bug-hearted

[bug-hearted]

"Haven't we all fantasized about kissing boys at some point?"

-Jason Grace, House of Hades

[bug-hearted]

“I thought I might find you here.”

Solace snapped up to where the smooth, velvety voice had come from—except no, this time it was a bit rough around the edges. Softer, with something less guarded. Quieter. He was sure his eyes were red-rimmed, and, fearing for his dignity, he looked back down at his hands, clutching his knees as he sat cross-legged.

The angel—Doe-eyes—said nothing. Kept quiet about his fragile state, for some reason—as if they were not an angel and a demon, as if it would not have been right to throw jabs at each other. Instead, he sat next to him, knees pressed to his chest.

They looked onward, watching as Eve dragged Adam around by the hand. They walked through the Garden, doing God knows what. Neither of them paid enough attention to take note.

Solace was rather preoccupied trying not to stare again, trying to keep his gaze anywhere but the angel.

He was beautiful—so much so that it reminded Solace of just how good he was, of just how much he didn’t belong by the angel’s side for fear of…

For fear of what?

Of tainting him?

“Why are you here?”

The question seemed to snap the angel out of whatever thoughts had been running through his own head. Still, his gaze did not waver, only staring down at the humans from their view up on the wall of the Gates.

“I was sent here,” he answered simply.

“No, I mean—” Solace suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Why here? With me?”

That took him a little longer to answer. Solace traced his gaze, following the humans as they ran around the Garden. Strange—he didn’t remember being told that Adam would be given a weapon. He could make one, sure, but he didn’t think humans would learn how to do that until a few more decades—perhaps he’d gotten the time wrong again. He wasn’t exactly good at keeping track of time.

The rather concerning part of this wasn’t the weapon itself—it was that it was in flames as Adam waved it around in the air. Before Solace could ask, the angel was already humming; not in thought, but as if he’d found an answer that made some semblance.

“You make…” the angel said quietly, carefully, “...interesting company.”

“We’ve only known each other an hour max,” Solace said, though the word ‘hour’ meant little to them. Perhaps none of what he said meant much yet.

“And yet,” the angel said.

“And yet,” Solace agreed.

Quiet, for a while. Not quite silence—there was the sound of leaves rustling and wind rolling over and animals in wake and humans doing whatever humans do.

Foolishly, stupidly, Solace allowed himself to spare a glance at the angel, only to find that he’d already been looking at him.

Doe eyes, obviously. They were what he expected, what he had hoped to see—but they startled him anyway.

Not that he knew why. They were just…

Deep, shadowed, coffee-dark.

And suddenly they were gone again, looking back down into the Garden. Solace felt like he could breathe again. Not that he missed looking at them.

“At least one of us did our jobs right,” the angel said. There wasn’t an ounce of anything bitter behind it—if anything, he sounded almost… proud. Ironic, considering that pride was meant to be one of the big bad Seven.

“Sorry if kickstarting the concept of sin wasn’t enough for you,” Solace started defensively, because apparently he failed to ‘show him’ despite all the talk of ‘showing him.’ “Next time I’ll throw in some Sloth, and some Wrath, and some Lust—”

The angel choked. “Lust—?”

“You can even sign as my witness—throw in some Greed, is that evil enough for you?”

“Oh, my God,” the angel groaned, smoothly turning his brief coughing fit into something that began to resemble laughter. “I was talking about you, you idiot. You did your job right.”

Solace raised a hand, but before he could swat at the angel playfully, something heavy settled in his chest at the praise. “Really?”

“No, I was talking to every other demon involved in getting Eve to take a bite of the Fruit,” the angel deadpanned. “Yes, really. Seriously though, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re just laying it on thick,” Solace said, his smile a practiced sort of cool that tried to say I am so normal. I am a demon and I am unaffected by praise. Fear me.

“Don’t mistake this for flattery, Sunshine,” the angel said, each word slipping out of him as if the word sunshine didn’t almost send Solace’s heart reeling.

