mr-jammed-toast

[mr-jammed-toast]

“Don’t worry, Kayla. I got him.”

It’s the first thing that registers in a long time. It’s also the only thing that registers a split second before a hand grips his collar and he is dragged, bodily, out of the infirmary, bumping down the stairs like luggage.

“Is that all I am to you?” Will asks, bereft. “Luggage?”

“You’re losing your mind again,” Nico says. “Intervention time.”

“I am — just fine, thank you kindly! I was in the middle of sorting the medicine cabinet by colour and vibe. Let me go.”

“There’s something wrong with you. Mentally.”

“How rude.”

Nico snorts, but does not relinquish his hold. Will gives up squirming and sighs, allowing himself to be dragged.

It’s kind of nice, he supposes. Nico is careful to avoid most of the rocks and the sky is kind of pretty from this angle. Ideally he’d be, like, walking, but dragged along is alright. It’s better than last time. The whole princess carry thing was humiliating and if someone does that to him again he’s channeling the power of the sun and exploding himself and everyone around him.

“That is not an actual power that you have, William.”

“Shows what you know.”

“I’m gonna start calling you Hiroshima.”

“Go for it. Guess who’ll look like the insane one in that scenario?”

Nico laughs, because he thinks Will is funny, even though he will not admit it. Will knows so because that’s how he bagged the camp’s baddest bitch. Twas most certainly not his swordfighting skills or poetry, that is for certain.

(Not that it had stopped him from trying. Honestly, Nico may have agreed to go out with him for the sole intent of stopping the poetry.)

(But he’s stuck now, so there.)

“Here.” Nico deposits him unceremoniously on the floor. Will lands with an exaggerated oof. “Eat something or I’m stuffing you into an onager and launching you to Mars.” He glances up at the sky. “The planet, not the deity.”

“Figured,” Will wheezes, rubbing his shoulder blades. Why must he always land painfully. Why is he punished merely for existing. “What’s this?”

Nico, refusing to answer verbally, spreads his arms. Will uses his working eyeballs to determine ‘this’ is a soft blanket that is 100% stolen directly from the Aphrodite cabin, spread carefully over the grass of the nicest clearing in the woods. ‘This’ is a picnic basket full of what Will assumes is Twizzlers, if Nico loves him.

“Tis not,” Nico promises. “I brought you vegetables and whole grains and all the other bullshit you harp about me eating, you massive hypocrite.”

‘This’, Will notices, ignoring him, is a folded letter with his name on it and a portable radio playing the nearest country station.

Next time you overwork yourself I’m knocking you unconscious and chaining you to your bed for three days, reads the note. Make better choices, you dickbrain.

“Charming,” Will says. He presses the letter to his chest and pretends to swoon. Nico lets him fall and bang his skull on the ground, but Will internalizes the pain and commits to the bit like a real man. “My very own Romeo, taking care of me so well. Oh, my heart, my heart.”

“You are the most annoying person alive.”

“And yet you’re obsessed with me.”

Nico cracks a smile. “Yes,” he admits. “Not quite sure how that one happened.”

Nico looks at him with dark brown eyes and slightly raised brows and it is charming, genuinely, and Will goes a little pink, admittedly, because his smile is crooked and teasing and there is something handsome and a little tiny bit mean about it and maybe Will likes that. A little. And maybe Nico knows that and snickers and mutters get over here, airhead and tugs him until his head is in his lap and sticks his hands in his tangled hair and yeah, Will likes it a little. A lot.

“You know, you’re kind of an alright person,” Will says.

“That was almost a compliment.”

“Mhm. I might even like you.”

“Shocking.”

Will grins. Nico rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss him, biting the tip of his nose on the way down, and there is a coil in Will’s belly and it feels a little like heat and a little like warmth. A little like someone taking care of him.

“I threatened the camp,” Nico says conversationally. “We have the next three point seventeen hours to ourselves, lest I sacrifice three teenagers to Thanatos.”

“Sensible.”

“I thought so.”

“Anyone told you you’re kinda hot when you’re a little evil?”

“Yeah. I hear it a lot, actually.”

“Good, good. Glad you’re aware.”

They look at each other for one point two seconds and burst out laughing, and it is stupid, and it is quiet, and it is a bubble growing and growing in the pit of Will’s chest.

He breathes. He leans a little farther into Nico’s lap, and smile. He grips their hands together.

It’s kinda nice to be got.

———

based on this drawing by @skysmadness

[mr-jammed-toast]

"Don't worry about me."

"I'm allowed to worry for people when they are doing stupid, foolish things."

"You worry about everyone."

"False. I've never worried about Cecil Markowitz a day in my life."

