I Can See Will Solace Doing This When His Siblings Or Someone Else Tells His To Do Something That's Good

it’s that day again. where they planned a serious, romantic date in once of every while. where Will’s workaholic ass would finally gave up to the love of his boyfriend and leave the infirmary in the hands of his siblings when it’s summer and where they would treat eachother like a serious couple they are in the hands of love.

at this point, Nico often can’t differentiate whether a date or casual hangout. because in these two-long-years-committing-relationship they have, Nico can’t even remember a day where they don’t stick on eachother and spending the time together.

until once, Nico decided to take him out. on a romantic serious one, the real-type rather than hanging out watching star wars (but if Nico’s being honest, anything they do, no matter if the star wars is replayed thousand times on the screen, Nico would always love the time they have.) just to make Will feel loved, to make Will feel that he’s something worth than just a cheap picnic beside the camp lake or small talk on the campfire.

they eventually take turns, knowing Will is the type to give, he often insisted on him taking Nico out instead. he’s not used to being pampered and getting things without anything in return. but he just want his beautiful, charming, amazing boyfriend to feel loved and worth adored. that Nico’s here won’t leave him nor he see Will as an abandonment and he will stay, just for him.

but even after said two years, for some reasons, the love never dies, it grows, more, like a tree with full grown and still growing. His Will gets more beautiful. in any way, in anything, clothes or none, he’s a beauty, the apple of Nico’s eyes.

Nico would hate to admit, but often he found himself dumbfounded from the starstruck. no matter in what condition, Will unfairly is always beautiful. it’s annoying how this man always managed to look stunning in the most unhinged situation.

a year ago, in the tartarus—fucking tartarus—Will managed to look amazing. sure, soggy ambrosia, but he still look beautiful nonetheless. don’t get Nico started on how Will glows as he fight and scream at Nyx. he glows mesmerizingly. he literally made him fall in love and head over heels for the William Andrew Solace in nurse scrubs and flip-flops! he even saw Will with only his shorts and bare chest, sun tattoo rest without guilt whatsoever on his pectoral and honestly? he’s breathtaking. if he in nurse scrubs and tired eyes are still beautiful in Nico’s eyes, how would clothes do to Nico? forget clothes, withou—

okay, okay, it’s getting wild.

Nico has finally arrived in front of Cabin 7, in his usual but nicer outfit from him; black skinny jeans, black chb tee and clean jacket with his stygian iron sword turned into chain accessory. he also wore cologne for better smell, wouldn’t want Will to smell the nervousness out of him as he fidgets on the bronze coin in his pocket. he look to the ground as he finds mythomagic card in his pocket with his other hand and revealing the hades and apollo cards. he keep his posture relaxed with his back from the cabin as he focuses his eye on other cabin.

it’s the edge of spring. a cold breeze waved as flowers and leaves grow. nymphs and satyrs are in good moods. two more weeks until campers start coming and filled the empty cabins.

Nico is pretty pleased with his life so far. a loving boyfriend, a home with a centaur and a drunk god supervisor and a pretty much stable life. this year he stayed with Will again. though he spent the winter in Texas with Will and met the Naomi Solace (let’s not mention his midnight whispers to Naomi about Will as his billy and how grateful Nico for Naomi’s son) and most of the fall annoying nymphs with their date.

“Nico! why don’t you come in instead?” said a sweetly familiar voice from Nico’s back. “I just want to wait for you, you know? you ready yet?” Nico smiled, but wouldn’t turned his head. suddenly dandelions and sunflowers are catching his eyes rather than Will, not that Will’s not interesting, it’s just… complicated.

Will always made him feel new things, new stuff,as if he’s a brand new activator that would made his heart flutter in the directions he didn’t know he could do.

today’s date is simple, actually; going to this bowling diner Will has been yapping about, hits the arcade and do a little dancing together, maybe a little wine tasting if Will want to, a little walk together—if Will’s tired, he can ask Jules-Albert to take a porsche—as they yap together about new facts and life possibilities.

but knowing Will’s giving nature, he would try. he would try with beautiful, ecstatic outfits. Nico often became frustrated with this fact, because with Will’s freckles-ed, tan skin; bushy, dirty blonde hair; those blue eyes Nico can bore and swim forever inside and would never want get out from; those eye-blinding smile with teeth and the sound of his laughter? is like oxygen for Nico. how could Will Solace ever be not beautiful for Nico Di Angelo? never. never will.

“Nico? to the earth?” Will’s soft voice shook Nico out from his shadows. “yes, zuchero?”

I asked you, do I look good?”

