#hazel levesque angst

[mediumgayitalian]

Hazel thinks she hates New York.

It’s not Camp Half-Blood. She likes Camp Half-Blood, actually, likes the sweet-smelling strawberry fields, the rolling waves in the distance, the way every colour, every conversation or moment, just seems more. Louder, livelier. It’s only been a couple days but she’s fond of the place, even though the people are odd and the customs odder (seriously — who came up with the curfew harpies? Hazel is no stranger to demigod structural violence, but a group of demonic bird ladies let loose at a random time of “after the sun sets, usually” to kill and devour children and teens is a new level of weird even for her. Percy assures her that the harpy murder is alleged, as he has spent several summers in camp and has not seen it happen, but he is also an amnesiac and an enabler so what does he know).

It’s the stars, she thinks.

New York doesn’t seem to have any.

It was a shock when she was first brought back. How dim the night sky had become, how devoid, bereft. Uranus’ dome now pales in comparison to the dazzling Alaskan skies decades ago, even in New Rome, huddled away from California’s worst light pollution. Even in the middle of the Pacific, in quiet midnights aboard the Argo II, the sky seemed lonelier. She’s gotten used to it, for the most part, the tar-coloured skies, but New York is like the inkwells on the desk she shared with Sammy. They spilled them, constantly, clumsy hands taking the slap of the ruler in exchange for tapping fingers and quiet giggles, and the dark-stained woodgrain is a perfect amalgamation of the skies she watches now; stifling over the screened tent roof, silent as a packed grave. Unsettling.

She should be sleeping. Gwen’s snores beside her are familiar, and the ground is solid. A welcome reprieve from the months she’s spent at sea. But despite the exhaustion twisting in her limbs and bagging under her eyes, she cannot convince herself to drift. Her eyes remain stubbornly open, locked in with the stillborn sky, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Even the moon is dull.

Finally she can take it no longer. Careful not to wake her friend, she creeps out of her sleeping bag, wiggling out over the course of several minutes to avoid the loud rip of the zipper, The tent’s door she can’t muffle, so she opens it as quickly as possible, somersaulting out and zipping it shut behind her in under ten seconds. She holds her breath, hands braced on the taut plastic, straining to hear a shift, a sniffle, a snort of disruption, but there’s nothing. Gwen remains blissfully unconscious, snores steady and even. Good.

Sword firmly in her hands, watching warily for demonic chicken ladies (who are nowhere as sweet or cool as Ella, awful cousins are universal among species it seems) or whatever other horrible ‘features’ Camp Half-Blood forgot to mention to them, she picks her way out of the Roman encampment, through the strawberry fields, and towards the main.

It’s around three in the morning, she’s pretty sure. She can’t be certain, because she cannot see the sky, but she’s always had a knack for navigating the dark. Nico can, too. Perks of being an Underworld child, she supposes.

Hopefully Nico is asleep. (She replaced his cabin door with a solid brick of obsidian to force him to sleep, yesterday, so he better be, but he’s a slippery little brat and she does not doubt his ability to squeeze through the air vents she left for him, or something. His hair was probably greasy enough to slide him right through. He better have showered, or she is going to smack him. Hard.) If he isn’t, though, she wouldn’t mind his company. She is in the mood to complain about the modern world. And if he is, maybe she’ll go wake up Percy. Or wander around until the sun rises. Who knows.

She notices, as she wanders along the edge of the wonky cabin-omega, movement coming from the Big House. Most of the windows are dark, but the bottom floor on the left — the infirmary, she thinks — is dimly lit, conscientious of the late hour, and there is definitely someone moving around. She pauses, watching for a moment, and — yep. A blond boy, every couple of minutes, rushes past a window, stethoscope bouncing off his chest, new thing in his hands with every trip.

He seems harried.

Without much thought, Hazel pushes through the rickety screen door.

At first, he doesn’t seem to notice. Hazel is camouflaged, slightly, but the shadows, her black bonnet and dark sleep clothes blending in with the many shadows cast by shelves of equipment and gently swaying privacy curtains. The boy is busy, flitting from cot to cot, scribbling on charts and tripping over chords. He moves so quickly he is blurry, hard to focus on. It takes him almost a minute to stop, freezing in the dead centre of the overcrowded infirmary, and turn to face Hazel. He is tired, she notices. His eyes are darker than the bruises under them; glassy like black labradorite, and widen as they notice her.