Nico snorts, tugging on his boot and yanking on the laces. "Right," he drawls, "and the insistence on walking him fourteen entire fucking miles to the bus stop at the end of camp was because..."

Will flushes. "Because he's stupid, okay. He's actually unwell. I checked his brain and everything. If I leave him alone too long he'll get kidnapped, and then what?" He cocks a hip to one side, crossing his arms and tapping his foot and generally just looking like a carbon copy of his mother. Nico mourns his lack of camera. He needs to send Naomi another snapshot for the Wall of You Do Act Like Me, You Little Shit. "What am I gonna do if he dies, huh? Resort to off-brand Twizzlers? I'd rather kill myself."

The frayed ends of his laces cooperate, finally. He desperately needs new combats but the thought of having to break in a new pair makes him want to strangle the nearest karpoi. Any one of them would do.

Nico pushes himself to his feet, cupping both sides of his boyfriend's scowling face and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, holding there until he feels them soften. He smiles, snickering at Will's huffy pout.

"I am doing one errand," he says, exasperated. "Just one."

Will throws his hands up. "You know who else did one errand?! Orpheus! That's right, dumbass, and he died! So!"

He waves his hands again, because obviously he cannot simply make his point with his words alone. Oh, no. His whole body needs to get involved, or else there is Not Enough Emphasis.

Gods, Nico loves him to death.

To death, and then some.

"You are more dramatic than your father," Nico says, kissing him again before pulling away. "You know that?"

"I thought you loved me," Will grumbles. "I thought you loved me, and then you go around saying such insulting things. Don't you love me? People who love me would never say that to me."

"I have actually heard that exact speech come from Apollo's mouth. Twice, at least."

"I'm about to commit a felony. It rhymes with shmassault and battery."

"Shut the fuck up," Nico says, but he's grinning. Will is scowling hard but doing a very bad job of it, and Nico can actually see the don't you dare fucking laugh you're mad at him you have to stay mad at him flashing around in his eyes.

Nico swipes his thumb gently over his freckled cheeks.

It does not take very long for him to cave.

"I'm just worried," he admits, sagging into Nico's hold. His head, as it always has, fits perfectly in the crook of Nico's neck. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to his temple.

"Knew it."

"Shut up." The quick curve of his exasperated smile twitches against Nico's collarbones. "I just mean. Gods above, Nico. It's all the way across the country."

"I shadow travelled all the way across the world, once," Nico reminds him. He runs a hand through fraying curls. "I was fourteen at the time."

"Yeah, and you almost fuckin' died."

Will pulls away, agitated, and Nico lets him. The fraying curls get worse with every tug of his twitching hands, and the sound of his own echoing pacing makes him jump. The bags are deep and black under his eyes.

Nico sighs.

"Will," he says, and words hard to keep the frustration out of his tone, "Will, sweetheart, you cleared me."

But Will isn't listening. The mumbling has started, and so has the fidgeting; the bandages around his arms twist, and twist, and tug, leaving red marks on his bruised wrists.

"Monitoring hymn," Nico hears him mutter. "Or a lifeline..."

Nico checks his watch. He's -- well, he's late, technically, but he's never been punctual even one time, so it's fine. He's got time. He flops to the marble floors, leaning against his bedpost. He watches his boyfriend, notes the flicker and flash of his glowing freckles, of his spattered burn scars.

You and I both know you will be fine, Chiron had said. He had sighed, long and aged and hard, and stared at his buzzing, fritzy student. It will be good for him. Exposure.

"Will," he calls, eventually. "Tesoro."

Will stops. He blinks, coming back to himself, to the cabin. He searches around, eyes settling on Nico's comfy spot on the floor.

He sighs, shoulders sagging. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stands there a long while, still except his breathing, tense.

"Everything is -- green," he says eventually, voice small. "I don't know how to stop it."

"You know how to make it worse," Nico points out, as gently as he can manage. "You've been spiraling for weeks."

"Not -- weeks."

"Since the start of the month."

"Yeah, only a few days."

"It's the thirtieth, Will."

He looks up, eyes wide. "No." He blinks. "Actually?"

Nico's smile is small and sad. "Yes."

"I thought -- I thought --"

"I know."

He doesn't really. He's watched it for years, but he doesn't -- understand, not in the way he understands the depression, the anger, the grief. He and Will have more things in common than they don't, but he doesn't spiral. Not like Will does. His pain has always bubbled and burst its way out of him, tingeing the edge of his vision red and igniting the curl of his fists. His pain has made him quick. His pain has made him quick, it has made him bitter, it has made him miserable, but it has always pushed him forward.

Will's pain gets curled up endlessly inside him, twisting his insides to knots.

It robs him, sometimes.

"Come here."