“stunning, beautiful, handsome.”

he can feel Will’s annoyed attitude pouting on him. “you don’t even turn around? Nico, you’re being weird.” “no seriously- Will, you’re amazing I-“ “Look at me.” Nico turn back and gods, his mind went blank.

to naked eyes, Will’s the same. the same bushy blonde hair and blue eyes, even the same design of green cargo shorts, only this time he’s wearing white cropped tee — revealing Will’s soft stomach with piercing, of course, Nico’s definitely not looking in that direction, haha! Will’s eyes is up there, not on his upper-down line, Nico — with long sleeves of yellow. this time, instead of flip-flops, Will wore his yellow sunflower-daisy converse—matching with Nico’s black hyacinthus’ . they got it custom embroidered to match eachother via Cabin 19’s favor of embroidery.

“is it bad? it’s bad isn’t it? okay, I’m changing.” Will mumbled with reddening face and eyes on shame. “no- nononononononono— don’t- don’t- gods, you’re- I- I just-“ Nico rushed to hold Will’s hand and clasp them together as he stare into eye contact with Will. “hello, there. “ Will’s smug eyes are there while his pink lips whispered. “beautiful- I- uh, let’s get out now?” Will then burst out a laugh. a loud lough as he let go of the hands and crouched.

“Nico, if you keep having that beat of heart, you’ll get arrhythmia. ” Will’s teary eyes from the laughing actually made Nico’s heart stopped a beat. the voice of laugh itself made Nico’s stomach fluttered in skeletal butterflies. what kind of witchcraft is he doing to Nico?

“okay okay, let’s go shall we?” Will Solace smirks at him as he straighten his posture and take a hold of Nico’s right hand with his left hand. the evening sunlight shines to Will, golden hour giving majestic and divine aesthetic. his freckles are like constellations Nico wouldn’t mind counting for hours, days, years. and his ocean blue eyes isn’t helping either knowing it is crystal clear underneath the light, showing the beautiful iris and trap Nico inside.

sure, Nico haven’t gotten that much of growth spurt which makes Will Solace is still 4 cm taller than him, but it makes everything more painful for Nico because he knew he couldn’t get his eyes away. not from Will he can’t, he’s just a man. a human. but when it comes to Will, it’s like worshipping. as if there’s some kind of divine intervention makes Nico couldn’t get over his man’s beauty and Nico Di Angelo, the ghost king, the Prince of the Underworld has never want to kneel before anybody willingly except for Will Solace.

suddenly, he felt a soft lips upon his. tasted like saccharine and addictingly sweet to Nico’s taste. he craves more. he wants to feel that softness and save it all for himself. he wants the world to know how in love Will can make him. as a weak man (only to Will), Nico can only return the kiss, which makes Nico’s inner intestines ruined and mushed like soup. he swear his heart beating like crazy as ifhe just run Olympic running track after they let go of the kiss.

“you can’t stop staring, so I had to bring you down back to earth” Will’s pretty face now only a breath away as his nose brushed his. “come on, let’s shadow travel” said Nico nervously

can’t guarantee if he won’t die young with these arrhythmia whenever he’s around Will. god forbid.

—————————

HC credit; @coirinthyurilo

(hi hello yeah here you go ily)

Nico di Angelo is in love.

Unfortunately.

Not with Percy Jackson anymore. That would’ve been easy. Unattainable, sure, but at least he could’ve filed it away under Stupid Mistakes I Make When I’m ten. Curse you, Aphrodite.

He knows the feeling — that jittery, restless buzz, like waiting for the sun to rise after an all-nighter you know was a terrible idea. It’s an old enemy by now. Like most of his enemies, it’s winning.

Will Solace is light and butterflies and every other nauseating thing Nico pretends not to give a crap about. His laugh lights up the room — because of course it does — like the universe personally handed him a spotlight and said, Here, make everyone else look worse. 

His absurdly long fingers drum a rhythm on the table, like he’s starring in some indie coming-of-age movie nobody asked for. Nico included.

Every stupidly perfect curl, every freckle that looks like Aphrodite got drunk and decided to show off — it’s enough to make Nico want to set himself on fire. He wonders how much gold it would take to recreate this disaster. Everything in Hades’ palace. Twice. Maybe throw in Cerberus for good measure.

Will’s eyes crinkle when he smiles — soft and blue and filled with that unbearable, stupid early-morning light that makes you want to punch the sunrise and then crawl into a pit and die.

“Oh my gods, Cecil, please don’t—”

Will’s laughter detonates — loud, wild, full-body laughter — and Nico feels it like a bomb going off right inside his ribcage.

He bends over clutching his chest dramatically — Nico’s chest, technically, since that’s where the explosion hits.

His back curves like some stupid heroic mountain or whatever. It’s disgusting.