“Oh my gods, you’re — you’re Hazel Levesque! Holy moly.”

“Hi,” she says, smiling slightly. “You look busy for this time of night.”

The boy waves a hand, returning to his fluttering — a little slower, this time, though. Less frantic.

“Oh, yes, well. Lots of things to do. Julia’s collarbone was totally shattered, have to keep monitoring that, and there’s a group who got drop kicked into a broken onager, their recovery concerns me, and we’re rationing nectar again, and I swear I’m always running out of bandages, and I keep getting that niggling feeling, you know, when — you’re forgetting something? Important? But of course you have no idea what, and — I’m sorry.” The boy twitches, freezing midway through changing an empty saline bag, glancing back over at her. “Oh my gods, are you injured? Fuck, of course you are, it’s the middle of the night and you’re here, obviously —”

“Wait, I'm completely —”

“Oh, no, you’re fine.” He sighs, a full bodied thing, and turns his attention back to the chart in his hands. “You’ve got an old riding injury ‘round your left patella, though. You should get that checked out.”

Hazel blinks.

She…does have an old knee injury.

It was a riding accident, when she was nine. She doesn’t remember much, only flying, warm wind kissing along her face, bubbling out of her lungs as she laughed and whooped and forgot who she was, what she was, forgot the stones popping up behind her. They couldn’t catch her anyways. And she remembers falling, wind at her back, instead, and she remembers Sammy’s face, and the panic that clouded it, and her mother’s shouting. She remembers cold marble and an oil-slick voice and cool hands on her forehead. 

She blinks, shaking her head slightly. The blond boy has moved past her, now, pacing up and down the rickety cots, trailing his long fingers over bandaged foreheads and crooked elbows. His mouth moves softly and silently, hands glowing along, shoulder sagging, slightly, with every person he visits.

“You’re exhausted,” she observes. 

The boy smiles slightly, finishing a whispered hymn before turning her way. “Who isn’t?” His fingers twitch, in absence of a task, and start picking at the bandage around his wrist, wrapping, unwrapping, wrapping, unwrapping. “Is your knee bothering you? Unhealed injuries last longer for demigods. Especially after battle. Something about unsettled scores, I don’t know. The concept pisses me off so I refuse to entertain it on principle, but I can ease the pain if you like.”

Her knee does twinge, actually. It’s a damp kind of ache, like a headache in a rainstorm, but it's old and familiar, and hardly even registers. It smarts far less than her heart, anyway. 

Gaea’s gone. 

So is Leo.

Leo is gone.

She swallows. “I’m okay. I’m used to it.”

“Three years ago, a man named Michael Moylon went to the ER for a ‘headache’ he’d been ignoring. Turns out he was shot in the head but was used to the pain, so he didn’t bother.” The boy stands starighter, scolding hands on his hips. Hazel stares at him. “So.” He pats a padded bench with a papery cover over the seat. “Let me take a look.”

…Camp Half-Blood will always be, Hazel thinks, a strange, strange place, with strange, strange people. It’s hard to believe she once thought the Apollo-descendants of Camp Jupiter oddities; it’s hard to believe she once found anyone odd. Even outside of Camp Half-Blood. 

Gods, child-eating harpies. She really can’t get over it.

The medic wastes no time. The second she forces her feet to move, settling in on the cot, he is in action, tapping her pant leg gently so she rolls it up – which she does, flushing red and pretending not to see his bit-back smile – and prodding gently at the area, humming to himself. 

“Jeez,” he murmurs, pushing the tip of her kneecap with his thumb until she winces. “You shattered the whole bone!”

“There is no way you could possibly know that,” she argues. “I broke it – gods, I broke it ninety years ago, almost. And it healed.”

“It healed ish,” the medic corrects. “By ish I mean maybe someone tied a bandage on it and you were on crutches for a week.”