Will does. The fight has drained out of him, and there are tears in his eyes, even as he tries desperately to blink them away. His bandages lay limp at his sides, fluttering in the breeze from the still-open door.

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, somewhat desperately. He turns so they're facing each other, criss-crossed knees knocking. "I do."

"I know," Nico says. He manages a small smile. "I always know that, Will."

"Good." His bright eyes soften in relief, fingers rubbing at his sternum. "You -- you're powerful, Death Boy. More than anyone I've ever known."

Nico raises his eyebrows. "Careful with that, Sunshine. You're going to get smited."

"Smote."

"Don't correct me when we're having a vulnerable moment."

"Don't need correcting, then."

Nico's smile widens. Will's, this time, matches, dimple flashing on his left cheek. Nico presses his thumb there, relishing in the sudden heat of Will's face and accompanying rolled, flustered eyes. He lingers, and stares, and stares, even as Will squirms, as the glow turns into something hotter than blood heat.

"I'm going to be okay, my love."

"I know."

"It's one jump. Hazel is waiting, unicorn draught at the ready in case I start swooning like a damsel."

"I know."

"Even my dad knows."

"I know."

"I would actually have to try to die, Will. Like there would have to be real effort on my part."

"Just --" he scrunches up his nose -- "I don't know what you could say that would make me less scared of it. Of losing you."

"I mean it would kind of suck if you did." He tilts their foreheads together, because it looks stupid as shit at this angle, and he knows Will'll laugh. He's right. "Since you love me and everything."

"I suppose it's one of those conditions," Will allows. "The whole caring if you up and die thing."

"Yep."

"S'a real pain in the ass."

"You're telling me. I was just fine being an emo loner, not giving a fuck about anything, and then you had to go ruin it. Now I gotta stress about your wellbeing and shit."

"Must be exhausting."

"Miserable." He reaches for Will's hands and squeezes, hard, until Will squeezes back. "It is the most important thing to me, though. Ever."

Will swallows. "Okay."

"I love you, Will Solace. Even when you are annoying about grammar and when you are prodding me about my iron levels and when you are so far in your head you're losing time." He pulls back slightly, just enough to press a kiss to Will's knuckles. "Especially then."

"I love you, too." Will swallows. "You'll be okay."

"I will."

"And you'll IM me when you get there."

"I will."

"And I'll be okay. Waiting."

Nico smiles softly. "You will be."

Will takes a deep breath. He nods. He stands, pulling them both up, and walks to the darkest corner of the Hades cabin, shoulders tense but face brave. He turns, exhaling slowly, and brushes invisible lint of Nico's shoulders, hands lingering.

"I will see you when you get back," he says.

"When I get back," Nico echoes. He kisses him again. "Worrier."

Will huffs, and Nico laughs, and he lets go, and Will lets him, and he steps into the familiar darkness, and the last thing he sees before the shadows envelope him is the trust in Will's light eyes.

[mr-jammed-toast]

what do you mean by that. what do you MEAN by that. come back here. what do you mean by that

[mr-jammed-toast]

my image of lee fletcher (featuring baby will)

[mr-jammed-toast]

LOVE the idea that the book is going to explore this kind of stuff! What a world to be publishing it into, but exploring judgement is an incredible concept.

(New interview with RR and MO!)

[mr-jammed-toast]

The Court of The Dead - predictions

So we have a title and cover drop for the next Nico di Angelo book:

Two of my predictions for the book are already a reality based on interviews:

Meeting Will's mom

Hazel Levesque having a presence

A New Year's blogpost teased a third thing:

3. Frank Zhang having a precense

We also know there will be a theme of judgement and reformed monsters from the previously mentioned interview, and the cover teases that the minotaur will be present.

Here are some of my additional predictions for this next title:

4. Continued dual POV

5. More Will chapters than TSATS but still an overweight of Nico chapters

6. Hazel mini-chapters as interleaves a-la Grogyra's mini-chapters in TSATS

7. Obligatory Percy Jackson mention/cameo

8. Will getting a tour of New Rome (including its infirmary which he will geek out over and take notes to bring back to Chiron and Mr. D)

9. Will learning to live with his darkness and using his plague powers in a dire situation

10. Something-something, someone learns for the first time that Will can glow and is fascinated by it

11. Campers feeling uneasy about Nico's change because they're used to seeing him a certain way

12. Hazel crying happy tears when she sees her brother happier than she ever has

13. Reyna being a hunter reveal (bonus points if we see Nico reacting to and coming to terms with it, as Reyna joined for a very similar reason to Bianca)

14. (just because I think it could be kind of fun to see) Nico has not introduced Will to Hazel yet because of the communications being down and then going to Tartarus, so he has to introduce Will for the first time to her as his boyfriend

If you have any predictions for this title, I would love to hear them :)

[mr-jammed-toast]

Okay, okay, okay— theory time.