The first sound of his laugh practically plants flowers in the air. Actual, metaphorical, revolting flowers. Nico would throw up if he weren’t too busy mentally composing sonnets about Will’s jawline. He is a disaster.

“Yo, Death Boy, what are you staring at?”

Will waves a freckly hand in front of his face because of course he notices. Of course he has functioning eyes. Meanwhile, Nico can barely remember how breathing works.

“Nothing,” Nico says, dead inside. “Just the sunrise.”

And somehow, Pandora opened the box and you didn’t fall out. Miraculous.

“Sunrise? D’Angelo, it’s literally ten in the morning. And raining.”

“Cecil, shut up before I hand-deliver every skeleton middle finger we planted on the Ares cabin roof last night into your bunk.”

“Geez, Nico! Fine! Shutting up!” 

Nico doesn’t seek to uncover a new scientific field, originally. It is just that he does not understand it.

"Make better choices! Dumbass!"

"Whatever you say, Apollo Junior."

"Oh, shut up!"

This -- Apollo Junior business.

There are similarities, sure. Here and there. Blond, blue-eyed, tall and strong. Many are. And of course the proclivity for drama and histrionics.

But the similarities end there, as far as Nico is concerned.

"You good?" Will calls, and Nico startles. "You're staring into space." He focuses his eyes and realizes Will is watching him out his peripherals, smiling when Nico meets his eyes.

“Do you have a photo of your mother?”

Will looks up again, eyebrows raised, glow finally fading from his hands and eyes. He holds a strip of bandage over a camper’s bicep, wrapping the roll around. “I have several," he says slowly. "Why?”

Nico squints at him.

“C’mere.”

Will hands the roll off to his patient, walking over. He stands hesitantly in front of Nico’s chair, shoulders pushed up, teeth worrying his lower lip.

Nico reaches out and tugs it free.

“You don’t look that much like your dad,” he murmurs, tilting Will’s head to the side. “You’ve got the — general blueprint, sure, but he’s all…angles.” He runs a finger over Will’s soft jaw. “You’re rounded.”

It's true. Will has more to his cheeks than his father does, baby fat he hasn't quite yet dropped. His skin is spattered with freckles on freckles, peeking through the burn scars, and his eyebrows and eyelashes are fully blond. His curls, even are nothing like so many campers claim -- yes they are sunshiney, yes they are golden. The color matches the very shimmer of the sun.

But Will's curls are a mess. Constantly.

He can no more tame the mass on his head more than Chiron can control this camp. He can run a brush through, sure -- not that he does -- but every cowlick is at odds, and every curl chooses a different pattern. Like all the frazzle that lives in his head shoots out of his skull at random, like the exclamation points in a comic.

It's cute.

It's very un-Apollo.

"Um," manages Will, voice crackling like firewood. "Um, Nico?"

When Nico looks at him again he is glowing. Not with healing, this time, but -- red. Sun-cow red, dwarf-star red.

Flustered.

Nico blinks in surprise.

"You're, um. Um! I gotta -- work."

Will twitches a little in his hold, pulling back but stopping, and Nico gets the hint and releases him. He pulls back rapidly, then, haggard breath brushing across the fine hairs on Nico's fingers.

"I'm gonna," he says, or mumbles, picking at his cut up fingertips. "Uh, see you."

He runs, practically, to the back of the infirmary, disappearing behind a supply shelf. The girl he was treated throws her one working arm up in exasperation, scowling at the horrible bandage-wrapping she has attempted on herself.

"You," she says, glaring at Nico, "are always distracting him. I might as well bleed out if you're around!"

She stalks off, tossing the ruined bandages at his head. Nico slides off the nurse's station counter, nudging them with his foot. A sound escapes his throat, unbidden: a low, contemplating hum, wrapping around his tapping fingers.

He looks back towards the supply shelves and wonders.

———

He stretches it further three days later, when the weather spells are lifted to feed the strawberries.

Will delivers on the photographs.

There are, as he promised, several of them. Several dozen, really, tucked carefully in a weathered leather album, between dozens more of his siblings with them and not. He sits next to Nico on his bed, knees tucked against his chest, flipping between tracing the curve of his family's smile against the edge of his thumbnail and watching Nico from the corner of his eye.

"She's young," Nico observes, tapping at an older photo of Naomi. She is twenty-something, in the photo, early; she holds a squirming, chunky toddler Will in her lap and laughs so hard she's blurry with it.

The shape of their faces is identical down to the atoms.

"Yes," Will agrees. "She was young when she had me. Nineteen."