For no reason in particular. It just sounded… odd! Coming from an angel! Like they were close. Like they were friends. And he was a demon, so if anything, the angel was the one he should be calling—

“You just did your job,” the angel added hurriedly, the corners of his lips twitching with something Solace couldn’t quite name. “You did the right thing. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh… when you put it like that—” Solace clamped his mouth shut, hesitating for a moment. The angel turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow, curious, calculating. “Well, a demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

The angel smiled—not a smirk, this time, nor a smug grin. Small, shy. Crooked. “An angel can get in a lot of trouble for doing the wrong thing,” he offered. “But I’m still in one piece.”

Solace would know a lot about that—about angels finding the right company at the wrong time and doing things they didn’t realize was wrong, doing things Solace until now didn’t think was wrong, but surely must be, if they had landed him here, with ink-black wings and eyes that were cursed to never quite see the sky so well and a heart that burned.

“What?” Solace asked quietly, raspily. His throat was dry—when did his heart start thrumming this fast again? “What did you do?”

The angel grinned, pleased.

“Angel, what did you do?”

The corners of his lips twitched again—at what, Solace didn’t know—but he turned his gaze back to the Garden. Solace followed his eyeline once more, landing on the humans running around the trees. “I used to have a flaming sword.”

“You used to have a flaming sword…” Solace repeated.

“Yeah.”

“And now… you are no longer. In possession. Of said flaming sword.”

“Yup.”

“And Adam… is.”

“Mhm,” the angel said. When Solace said nothing else, the angel offered, “He looked like he needed it."

“Needed—?!”

“Come on, Sunshine, admit it,” the angel said, a smile playing on his lips. “Wouldn’t it be kinda funny if I did the bad thing and you did the good one?”

As Fate would have it, light laughter did bubble out of Solace’s lips. He didn’t even find it funny, no, but something in his lungs was fighting to laugh, and he didn’t realize until he was already laughing, and the angel was laughing along. Oh no.

Oh, no.

Solace’s face pinched suddenly, halting his unashamed giggling. “Hey— no! That’s! No! That wouldn’t be funny at all. I don’t…”

The angel’s head tilted curiously, nose scrunched. Solace wanted to punch it off of him. Or do something else he didn’t have a name for. Or, perhaps, he could throw himself off the Gate and die instead.

Human bodies were confusing.

Solace sighed. “I don’t want to see you get… in trouble,” he said, when what he really meant was I don’t want to see you Fall.

“I won’t,” the angel said with a roll of his eyes, though Solace didn’t miss the way he softened lightly.

“But— but— your sword!”

“Yes, yes, they should consider it a gift passed down from God,” the angel said, waving a hand around haphazardly. “Twice-blest and everything. And they need it now that Eve’s expecting.”

Solace, in his time as an angel, liked to consider himself a busybody.

He made himself busy with healing injured angels—because, yes, apparently even angels got hurt during war training. As it happens, he also made himself busy with designwork—which happened to be a thinly-veiled excuse to spend all his time in the… the Space. Where their creations would soon bloom. Celestial bodies and nebulae and galaxies.

As it did not happen, Solace did not spend as much time designing earth itself, or the creatures inhabiting it.

So when the angel nodded at him as if to say, you know what I mean, Solace’s eyebrows furrowed as if to say, no the fuck I do not.

“Expecting? Expecting— what?”

The angel froze. Then, if Solace looked closely enough, a tinge of color painted the tips of his ears.

“Um— a baby, of course,” the angel said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and let’s move on to another topic.

“Oh,” Solace said. And because he is just a little bit evil, and very much curious about the human condition, he continued, “Why doesn’t she just… like… do it now? I was stalking Eve’s birth—very efficient stuff, I gotta say.”

“It’s different! This is the real thing now. It’ll be nine months before she gives birth.”

“You’re not making sense,” Solace said. “If God put the baby there I’m sure She could, like, expedite the process, y’know?”

“No, that’s not— God didn’t— there’s a— it’s a process—” the angel sputtered, which left Solace quite a bit more confused. If he knew this was going to be such a sensitive subject he wouldn’t have pushed. “—there are steps— but those are only between— and only between humans anyway, so. No point in giving you a whole crash course on human reproduction. When I’m an angel. And you’re a demon. So.”