They said plot twist, SO, here’s my theory on that. Here’s what we know;

1) Will wears a cool toned shirt, most likely purple on the cover

2) Will won’t be killed off (and I doubt anybody else)

3) People will be mad

My theory? Will and Nico switch camps the same way Annabeth and Percy did. I think that it would probably be best for the both of them— will probably has a lot of trauma from CHB and Nico probably wants to be with his sister- and I think what truly kept Nico at CHB is Will and Jason and if Will wants to go then that’d probably be what they do. I can’t see Nico wanting to stay away from his sister like that after all that they’ve gone through. I think Kayla and Austin would understand too, especially since Will is almost to the age where campers leave anyway. It’d be safer for them both especially after Tartarus.

Worst case scenario with this is a long distance relationship but I really don’t think that would happen. I think Nico would go where ever Will goes, or that Nico wouldn’t want that because of all the stuff he’s had to have a distance with (his mom, Bianca, his dad, everybody.)

People probably would be mad about this but it wouldn’t be a “omg you killed Will off how could you!” And I doubt it’d be a breakup since Mark is helping to write their relationship.

With this, Will would be able to not be the head medic. Not have EVERY responsibility as a doctor at CHB where there’s like almost no Apollo campers. He could finally rest after not being able to. Find himself, find what he likes, and explore it with Nico. They could continue to help the monsters and help other demigods, just less stressfully.

Also, from Nico’s New Year’s resolution, I’m thinking they’re gonna road trip there and possibly visit Will’s mom since Nico wanted to travel w/Will— also wouldn’t Will be closer to his mom in California (she’s in Texas I think)

[mr-jammed-toast]

In the infirmary the air is always still.

The heat-swollen wooden door creaks as Nico opens it, and creaks louder as he shuts it, shoving against the laughing summer winds. The difference is immediate and startling – there are souls here, anguished ones, flickering at the edge of his vision, screaming in the very back of his mind. Sobbing. They sit by the wide, rarely-closed windows and watch the left-behind, and they are miserable, and they are angry, and they are grieving, and they are grateful. They linger like the smell of antiseptic under the powerful eucalyptus, like the faint sting of copper under the lavender. There is no forgetting the fallen even in the softest of nights, where the lights are low to let the injured sleep, where the moon pours gently and warmly onto restless cots, where Will hums, deep and slow, around the rhythmic shift of his pestle and the crush of something in his mortar. 

Nico taps the counter as he approaches, not sure if he’s wearing his hearing aids under his hair. Will’s lips turn up, head dipping in greeting. Nico climbs up on the counter next to him, careful not to knock anything over – and, at the last minute, making a show to check for mud on his shoes, grinning at Will’s rolled eyes – and settling his elbows on his knees. 

There is lots to watch – Will’s work is methodic. Less so when he is following injured Ares campers, badly strumming his guitar and screaming medical instructions as lyrics, but as he grinds white powder against stone, shifting his body with every movement, he slips into the same kind of trance his siblings do when they play, when they shoot; the same seriousness Annabeth gets when she is in charge; the same intensity Percy gets when he swordfights, the same focus Rachel gets when she paints. A connection with his body that his clumsiness usually does not allow. When Will works the bandages around his wrists lay forgotten. His hair curtains his face, his nose twitches. His tremoring fingers hold steady. 

Usually. 

Tonight he grips his tools tightly; force enough that tiny spasms flicker his muscles and drain the blood from his tendons. The worry line in his bottom lip is well over-worked and cracked, blood spilling into his teeth. His shift began at ten o’clock that morning – he has been standing in place long enough for the creases between his brows to become tanlines. The infirmary ghosts steer clear of him, even, loitering by the door and cupboards. Nico can hardly even feel the accidental weight of their gazes. Instead surrounding them, as its own maple-thick presence, is Will; Will and the buzzing, chittering something under his skin, Will and the tension on his face, Will and the pulverized white in front of him. 

“I’m prepping,” he murmurs, when Nico doesn’t ask. “For tomorrow.”

To his left is Chiron’s leather medical bag, full almost to bursting with wrapped squares of ambrosia, bottles of nectar, rolls of bandages, salves, poultices, Tylenol, and more Nico can’t name. Pill bottles and surgical thread, scissors and IV bags. If Nico leaps off the counter and stomps on the floor the over-weighed shelves lining the walls will clatter to the ground. They were three times emptier this morning. 

“...Is tomorrow the apocalypse?” 

Will looks at him flatly. Nico holds up his hands. 

“I’m just saying!” He peers behind the nurse’s station, where more unicorn draught than he has maybe ever seen in his life lines the already-overflowing shelves. “I’m pretty sure we were less prepared for actual war.”