Nico raises his eyebrows. His own mother was young, he knows, but not for the time; Sally Jackson was young but at least old enough to drink. Will notices the look on his face and smiles a little wry, a little bitter.

"I know. I've had lots to say about it myself."

Nico nods, turning the page. This one is mostly Will's older, gone siblings -- he knows by the heaviness of Will's breathing before he can even puzzle out what the older polaroids tell him.

It is interesting, the way Will imitates. The way Lee Fletcher stands, the way Michael Yew rolls his eyes. The gentle hold of an older girl Nico doesn't recognize, poking a giggling, eight-year-old Will in the stomach. The exaggerated cheek kiss of a woman with hair down to her knees.

Will stares, now, at the photographs, images he captured, images he has memorized again and again over the years -- the blue of his eyes is almost gray in the shadows of the rainclouds, in the darkened fairy lights of the quiet cabin seven. There is a distance to them, a sadness Nico so rarely gets to see. It is pretty, on him. Makes him look heavy, makes him look full. So often he is cheery and empty, or whatever his campers, his patients need; it is relieving to see him soft and wanting for a moment, to see the love rising and bubbling in his face, to see it crashing like waves in the gentle shake of his large hands. In the rainy softness he looks like moonlight, reflective.

"They'd be proud of you, you know."

Will smiles slightly. There is no light in his eyes, for once, and Nico cannot resist running his thumb under them. Will shivers.

"You think so?"

"How could they not be?" He tilts Will's head, slightly, until those grayed blue eyes lock squarely on his, wide and hopeful. "I am."

He says it slowly, carefully, spending time on the separation between the vowels. Like he hoped there comes the heat, seeping right through to his roughened palms. He removes them quickly, unwilling to miss it, and to his sudden wave of satisfaction there it is: the redness in his cheeks, glowing like June strawberries. His looks away quickly, biting the corner of his cheek.

"I'm -- uh."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. It pops back into his eyes immediately, so Nico tugs it gently back, tucking it behind the bobby pin by his temple. He watches his lips part as he inhales more than he hears the sharpness of it.

"...Thank you, Nico."

Nico watches the quiet set to his face, the small, pleased smile. Tiny. He watches the color that clings to his cheeks even as he flips through the rest of the photos, even as he is absorbed in distant memories. He watches. He watches Will watch him, out of the corners of his eyes, through the curls of his hair. Nico exhales, low and contemplating.

"Of course."

———

Will is a deeply affectionate person.

It is in the mornings when he grabs Austin's grouchy, scowling face, pressing deafening and exaggerating smooches all over until he cracks and laughs. It is in the gentle hand on Kayla's shoulder on the range, waving wildly at the missed target until she nods, eyes bright again, face narrowed in determination along her next shot. It is in the gentle hip-check of a frantic, barking Clarisse out of the way, murmuring assurances as he patches a slash through Chris's bicep. It is in the sunshine-bright smiles pointed at everyone he sees, at the thanks, darlin'! at busy passing nymphs and tricking Chiron into giving up his paperwork. It is in both hands occupied by giggling, awestruck children and his shoulders the new hot seat, it is in the shrieking laugh bubbling out of Lou Ellen's mouth as he twirls her to music playing only in his head, it is in his holler of gravity's increasing on me!! as he crushes Cecil to the ground. It is in the arm he slings over Nico's shoulders, constantly, the parting mwah pressed to his temple, the brush of his guitar-callused fingertips across cheekbones, knuckles, shoulders and crooked elbows.

It is everywhere. It is constant. It is, almost, forgettable.

It is confounding.

Nico tests it, again. He waits for the dusk of campfire, on an evening cold enough even Will is in tight blue jeans, and he says, in front of everybody:

“You look good.”

The tips of his own ears are red, hidden by his hair, and his voice is low enough to have several onlookers wolf whistle.

But the flames don’t burst into being across Will’s nose.

Instead he grins, wide and grandiose, cocks his hip high, and says, in the worst exaggeration of his soft, subtle accent Nico has ever heard:

“Aw, don’t I?”

And Nico thinks:

Hm.

He watches, and every day is groundhog day; every day Will is grinning teeth and kiss-pursed lips and hearty palms and gentle, careful fingers. Every morning he greets Nico with his lips pressed to his fingers and blown into the air, and he is shameless, and when there is teasing he responds with knuckles dug into ribs and wide-mouthed grins and come here, brat, you're next. Every other sentence ends in darlin' or dearest or if he's talking to Nico than a million others he pulls from a hat, Zombie Boy and Death Breath and sweetcheeks and princess. He doesn't even think about them. Nico will blink at every new one and say, no, and he will laugh, low and snorting, and double down. And Drew will roll her eyes and mutter about Southern charm or rather his lack of it and can you maybe be a kicked puppy somewhere away from me, please and he will roll his eyes. And he will walk Nico to his door every night and say, bright as daylight, night, Neeks, love you! and bound away across the common, shrieking as the harpies descend on his chronically late ass.