Solace blinked. “Okay?”

“Okay!” the angel insisted.

“Okay,” Solace reassured him.

After a moment, the angel huffed, the color leaving the tips of his ears, the back of his neck not quite blushing anymore, returning to that soft olive tone Solace had taken note of the first time he’d seen him earlier in the day. “Okay.”

“So… your sword.”

“My sword,” the angel repeated, looking anywhere but Solace’s direction.

“She gave it to you,” Solace said.

“Yes,” the angel muttered, “She did. But God is— look, I did what I had to. It’s not like anyone takes inventory anyway. Not of our stock, not of the angels.”

“Not of… the angels?”

“I’m saying,” the angel said quietly, carefully. Not quite smooth, but not quite nervous either. Raw, but not rough around the edges. Just real. “If I spent a little more time up here before bringing in my report for the day, then no one would know but us.”

The realization settled over Solace’s bones like something warm—like sunshine seeping into his ribcage, or stardust crackling across his skin. He’d never see the sun again, or the stars, but he’d take this, too.

“No one but us,” Solace said, wing twitching as the first sounds of thunder rolled over the sky. Before any drops of rain could reach the angel, his wing was already reaching up to shelter him.

He was… beautiful. Solace knew this, of course. But in the rain, he looked like he belonged. It was strange; maybe it was because Solace couldn't see the sun, maybe it was because he had a strained relationship with sunlight, maybe because he’d spent his life staring out at celestial bodies, breathing among them, but here, with the angel under his wing—

He looked utterly divine. Like the shadows clung to him like home. Like they hid in the corners of his lips and the crinkles of his eyes and the space under his cheeks and in the crease of his dimples.

And his eyes—dark, heavy. Burning, but not piercing. Not quite like he was studying Solace—more like he’d already figured something out. Solace didn’t know what that meant, shivering under his gaze.

And his hair—his curls matched each of Solace’s feathers, black as spilled ink against the whitest piece of parchment. His own ivory feathers were dampened by the rain now, not quite as white, but just as bright anyway. Solace wondered what they would feel like if he ran his fingers through them.

Would his feathers be as rough as his own? Or would they be smooth? Would the angel be sensitive, or would he not feel the touch at all?

No, Solace thought. I will not know. I will not find out.

He’d found something that reminded him of what he was not: beautiful. Good. Holy. An angel.

But he’d like to have it around for a while longer. Just a little while longer. Just until the rainstorm ended—and if they never crossed paths again, then Solace would take it as an omen, and smile knowing he was lucky to have met the angel at all.

[bug-hearted]

[bug-hearted]

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

Will is sure of it.

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

"I --"

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

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

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

"Fucking boys!" he shouted.

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

"Hear, hear."

And that was that.

-- -- --

Except that wasn't that.

Because Nico sends him letters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear My Friend Belov

Will,

Hi.

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

Hi. Again.

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

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

And then I realized I have become a booger.

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

What does booger even mean.

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

You make me weak.

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

I love you

Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

Love, Bye,

Nico. (di Angelo)

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

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

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

What is wrong with him.

What is wrong with him.

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

Guido blinks at him.

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

Guido, being a horse, does not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He screams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What if I wanted to start smoking cigarettes."

"Hm."

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

Will nods enthusiastically. Mitchell somehow does not look assuaged.

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

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

"...I see."

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

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

"No," says Valentina, sadly.

"No," says Mitchell, less sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nyssa sighs and walks away.

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn't.

-- -- --

next

[bug-hearted]

everyone say thank you nico di angelo for giving us proof of little spoon will solace ???

i got the most important question ever. who's the little spoon.

[bug-hearted]

"i dont think this is how youre meant to upload a profile picture" whilst the pfp is still very much blank is just. amazing to me. i hope they never learn how to use technology ever

"Selfie" of me and my gorgeous Prince of Darkness ;) - Will

i dont think this is how youre meant to upload a profile picture - nico

You are 80 years old. Do not speak to me of the ways of contemporary technology, old man. - Will

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When are you gonna crack and make a solangelo Ask RP blog

this post made me crack. i made the blog. i plan to make it the most in character thing ever. perhaps maybe more in character than any of the fics i have written. cough.

follow their shenanigans over at @hippocratic-oath-breakers

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“Oh, my God!” Solace hissed, jumping, wings rustling against the bushes. There were dark, round, doe-like eyes glaring at him. There were not supposed to be dark, round, doe-like eyes glaring at him.