Will’s teeth sink further into his poor torn lip. This is the wrong thing to say. 

“We were.”

Nico tongues the edges of his teeth. Will avoids his eyes, digging his pestle harder into the stone edge, powdered grind popping and spritzing through the thick air. A small bead of red grows on the edge of his chapped bottom lip, challenging him until he curses under his breath and reaches for something to wipe it away. 

“You’re stressing,” Nico observes. 

“Stress is normal,” Will says sharply. 

Nico raises an eyebrow. Will deflates. 

He flexes his hands like he’s just realizing how much they hurt, stepping back and stretching. The stone pestle thuds gently on the wooden counter, white powder clouding off it. Will follows his curious look and slides the thick bowl over, checking his hands for dirt or polishing grease before relinquishing him. Immediately Nico pokes at the tiny little mountain, wrinkling his nose at its chalkiness. 

“Gracie and Yan spent the morning with the naiads,” WIll explains, smiling slightly. The crease between his eyebrows smooths as his eyes scrunch. “I needed good shells. The naiads needed company.”

“I saw them playing,” Nico says. He snorts. “I was not aware they were doing any kind of organized task.”

Will’s smile grows, dimple winking on his left cheek. “Organized might not be the word for it.” He takes the powder gently back from Nico, brushing his fingertips through it to check and nodding. “But they had fun, and that’s all that matters.”

He tips half the powder on a piece of paper, careful that nothing spills. Nico slides off the counter without a second thought, digging around the cupboards for the right size jars and a marker. He pauses before (badly) scrawling on a label, hoisting himself back up on the counter and handing the jar off. 

“I didn’t know what to write,” he explains. 

Will nods without looking, accepting the jars and carefully picking up the paper so the powder is tucked in the little valley. “Figured.” He pours the powder into the first jar, tapping the sides to even it out, then ties on a cloth cover and passes the jar back. “It’s crushed shells. Calcium Carbonate.”

Nico shakes the marker and dutifully records as such on the label, sure there is most definitely not an ‘s’ in calcium nor as many letters as he crammed in there but not bothering to double check. It’s not like Will won’t be able to puzzle it out. 

“What for?”

“Healing, generally.”

“I got that far, dickhead,” Nico says, kicking a snorting Will in the hip. “I was more wondering what the use of pulverized calcium-whatever might be in combat medicine. If you can find the time in prepping for the apocalypse to tell me.” 

The dig makes Will’s expression sour, slightly, and his hands clench against the edge of the countertop. But Nico keeps a careful distance between them; leg still half-extended, resting nearish enough to Will that he can feel the heat of him on his ankles. He hums, quietly, letting his voice force its way through the rigored air and bounce off the huffing, whining ghosts, resting finally on Will’s shoulders. On the ends of his curls, the bends of his elbows. The sharp edge of his many calluses. 

He exhales, long and low, and slides the bowl, jars, and paper over to Nico. Nico takes them, and Will slumps, resting his head on the cool countertop, arms tucked under his torso so he can feel the pressure. 

“Calcium carbonate is good for dyspepsia,” he murmurs. His light eyelashes catch the flicker of his favourite desk lamp as they flutter closed. “And caustic burns. Dyspepsia won’t be an issue tomorrow, but I’ve treated enough people on the other end of Connor’s bombs to assume the risk.”

“Bombs fall under maiming, I’m pretty sure,” Nico points out. “Like, almost totally positive.”

Will sighs. “And yet.”

“...Okay, yeah, and yet.”

Nico’s not as careful as Will is. Or as practiced, rather; it takes him three times as long to fill the jars and he still spills at least a quarter of it on the table and himself. He sweeps it quickly on the floor so Will doesn’t notice. The raised eyebrows assure him his folly is not missed. The slight smile promises that Will doesn’t really mind. 

“Have you always prepped this much for Capture the Flag? Or just ‘cause the Hunters are visiting?”

Nico is careful to keep his own bitterness out of his voice. Will squeezes his ankle, anyway, brushing the thin skin over the bone until he exhales, until tense shoulders relax, until the heat under his chest wanes and cools. He keeps his hold until after still, pad of his thumb scratching gently as Nico inhales, exhales, inhales. 

“No.”

Nico blinks.

“No what?”

“No, it’s not just because of the Hunters.” His hand slips away as he stands, reaching for the newly-packaged jars. Nico shivers against the sudden cold. “And no, we were not always so prepared.”

All at once, the ghosts go still. From every angle of the infirmary, they stop, pause, freeze; the still air gets thicker, sharper. Nico holds his breath. He pinches the inside of his lip between his teeth, inhales, and pushes himself off the counter. Will looks straight ahead. 