And Nico thinks:

Hm.

But there will be moments. In corners, or in twilight: when it is someone else's turn to sing, when someone else strokes the little ones' hair as they blink themselves awake to drowsy flames, when the campfire smoke is sweet and soft and wraps around the two of them, on the blanket Will has laid out. And Will will yawn, head drooping, halfway asleep, too out of it to notice Nico's creeping hand. And Nico will touch, barely, the edge of his pinky to the bent knuckle of Will's, tucked away between them, shrouded in shadow.

And under the dancing light of flickering embers, Will's face will burn.

And Nico thinks:

Ah.

———

Nico decides to consult an expert.

"Morning," mumbles Annabeth, bumping into him as she stumbles her way to breakfast.

Nico follows quickly, sitting down next to her and staring until she sets down her book. When she does not, he puts a very careful finger on the spine, tugging down until she blinks.

"Oh, Nico! Hey. Good morning."

Nico hides a small smile. "Morning," he greets back. "I have a Question."

"Capital Q question," Annabeth observes, taking a bite of her cereal. She glances over at her half-closed book. Nico cautiously slides it away, and she glances back. "Shoot."

"How do I test a theory?"

"Uh, hypothesis, usually," she answers. "Unless your theory is: Percy is deathly afraid of centipedes, in which case I will go ahead and confirm that theory for you."

"No, that's not the theory." Nico blinks. "Thank you, though."

"Mhm. Reparations, etc etc."

"Right. Uh, my theory is secret."

Annabeth stares at him. Nico stares back. Annabeth does not blink. Nico squirms.

"A gay theory," she surmises.

"Shut up," Nico confirms, red-faced.

Annabeth grins. "Make a list of true/false statements you can prove or disprove. Test them. After testing, form a conclusion." She waves her spoon emphatically. A drop of milk lands on Nico's eyelid, and she smiles sheepishly. "Boom. Questions gained. Will Solace's Affections: conquered."

"Shut up," he says, again. But then adds, belatedly: "Thank you."

He flees to the exit horn of her cackling, before anyone can overhear them.

———

next

They honestly need this with the recent episodes 😩

teenagers in media acting like real teenagers will always hold a special place in my heart

thinking about Nico adjusting to letting himself miss and long for the people he loves. based on these bits from the sun and the star:

" As Nico and Will followed the trogs, he thought about how much he missed Hazel. He was learning to make peace with that feeling. It was okay for him to miss people because that meant he wanted them around in his life. That idea was *very* new for him- he was used to either pushing people away or watching them recoil from his presence." *

" That was the most surreal thing of all... Was he happy? Nico wasn't very familiar with the sensation, but he couldn't deny that he felt wonderful in Will's presence. He even longed for the son of Apollo when they were apart. A funny thing had happened as the two grew closer: Nico suddenly understood all those cheesy, sappy love songs he'd always hated."

announcement:

im gonna he writing a lot more porn.

(i didn’t know how fun this was.)

was reading solace fics and was hit with this concept:

will solace is a life 360 friend. he knows where all his friends and family are at any given time. if demigods could have phones, he would have like 5 different tracking apps on his siblings. and even if new campers find it weird; old campers understand. Because Micheal didn't just die, he went missing. They never found his body. and Will feels like he should have known Micheal was still on the bridge and found a way to get him off. so now he makes sure none of his family can go missing and be somewhere scared and alone.

solangelo part bc i mean I was reading solangelo. What do you EXPECT from me?

the first time nico goes somewhere without telling Will it's a mess. Will's health goes so far down the gutter that tarturus can't find it. Lou Ellen and Cecil take to kidnapping him from the infirmary and camp border because those are the only 2 places he goes anymore. Kayla and Austin start working their first double shifts to keep will from working himself to ACTUAL death. When nico returns, Will is so overwhelmed he just cries. (he totally yells at him later, but it can't be before everyone gets to lay into him, you can tell i love nico based off how much I beat him up [he's perfect but I feel angsty],) 💙 He cries himself to sleep outside all campers are concerned. someone puts will to bed, and Kayla, Austin, Lou Ellen, and Cecil rip nico a new one. they actually hit him like the dude is bruised. They make his sit through a PowerPoint on a projector Cecil stole. He leaves a changed man and now keeps Will updated on his whereabouts like a champ. he's actually the best at it after that. mans becomes the standard. the perfect example. needless to say, after Will says, "they need to keep him updated like nico does," the third time their all a little pissed

(Maybe I'll do Nico angst later beat up Will a bit. I mean, I also love him)

"Don't cry."