“No,” Doe-eyes said. “Just an angel.” A smirk.

Ah. That made sense. Said creature had the brightest wings, a blinding ivory against the dark shadows in these bushes. When the light hit them just right through the leaves, they shined almost pearl-like. Incandescent.

Except that smirk.

That was— charged. There was something curled behind it, something cold and almost dark that Solace never would have seen on an angel.

Breathtaking.

“What, never seen an angel before?” Doe-eyes said. It was then that Solace realized he’d been staring. Quite shamelessly.

Because how could he not?

Solace scoffed. “Um, no,” he drawled defensively. “I’ve been… around.”

Doe-eyes’ gaze bore into him. He felt like he was being studied. Examined. Picked apart, like a carcass about to be skinned to bone.

Doe-eyes was… staring, too, Solace realized now. Not that he knew how to feel about that.

He looked scrutinizing—like Solace was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. He began to squirm under the attention, heart hammering against his chest.

This was an angel, for God’s sake! Solace couldn’t afford getting distracted! Not when he had—

“Are you just going to creep around in these bushes? Because I’ve got a job I need to do.”

Doe-eyes rolled his eyes. “By all means, demon,” he said, and there it was again! That stupid smirk playing on his lips, casual and light as if the word demon didn’t almost make Solace flinch. “Although, it does seem to me you were creeping around these bushes first.”

“Whatever,” Solace huffed. “I’m going now.”

“Again,” Doe-eyes huffed to mimic him, “by all means.”

Solace began to lift himself up to his legs, turning his gaze to the Garden. He had a job, and a plan—a good one, at that. It would be a shame if someone thwarted it.

Huh.

Solace turned back to Doe-eyes, still just sitting there, brows furrowing in confusion. “Aren’t you meant to, like, thwart me?”

Doe-eyes raised an eyebrow. “Yes.” And? his face asked.

Solace dragged a hand down his face. This angel was impossible. He didn’t realize it was even… well, possible, for an angel to be difficult. “Why aren’t you thwarting me?”

Unimpressed, Doe-eyes’ mouth opened to answer, then closed again. Then, after a half-second of hesitation, a wide, sly grin sprawled across his cheeks.

“Much more entertaining watching you try to hype yourself up for whatever you’re about to do.”

“What does that mean?” Solace asked, when what he really thought was Heavens above, the Angel has dimples.

“That means you’ve been here for days, stalking the humans, all nervous and bumbling like an idiot who doesn’t actually want to do what he says he’s here to do,” Doe-eyes said, self-satisfied.

“Well! I! Want to, but the timing is just—”

“You haven’t actually given me anything to thwart, you know?” Doe-eyes said, pressing the back of his hand to his lips as if curtly muffling a laugh. Infuriating. Utterly so.

“What—!” Solace huffed. “I’ll! Show you!”

“I’m sure you will.”

Oh, this angel was very irritating. Solace would show him! He could be evil! He could be the demon he was supposed to be! He could do this—could do his job and not get his friends demoted in the process.

Solace shivered. He did not need his friends getting demoted. He knew what jobs were given to the lower-class demons. Paperwork.

He very pointedly ignored the voice in his mind screaming good luck pulling yourself together enough to focus, instead giving Doe-eyes a grunt and a death glare (which didn’t work, only serving to make Doe-eyes’ smirk more smug).

Solace decided, then, that he rather disliked angels—no, no, just this specific one.

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My loves and dear Solangelo in an old trend(?) this is the post!

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this js NNNNNNOT okay i am weeping .

