deserve context.”

Nico sat up straighter immediately, blankets sliding off his shoulders.

“Okay. First of all,” he began, already reaching for the small stack of cards they’d bought earlier, “it’s not just a card game. It’s strategy-based. There are factions, power levels, lore arcs—”

Will blinked. “Lore arcs?”

“Yes,” Nico said, almost offended. “There’s an entire mythological framework. Each card has a backstory. It’s not random.”

He spread the cards out on the coffee table, movements quick and precise.

“So this,” he said, picking one up, “is Hades, Lord of the Underworld. High defense, medium attack, but his real strength is in summoning shadow minions during late-game turns. He’s stronger if you sacrifice lower-tier cards early.”

Will leaned in closer.

“And this one?” he asked.

“That’s Persephone, Queen of Spring,” Nico replied, a little too fast. “She can override seasonal terrain penalties. If you pair her with Underworld cards, you get bonus resurrection abilities.”

Will’s eyebrows lifted slowly.

“There are seasonal terrain penalties.”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Nico didn’t realize how fast he was talking until he paused for breath. His hands were moving constantly, sorting, tapping, flipping cards to show artwork, pointing at stats.

“There are four main play styles,” he continued. “Aggressive, defensive, summoner, and chaos-build. Chaos-build is risky but really strong if you know what you’re doing.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Will asked lightly.

Nico gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Will laughed softly.

Nico kept going.

“You start with a base deity card. Then you build your deck around their strengths. If you mismatch factions, you lose synergy points. And synergy is everything. You can’t just throw in a random Zeus and expect it to work.”

“Why not?”

“Because lightning-type attacks drain faster in underworld terrain.”

Will stared at him.

Nico blinked. “What?”

“You’re glowing,” Will said.

Nico froze. “I am not.”

“You are,” Will insisted, smiling. “You’re talking faster than when you argue about Star Wars.”

“That’s different.”

“You just said ‘synergy is everything’ like it’s life advice.”

“It kind of is,” Nico muttered.

Will was still watching him, not interrupting now, just listening. Not in a distracted way. In an intent way.

And suddenly Nico became aware of it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like you just discovered fire.”

Will’s smile softened. “I like when you get excited about things.”

Nico felt heat crawl up his neck.

“I’m not excited.”

“You’re basically vibrating.”

“I am explaining.”

“You’re adorable,” Will said simply.

Nico short-circuited for half a second.

“Shut up,” he muttered automatically, but there was no edge to it. Just fluster.

Will grinned wider.

“Okay, teach me properly,” he said, sitting cross-legged across from Nico. “What do I do first?”

And that was it.

Nico launched fully into it.

He explained turn order, attack rolls, special abilities, defensive counters. He demonstrated a sample round, narrating dramatically. He corrected Will gently when he mixed up a card’s ability, then apologized immediately for sounding bossy.

“No, no,” Will laughed. “Coach me. I need this.”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Nico said, then winced. “I mean— not wrong. Just strategically questionable.”

Will snorted. “Wow. That’s so much nicer than what you were going to say.”

“I’m evolving.”

“You are.”

They started an actual game.

Nico tried not to go easy on him, but also absolutely went easy on him.

“Wait,” Will said, studying his cards. “If I combine this one with this one, do I get bonus attack?”

“Only if you activate terrain shift first,” Nico replied automatically.

“Okay, and how do I do that?”

“You sacrifice a minor deity.”

Will blinked. “That sounds intense.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Sure it is.”

They both laughed.

The game got louder than the movie had.

Will reacted dramatically to every high roll. Nico got competitive in a way that made his eyes flash and his grin sharper. When Will accidentally pulled off a clever move, Nico stared at the board in disbelief.

“You did not just do that.”

“I did,” Will said proudly. “Beginner’s luck.”

“That was actually smart.”

“Thank you.”

Nico leaned back, folding his arms. “Don’t get cocky.”

“You’re just mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re losing.”

“I was going easy on you.”

Will burst out laughing.

At some point, Nico forgot to monitor how loud he was being.

“Yes! See? That’s what I meant—if you overextend your defense line, I can summon—” He stopped mid-sentence.

Will was staring at him.

“…What?” Nico asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Will’s expression was soft. Almost awed.

“You’re really happy right now,” he said quietly.

Nico blinked.

“I am not—”

“You are,” Will insisted gently. “You’re smiling like a dork.”

Nico touched his face. He was.

“Oh,” he muttered.

Will leaned forward slightly, chin resting in his hand as he studied him. “Who’s the loud one now?”

Nico huffed, embarrassed.

“I yearn for this side of you, sunshine,” Will added teasingly.

The word hit harder than it should have.

Nico’s brain completely stalled.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Will’s smile widened.

But he didn’t look away.

And Nico almost melted.

They kept playing after that, closer now without acknowledging it. Their hands brushed when reaching for the same card. The conversation never dropped, not even when they weren’t talking about the game anymore.

They slipped into stories about camp. About childhood obsessions. About embarrassing moments. About which gods would absolutely cheat at Mythomagic.

“Dionysus would flip the table,” Will said.

“Zeus would claim he invented the game.”

“Apollo would rewrite the rules halfway through.”

Nico smirked. “You would argue about fairness.”

“I would,” Will agreed proudly.

“You’re so demanding.”

“And you like that.”

“…Maybe.”

They didn’t say anything about how easily they talked.

Or how natural it felt.

Or how neither of them checked the time.

The cards were scattered everywhere by the end. The game technically unfinished. Neither of them cared.

It wasn’t about winning anymore.

It was about the way Will leaned in when Nico explained something. The way Nico listened when Will suggested new strategies. The way their laughter overlapped without awkward pauses.

Warm.

Easy.

Alive.

And somewhere between sacrificed minor deities and dramatic victory speeches, Nico realized something quietly terrifying.

He wanted more nights like this.

With Will.

Only Will.