"...I'm not."

"Omigods. Will. Don't cry."

"I'm not!"

But there are welled up tears making his eyes looking huge, and even as he bites it his lip still trembles. In seconds there is the slightest of sniffles.

Nico groans, slumping against the handle of the grocery cart. A WASPy mother glares at him in passing. He glares back and sics an errant soul onto her monstrosity of a hairdo for good measure.

"Will," he groans, metal bar digging into his forehead, "Will, it's a lemon."

"I know," Will sniffles, bravely. "Just -- leave it. Let's go."

Nico moves his arm, just enough to watch his too-tall over-empathetic dumbass best friend try and fail to pull himself together in the, and Nico cannot emphasize this enough, very public grocery store in the suburbs of Long Island, where people stare.

And, like.

The staring is not too unusual.

Will is in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. It's early March. Climate change is not that bad yet. The two of them are wearing neon camp t-shirts -- Nico's good, goth t-shirts have been stolen from him to be 'washed' -- and are both, Nico must emphasize again, fifteen years of age, with a grocery cart each full to the actual brim with Pop Tarts, Twizzlers, medical supplies, socks, and silly string. Will is approximately nineteen feet tall. They make a scene. That is a fair evaluation.

But rare is the day where Nico cannot quell the stares by reflecting hellfire into his eyes. Mortals usually flee in terror or at least walk away traumatized. Today they aren't even looking.

"Will," he says, as gently as he can manage. Will looks over, after a minute, and his bright eyes look so glassy and miserable that whoa, hey, Nico can manage a whole lot gentler than he thought he could, can't he. He reaches up and pats a palm against Will's wet cheek, swiping a thumb under his eyes. "Do you. Want." He glances over at the lone, half-dried up lemon on the floor by the produce baskets. "Would you like to take the lemon home with us.

"Yes," says Will quietly. Nico's hand falls away and Will wipes his face, crouching down to scoop it up. He hesitates before putting it in the cart, cradling it against his chest. "It's just." He looks at Nico through his eyelashes. Nico tries to smile encouragingly. Based on the immediate tears and sobbing of a child directly behind Will's shoulders, he is unsuccessful. "If we don't take it, no one will, you know."

"Yes," agrees Nico slowly. "Due to the fact that it is garbage."

Will snatches his hand back like Nico had smacked it, glaring hard. Nico is really starting to consider those bipolar pamphlets Kayla left pointedly on the Apollo table. Yeesh.

"It's not -- garbage! Just because -- just because something isn't as good as everything else doesn't mean it's garbage!"

...Or not.

Ah.

"Ah," says Nico. He clears his throat. "Ah."

Some cultures attribute tact and gentleness to his father -- Death accepts all, and in facts invites all, to reside with Him. He will take your hand and guide you to whence you have never travelled, where you have no kin. He will speak to you in your shock of your life and your triumphs. He, when you have no one, is your compassionate, voluble friend.

Hazel inherited all that, unfortunately. Nico got the dead-eyed stare and fruitiness.

"Uh," he tries, anyway, "if you were a rotten lemon, I would take you home."

Will looks at him skeptically. "You would?"

"Y -- uh, yes. I would make." He wracks his brain. "I would use you to clean surfaces."

"...Oh."

"Yes. Like -- chopping boards, and the like." He makes a karate chop motion with his hand. He immediately takes the hand and shoves it into the untraveled depths of his pocket, which is a challenge due to the fact that it took him forty minutes to paint his jeans on this morning, and vows to cut its quisling digits off as quickly as possible. Why is he alive.

He is grateful at least that his friend is about as stupid as he is.

"That would be a good use for me if I was a rotting lemon," Will agrees. He looks down at the rotting lemon cradled in his hands. "Maybe we will use you to clean."

"Yes," Nico says, gentle coaxing. "Now let's put the lemon in the cart, okay? We're almost done. We just need the nineteen quarts of ice cream Cecil paid me ninety dollars not to disclose to Chiron. Let's go."

"'Kay."

Garbage lemon safely laid among a braid of licorice packages, dead centre in the cart, they move on. The stares follow them, but Will at least does not seem to mind -- used to it, veteran camper that he is -- and slides his arm through Nico's crooked elbow. Nico takes that as the opportunity it is to steer him away from the cake that a nefarious teenager has pushed to the floor, lest that set him off next. They have only minutes until they make it to the cash register, where Nico will pay for whatever Will is watching him scan, and are home free.

"Hey, Nico."

Nico hums, eyeing the self-checkout line. "Yeah?"