He is struggling with the calcium. There are too many jars. He moves them around, as Nico watches, sliding one onto the shelf, taking one off, reorganizing, sliding it back on. Staring, hands full. Bleeding lip straining underneath his canines. Nico watches. And watches. 

The ghosts watch, too. 

“We’ve gotten very soft,” he says finally, quietly. His fingers twitch. He withdraws his hand quickly, wrapping it tightly around the bandages on his wrists and pulling, breathing, pulling. “In the last couple years.” He blows out a breath. His voice is so thin Nico has to lean forward to hear it. “We didn’t used to be.”

The worn cotton slides against spatter burn scars, scrape, scrape, scrape. 

“We lost to more than just wars.”

Vaguely, Nico knows this. The cleaning harpies, the lava wall. Dionysus’ threats. No maiming or no dessert. The hundreds and hundreds of ghosts, hungry eyes, watching him and wailing. 

But the dead so easily become background noise. 

“I remember,” Will admits. “Even before, when we had a fully staffed – infirmary –” he swallows – “I remember. I remember them all.” His breath stutters. His hands clench. He breathes in. He yanks, so hard the skin of his wrists go stark white. He breathes out. “They had families.”

Nico swallows. Of course they did, of course they do. Mothers in Manhattan apartments, wringing their hands at every strike of lightning. Making sandwiches for sons who will never come home. Sobbing in the park, hating themselves. Hating the skies.

More than anything in the world, he wants to ask who. There is a haunted look in Will’s eyes he never sees in full, and he wants – he wants – to pull on his shoulder, to turn him around, to stare into the glass-blue eyes and watch as they well with tears, as he gasps, as he breaks, finally. There is a part of him that longs for paper and a pen and endless frozen hours to document the tiniest shifts in his expression, to map out every twitch of his mouth and preserve the widening abyss of his pupils forever. To immortalise the flashes he knows he sees, gone before he can check, of pain and rage and hurt and fear. The split-second of hate that he knows Will gets, sometimes, when someone complains the infirmary is too slow or too little or too late, when someone rolls their eyes and mutters why do they get that stupid chariot, anyway, what did they ever do to deserve it. When there is the briefest of snaps to Will’s spine, clench to his fists. When he remembers who is and what he has lost and what he wants to do with it. When he stares into corners like he can see the ghosts hovering there, too.

For once, Nico sees it in full. And he is drunk on it, the proof of it, the sick vindication of oh you are just like me. The pleasure in that dark, thoughtless fury, bubbling and broiling behind eyes darker than blue-black midnight. 

“When they said halfbloods didn’t make it past sixteen, they fucking meant it,” Will murmurs. There is a crack under his clenched hands, and he glances down, and watches, for one second, two; broken shards of the glass jar cling to his twitching fingers, red pooling and pools and spills down the creases of his hands, down the piles of powdered white. He blinks. He leans back. 

Nico wants to ask who. He wants to know so badly, wants Will to list them from beginning to end, the people he lost, the people he misses, the thick cloud of grieving screaming dead that follow him at a distance. He wants to put a name to every last haunted pair of eyes. 

“Anyways.” He pushes Nico back when he stands, nudging him clear of the mess with his foot, plucking the shards from his skin without flinching. “It’s better now. Safer. ‘Cause I’m prepared.”

Prepared, indeed. He cleans his hands quickly and methodically, wrapping them easily and sweeping the mess away. He walks straight into a ghost on his way to the biohazard bin and shivers. 

“What time is it?”

Nico snorts. He gets to his feet, tucking his shaking hands into his pockets. “What, like you’re tired or something, Solace? Some robot you are.”

Will laughs, and it is sharp and dark and Nico relishes in it, shivering as it travels down his spine and zaps through every single one of his systems. It is the darkest hour of the night and he can feel it, can taste it. 

“You fuckin’ got me there.”

He spins around the room, hands on his hips, eyes lingering on the younger girl snoring upside down on the cot, on the boy slumped in the chair next to her. His ring finger taps, taps, taps against his legs. 

“I should get to bed.”

“Probably,” Nico agrees.

Will doesn’t move. 

“I didn’t –”

He stops. 

He breathes. He closes his eyes.

In.

Out. 

“I need you to tell me I got everything.”

He opens his eyes and stares at Nico, and there it is, the second time in one night, the glassiness, the pain. The anger. Nico shivers. 

“You got it,” he says lowly. He stares straight back, eyes wide, breath still and silent. “Go to bed.”

Will stares. Slowly the clarity in his eyes clouds, and his pupils shrink to pinpricks as he fades, as he goes somewhere else. His breathing slows. His hands go still, fingers limp. The bandages hang unravelled down to his knees.

“Yeah,” he says. He nods. “Yeah, it’s time to go.”