“lets all NOT* stay alive and not tell nico and percy”

is it too early to post this or like? uh yay di angelos castings! uhm! 😞 uhhh🙁☹️

*I FORGOT TO SAY NOT IM SO EMBARRASSED

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i am not ready for levi chrisopulos and olive abercrombie to break my heart. they are the only reason i'll be watching the series. i love them so much. what beautiful fanart

rip bianca you would have loved hunger games - and rip nico you would have loved dnd

they won nico’s cat hairclip and bianca’s pin (on her shirt) at the lotus casino if you even care

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your solangelo art fills me with such happiness every time i see it on my dash. 🖤🐈‍⬛ keep doing wat u do!!!

this is so sweet :( i'm always so happy to know that there's at least one person out there who i bring happiness to with my art. i appreciate you so much!! thank you!! <3

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more cuddle sketches because i miss them

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cuddles (wip)

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"Oh my gods, what if he speaks Italian in my vicinity? I will die. I will die. And he’d probably be there for the funeral rites. To bless it with his… gorgeous Lord of Darkness, Prince of the Underworld vibes. We won’t get to do the Thing.”

Cecil’s eyes flicked toward Lou Ellen for an answer. The Thing?

Helplessly, Lou Ellen shrugged. The Thing, man! I dunno!

Will caught their faces. “The Thing! I have stayed up so many nights explaining this to you I’m almost offended you don’t remember.”

They blink.

“C’mon, the Thing Achilles and Patroclus did where they—”

“—Got their ashes mixed and buried together after they died!” Lou Ellen finished for him, the realization causing her eyes to widen, her grin almost wistful. “Will. William Solace. You are… such a romantic. I am swooning. C, tell him you’re swooning.”

Cecil would, but he was already play-fainting into his bed, a hand thrown dramatically over his face as he sighed dreamily. “I’m dead. I’m Nico di Angelo and I’m starring in a Greek tragedy featuring the most romantically inept Son of Apollo and I’m dead.”

“I’m not— I’m not inept! I am very much ept!”

Cecil shot up. “Your way of flirting is telling him all the ways he doesn’t take enough care of himself.”

Will rolled his eyes. “So he’s— medically inept and needs someone to do it for him. That’s fine. Maybe I was just trying to figure out how far gone my patient was before I sent him off with a Tylenol and a prayer.”

“You held his hand and freaked out when you saw all that dark stuff in him,” Cecil said.

“Ooh, no, he was freaking out way before,” Lou Ellen reminded him, grinning earnestly. “Remember when Coach Hedge told him about that shadow travel thing Nico did? He was so wound up.”

“Well what if that was just! Me being a good doctor! Huh! What if! I! Just enjoy holding up the Hippocratic Oath!”

“Dude,” Cecil said, cackling to himself, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes as if Will’s inability to be normal around his crush was physically painful. “If you gave a single shit about the Hippocratic Oath you wouldn’t be trying to get into your patient’s pants right now.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t even start lying, Will,” Lou Ellen deadpanned, “I’m not in the mood to try and find your EpiPens again.”

“It’s okay, dude,” Cecil reassured him. “You’re horny.”

“And in love!”

“And tragically horny.”

“And yearning.”

“Again: horny.”

“Cecil!” Will groaned.

“You’re pining, Will, and it’s honestly a little pathetic, but in that really cute and sweet way. Trust me. It’s not gotten to Ellis levels of pathetic.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Will sighed.

“The fuck does that mean?” Cecil cried, going pointedly ignored.

“But,” Lou Ellen said, “it is still a bit pathetic. So do something about it, you beautiful, beautiful idiot! You’ve made your bed, now die in it!”

“Um,” Will said, rather eloquently, “I don’t think that’s the—”

“No, no, sounds about right,” Cecil said, nodding gravely. “You got him where you wanted him, but he’s Nico, man—he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. So do something about it. And die trying like a pathetic gay idiot. Or die having never tried.”

Will opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then closed his mouth. After a moment, he said quietly, “I don’t wanna… gods, I don’t wanna mess this up.”

Cecil’s smile grew too soft, too real for comfort. “Then don’t.”

The Hippocratic Oath Doesn't Count When You're in Love - sleepy_angel - Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

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teal glass shards and scrunched noses

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thank you for being a victim of my shallow emotions