"Would we still be friends if I was a worm?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Do it I believe in you

100 LIKES and I'll talk to my parents about maybe getting a binder

This is unrealistic on purpose

Reblogs and comments don't count but you can still reblog

Tag as many people as you want

I will tell you if I do it or if I chicken out

Edit 1: changed to 100 instead of 1000

goal reached!

not done yet!

Nico doesn't notice it, at first.

Most of the day his eyes are just blue.

Pretty blue, of course. Most of Will is; pretty that is. He sounds it, especially, rolling r's and loud lovely laughs and a lower voice that's right on the edge of raspy. He matches it, too, his voice, he has the wild golden curls and veritable spattering of freckles that match the paint-spatter splash of his very being. He is pretty the way dandelions are pretty, bright and explosive and covering hills as far as the eyes can see.

Nico doesn't talk as much as he does. Most people don't, honestly, if there's one thing about Will it's that he's got something to say. Nico likes it when he talks, he likes to walk along and listen or track the waving of his arms as he rants during breakfast. When he watches he can see his big big eyes widen and narrow with every raised and falling pitch of his voice, he can see them sparkle with something secret every time a tripwire gets pulled and someone blames the Hermes cabin. When he watches he can see the shimmery, sky-blue catch in the sunlight, glowing with the pride of his father.

It takes a morning on the silent Apollo cabin veranda for Nico to catch the difference.

It is a Sunday, and he's awake by force of habit. He's been out of his time-distant past longer than he's ever been in it, but ten years of waking up at the crack of dawn, or before in the winter months, to slide on a starchy shirt and squeeze into pinchy shoes he hated, dutifully if grumpily holding onto Mama's left hand and making faces at Bianca around the curve of the pews, has made its mark. He's yet to spend a single Sunday morning anything but groggy but conscious, glaring out the lone Cabin Thirteen window.

One morning, he catches movement across the common.

The way the cabins are set up puts Nico on a small hill. It's interesting, really, and Nico doubts it was on purpose -- what with the disastrous design of the cabin before Nico renovated it -- but nothing venerating Hades is ever looking down on anyone else. His father is quite pleased with it, he knows, and for it the cabin is always pleasantly warm, and smells slightly like turned dirt. Garden dirt, thankfully, not grave; Nico cannot be sure and will never ask but sometimes he suspects his stepmother might have something to do with it. Either way Nico has a clear view of the entire camp from end to end, including the line of cabins gently curving from his down to Zeus's. Three doors down, and smack at the crux of the curve, is Apollo's: in the warming, rising sun, the gilded walls glow, making the red cedar beams holding up the roof look warm and lively, like there's life still growing inside. On the rickety, camper-built porch sits Will, up earlier even than any of his siblings, curled up in the corner of a porch swing. He rocks it ever slightly with one bare foot.

Unthinkingly, Nico walks over to join him.

It's harpy time still, technically. They have reign until the sun is high and clear in the sky, even in the lazier winter months. They glare at him, now, some more restlessly than others, but they know better than to come at him. Nico's sword is dark and obvious from its spot at his side, hands twitching towards it. Besides that his death aura clears him for a solid radial mile.

Will smiles, when he sees him coming.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, voice soft in the barely-daylight. He taps the cushion next to him. "Come sit?"

It's pleading, almost, Nico notices. Not will you come sit, or wanna come sit. But come sit, as in here is your spot. Come sit as in I want you to.

Nico flushes and joins him.

"Yer up early."

His accent is thicker this early in the morning. Nico almost wants to shiver when he hears it, words short and vowels long. He looks like it, too, eyes closed and face mirroring the sun, tipped up to meet it. Long limbs curled up but bent, like the awkward ends of a sweet-tea straw. He bleeds warmth, from the foot of space between them.

"Sunday," Nico admits, just as quiet. He watches as Will drags a hand through his messy hair, smile tugging at the dimpled corners of his mouth. "Habit, I suppose."

"Yeah? Were ya up with them church-goers, once 'pon a time?"

Nico nods, suddenly restless. He sits on his hands to keep them from reaching out, to keep them from brushing along the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"My abuela -- my mama's gramma, that is -- was Catholic, too. Crack'a dawn every week."

"Oh."

Nico forgets Will has a mortal life, sometimes. He seems so cornerstone to camp, mentioned in passing in every other story, a part of the schedule from breakfast's daily mental health check-ins to sing-along at ten. Even the infirmary bears his name -- never you should probably head over to the infirmary, but go on and get Will. Nico tries to imagine him without the backdrop of the strawberries, or in the empty desert, and comes up blank.

"Y'seem surprised."

"I am, I guess."