He turns quickly like he has to convince himself and strides out of the infirmary too quickly for Nico to catch up, even if he tried. Nico watches him instead, traces the slump of his shoulders as he trudges the ten yards to the glowing Apollo cabin, standing on the porch for one second, two, hand on the doorknob, back straightening before his slips in. Nico watches as his shadow grows and shrinks through the half-open windows, stops, stops. He watches as the light shifts, as the moon climbs higher, as the cabin grows silver, and he can hear, if he strains, the slightest rumble of Will’s easy exhales.

He pushes to his feet and slinks back to his cabin. 

— — —

Two hours later Will wakes, barely muffling a scream into his picked-bloody fingers, and stumbles back to the nurse’s station.

— — —

next

[mr-jammed-toast]

the five homoerotic love languages:

- intimate stabbing

- outright obsession

- confused pining

- "no one knows me like you do"

- lifelong promises that always sound suspiciously like wedding vows

[mr-jammed-toast]

hey bro can i open up ur rib cage and rummage around in there until im up to my elbows in blood and then hold ur heart in my hands? no bro i promise it wont look gay i swear.

[mr-jammed-toast]

Listen. I’m just saying that Naomi Solace also being an absent parent would go a long way to explain why Will is such a turbo daddy’s boy olympian god apologist. Naomi Solace’s only non-subjective canon trait is “professional country musician”. It’s not implausible that’s she’s been on tour for most of Will’s lifespan. It definitely explains why Will accepts “famous parent sends you messages from afar and very occasionally pops in to check on you” as a normal and cool style of parenting. Like there’s SOME reason Will lives at camp year-round, and his bf can teleport so that ain’t it chief.

[mr-jammed-toast]

“Will, the harpies don’t touch Apollo kids.”

Will scowls, crossing his arms. “I have no idea who started that rumour.”

Nico raises his eyebrows. “It’s not true?”

Instead of responding, Will lifts the edge of his shirt, cocking his hip slightly so it’s easier to see the skin in the low light. Nico leans in closer, squinting, tracing cold fingers over the raised white scar. Will shivers.

“That’s harpy alright.” He whistles. “They got you good.”

“I was nine years old and mislead,” Will grumbles, pulling his shirt back down. He catches Nico’s hand in the process. “Cecil said we would be fine. Cecil is a liar and a fraud.”

“Hermes kids often are.”

Nico could be a Hermes kid, honestly. Beyond the insane poker ability, there’s a…bend, to his smile, something knowing and quick and crooked, as fleeting as the flash of his sharp canines and absolutely impossible to miss. Will swallows, a couple times, fighting the dryness of his throat that pops up like clockwork at the turn of that teasing grin, at the gold in his river-mud black eyes. Nico smiles like he’s about to sell you back what he stole for ten times the price, and Will falls for the scam every time.

“Well, it was — whatever.”

He can’t quite find his train of thought, flexing his newly damp palms, shrugging at the itch at the back of his neck. Nico’s grin flashes again like he knows it’s there, like he can see the neurons crashing into each other in Will’s head, like he can hear the pounding of his heart.

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

He snorts, rocking back on his heels, turning his gaze out to the common. The braziers burn low, sprites of flame crackling up to the heaven, winking back at the tittering stars. Wind hums gently through the silver poplar trees outside Cabin 13, and cicadas and fireflies sing lowly back, swelling and crashing in sync with far-off waves. If it weren’t for regular screeches of angry bird-women, it would be beautiful. Breathtaking.

Will’s not nine anymore. Apollo kids may not have immunity, but he’s fast. Uncommonly so. Realistically, he can make the sprint from Nico’s cabin to his long before the harpies notice, let alone descend in a wrath of feathers and fury.

And yet.

“I haven’t seen a harpy devour someone in ages,” Nico muses. “I bet they’re pretty hungry.”

Will scowls. “Oh, shut up.”

Nico grins wider. “Bet they’re chomping at the bit for a real meal of the delicious golden boy flesh they tasted so long ago.”

“I hate you.”

“Bet they’re watching you. Waiting.” He wiggles his fingers, hiking up his shoulders and twisting his face. “Wi-ill, Wi-ill, come out come out, come break curfew —”

He laughs when Will shoves him, cackling louder than the she-demons, choking on his own horrible impression of their shrieking voices. His laugher rises in the damp-humid night, dancing in the leftover campfire smoke and resting heavy on Will’s shoulders, and it is gravelly and low and Will is weak, weak, weak. Weak for the sound of it the feel of it the taste of it, curling up hot in his belly, zapping up and down his veins at the speed of sound, forcing the breath out of his lungs in an awed sort of exhale, a sigh he could not stop if he tried.