"How come?" He cracks an eye open, grinning. "'M too much of a sinner for it?"

Nico snorts, thinking of the thundering of the Ares cabin last night, coming home after campfire -- where Will has been suspiciously and conspicuously absent for all but his little number at the end -- to each and every bunk and possession attached to the ceiling. As far as Nico is aware, they spent the night on the cement floor.

"Something like that, you menace."

Will smiles, a self-satisfied little thing, and settles back onto the cushions. He exhales as it rocks and all tension melts from his broad shoulders; his extended hand rests limp and tempting in the cushion between them and every cell in Nico's blood itches.

The run rises, slowly. It takes its time by the measured sound of Will's breathing, warming the cracking calluses of his bare heels to the wind-rustled hem of his shorts. With every inch of sunlight he gets brighter, and Nico gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

When more than half of it has pushed its way over the crest of the horizon, he shifts, stretching, turning to face Nico fully. He opens his mouth to say something or make a comment and Nico does not hear it, in fact his ears go long and ringing, because his --

His eyes.

For the first time that morning, he faces Nico head on, elbow off the curve of his forehead, blond eyelashes catching in the warm rays. For the first time that morning, eyes fully open, Nico can see -- not the languid spread of him, or the endless, summer-dark freckles, but the width of his irises, the shine of his pebble-sized pupil: in the bright, early-dawn morning, Will's eyes are endless.

Blue is no longer the right color for them. Desperately, Nico searches around the porch roof, above the chimney of the Big House, and there they are, reflected in infinity: Will's eye are every jealous painter's deepest desire, they are the exact makeup of the morning sky from the pale blue at the rounded top to the golden clouds reflecting the flares of the gentle yellow sun. There are even lines, cutting straight through, of pure, gentle gold; like the angular rays of Heaven looking kindly on the spinning Earth, so stretch the lines in Will's infinitely expanding irises. Layered in between the blue and the gold is the color Nico has never been able to name, the color like pillow softness, the color like soft hands on a fevered forehead, the color like coming in from the biting cold. The color like welcome on in and I got you, darlin'. The color like a long, easy inhale that sits soft and easy in your tired lungs.

"You're starin'," says Will, quietly.

Nico swallows. He doesn't even know what to think in response.

"Everythin' alright?"

Nico's hands twitch, again, and this time he doesn't have half to strength to stop them; unbidden they move slowly up the curve of Will's cheek, pinky lingering on the prominent tendons of his scarred neck. He rests his palms on the softness of his jaw and his thumbs on the dips under his eye, hands cupped like before the holy Eucharist. He waits, mouth dry, tongue poised in anticipation of the I believe.

"Your eyes," he breathes, finally. Its mirrored in the hitch of Will's chest. "My God above."

"Ain't nothin' special," Will argues, or tries to. Heat begins to bloom under the curl of Nico's palm, and Will's voice as gone reedy and thin. "I'm -- they're just blue, darlin', what have you --"

"They're not." Nico stops himself from becoming vehement, barely, but can't slow the firm shake of his head, the whip of his rapidly warming hair. "They're -- they're sky blue Will, gods." He tilts Will's head, slightly, and he goes, swallowing heavy. "This is the kind of thing artists dream about."

That makes Will blush, heavy and hard from the tips of his forehead to below the collar of his shirt. Nico smiles, fond, something heated along the bridge of his own nose, but he cannot help but notice that Will's eyes are still shifting, even as he narrows them, even as he cringes away from Nico's words; the golden along the bottoms spreads, now, past half his irises, like sunlight on shoreline.

"You're -- full'a somethin, di Angelo," he accuses, only his pretty voice cracks. "I dunno what's got you smoother than a polished river stone, but cut that right out, y'hear me?"

Or what, Nico wants to challenge. He is emboldened, now, by Will's embarrassment; as much as he squirms he does not move away. But as the sun crests higher and higher the gold begins to fade, irises smoothing bright and blue and reflective of the sky, still. Robin-egg pale at this exact moment. But familiar enough that Nico exhales, obedient, and drops his hands, scoots way.

"You got possessed," Will mumbles, still curled in on himself. But he smiles slightly to himself and Nico mirrors it, drinking in his shy, shocked pleasure. When he looks over and huffed there is a brazenness in his teeth, a sudden realization of what Nico has been seeing this whole time: he is pretty, and quite obviously so. Even in the neon of his Head Medic shirt. "Oddball."

Nico says nothing, knocking him gently across the shoulders. He settles back in the cushion right next to him, and together they rock, on the creaky old swing, watching lights flick on, shadows move across curtained windows.

Nico looks up into the brightening sky and finds it familiar.