“C’mon, you weenie.” Nico wipes the tears out of his eyes and holds out his hand, flexing his fingers. “I’ll walk you home.”

There is no world in which Will doesn’t reach out and slide their fingers together, no world in which his vision doesn’t swim at the contact, his throat turn to sand, his knees to leaves and twine. Nico is freezing, like he always is, and it zips through Will so quickly he barely manages to choke down the gasp that bubbles out of him.

“You got harpy immunity, now?”

Nico grins, and this time it’s sharp on purpose, this time it’s wide and more crooked than a thief’s and sharp as the deadliest of knives, wide and cocksure and knowing, knowing, knowing.

“Don’t worry, princess. They won’t come near you.”

Will follows him across the common with a heart so cold it burns.

[mr-jammed-toast]

solangelo is only “opposites attract” in aesthetics and nothing more but you guys aren’t ready for that conversation

[mr-jammed-toast]

what do you mean I can't control everything, why not

[mr-jammed-toast]

chillin’ with my bro j.grace and h.levescool ✨

happy birthday to our dearest ghost king, Nico di Angelo! don’t give the birthday teen any more tragedies, Melpomene, please.

[mr-jammed-toast]

“You’ve been driving a while.”

“It’s a long trip.”

“Hm.”

At the tail end of summer, nighttime roads bend time. There is something about the blacked abyss that haunts you, Will has noticed, that sings to you like saccharine silver lullaby, that blurs the edge of your vision into something soft and infinite, no end or beginning, no harsh edges, no starts or stops. There is no line where the horizon meets the sun-warmed asphalt, no border between shadows. All that lives is black, in its thousand siren shades, surrounding the weak yellow headlines with sweet words and gentle promises. I’ve got you, Night whispers, come rest with me. Lay down your weary head. I will watch for you.

In the winter there is snow. In the winter there is light, in the stars reflecting on the white tops of trees and bright icy lakes, and the sky glows with it, swelling with pride, ballooning a thousand times larger than the yawn of pavement, than the brush of branches stretching out to hold her. In the winter wind roars over anything in her path, in the winter salt bumps along hardened rubber, in the winter snowflakes shimmer and dance a thousand movements in the doting attention of a bright blue moon. In the winter the night laughs, long and lavish and bright, and pays you no heed or mind, resting on her frosted laurels.

The January trip to his mother is easy. The night is not lonely, and does not call to him. Will has never feared the ice and the snow, not in the way he forgets to fear warm summer’s whispers, in the way his eyes follow the night’s expanse until his irises turn black.

There is something about shadows and shadows and shadows that Will has only barely ever resisted.

In the summer the night’s song swells along the tired beat of the van’s old blinkers.

“You’ve lasted so long,” Nico observes.

In the night the son of Hades melts, almost, into the dark of the passenger seat, into the blanket of heavy obsidian that drapes gently over his slight shoulders. Only the sheen of his bright eyes, as Will turns to him, shine like sunrise, like the first clear breaks of light through the murmuring night’s shroud.

“I’ve — made the drive before.”

Nico hums again. It is louder, barely, than the crooning cicadas, than the lilting long-eareds.

“You should pull over. Let me drive a while.”

“I know the way.”

The words are automatic, blending in his ears like the tick of a watch clicking endlessly away in the background.

“I know.”

Nico touches Will’s wrist and he startles, cool-cold fingers contrasting the cozy current coming through the cracked windows. He notices his hands resting on his cramped knees, palms creased in the shape of the steel steering wheel. Hears the blinkers, both sides, beating along with his heart, flickering amber, bleeding into the darkened dashboard. Feels the gentle purr of the old engine, slow beneath his tired feet, rattling his aching eyes.

The dark is no longer moving.

“I’m — we —” He stops. He breathes in. “The van’s —”

Nico’s thumb brushes gently over his heated wrist, end to end, and pauses, bitten nails tracing circles over the burn scar at the base of his thumb, then drags gently again across.

“You’re parked,” he says quietly. “It’s been an hour.”

Will swallows. “Oh.”

“It’s just straight down here for miles, tesoro. I can handle it.”

“I — know that.”

Nico flashes a smile. It’s bright, like his eyes, clear, edged, boundaried. “Switch with me, sweetheart.”

He does, and the numbness in his arms pulls heavy, but the cool press of Nico’s hands on his skin, on his hip, on his arm, is heavier, firmer, realer. The click of the seatbelt is startlingly loud, and the pull of the polyester over his chest is taut, grounding. The roar of the engine is deafening, discordant. Definite.

“Rest, Will.” The flush on his cheeks is assuaged, briefly, by the brush of Nico’s hands. “Let me handle it this time.”

Will breathes out, leans into his touch, and lets go.

[mr-jammed-toast]

apollo siblings