Hazel has seen a grand many things, even for a demigod. She has faced Titans. She has faced Giants. She has won, in all of these fights, she has held fallen comrades, she has wept for them, she has wept for decades, cursing and loving her mother in equal measure. She has stood her ground in front of six of the most powerful demigods to ever walk the Earth and defended her brother. She has faced off her own Father, even, and the broken power behind his eyes. She has bent the Mist to her will. She has bent the Earth to her will. It is not cocky to say she is strong, it is not arrogant to claim she has seen all there is to have seen. 

Still, the small pop of her gaping mouth echoes in the quiet, midnight infirmary, and the boy smiles, sideways and crooked, and shoots her a wink. 

“I could tell you how often someone two hundred thousand years ago ate shellfish by looking at a fossilized tooth. Believe me, I know what a shattered patella looks like.”

Modern medicine is a wild thing. Hazel has found that a lot of her friends in modern times have no idea how good they have it, and how wildly medicinal science has progressed in the last century. Aside from machinery and accurate devices, the pure knowledge that is widely available is mind-blowing. Hazel still remembers the looks she got when recommending calomel to a stressed out mother of a colicky baby in a cafe – it’s not like she knew mercury was poisonous. She remembers dosing out her mother’s calomel solutions for her deepest depressions. 

Still. There is a difference between modern medicine and near-divining her past with the barest touch of a bone through layers of skin and fat and muscle. 

The boy hovers wide, scarred hands over her knees, waiting for her nod. As he rests his palm on her skin she sighs, quick and startled like the quick collapse of a carnival tent; the bright, clear heat of his hands sinks into the pores of her skin and settles deep inside her brittle bones, warming a cold she hadn’t realised she’d been harboring. He begins to sing, under his breath, first, but slowly swelling with the night breeze through the open windows, swirling around the climbing plants hanging from the ceiling and weaving through the stone fountain in the room’s corner, pulling her lingering pain away with it. Hazel watches, wide-eyed, as the shadows take shape, chasing the song, of a horse, red-eyed and panicked, and a small little wisp of a thing, weak and limp. With every lilting note, the shadows get softer, and softer, and softer, until they wash away in the fountain’s stream. 

In the silence there is the warmth of the medic’s hand still on her knee. In the silence there is that same warmth, liquid, slowly pushing its way through her veins and blood, settling curled and tired in the marrow of her bones. In the silence there is, for the first time in nearly a century, a stillness, a total lack of the low, pulsating, ice-cold pain that has been quietly pushing from her knee for longer than it hasn’t. 

“Can everybody do that here?” she asks, finally, breathlessly. “Or just you?” 

Hazel makes no habit of the infirmary in Camp Jupiter, but biannual check-ups are mandatory and she is not immune to injury. Still. This is a relief unlike she has ever felt. 

The waves his hand, pulling back, and grins. “I take it you feel better?”

She answers honestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt better in my life.”

There is an ache, still, home in the dead centre of her chest, a lump still growing in the back of her through, and should she think too long, her eyes sting. But Leo is not…Leo is missing. And he is troublesome, like his great-grandfather, and slippery, and she has more faith in her friend than in Death. The ache is not overwhelming. The ache is tinged with something spiked and fiery, fueled by the genuine strength she feels in her body for perhaps the first time in my life. 

“Good.”

The medic twitches, slightly, as if he were about to reach out but thought better of it. He nods, instead, smiling, and walks back off to the end of the cots, where a monitor is beeping softly. This time, Hazel follows him, sliding off the bench and peeling the crinkling paper off her backside, stepping nimbly over taped-down cords and kicked-off blankets. She stands behind him, on her tiptoes, straining over his (too tall. People should stop growing after five-ten, she believes, except Frank who is an exception because he is cute) shoulders to watch what he is doing. He explains, around another muffled smile, each number and symbol, pointing to the freshly bandaged chest of the patient and muttering about reckless, thought-averse fools and internal bleeding isn’t real, nyeh nyeh nyeh and when I finally go insane and quit, they will have to beg for six business years to get me back I mean it. 

“Are the other medics this…” Hm. Unprofessional is probably not the word to use, here. “...Spirited?”

The boy raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. Hazel flushes. 

“The other medics are eleven and thirteen,” he says dryly. “And Kayla is currently over there –” he points to a snoring girl with dyed-green hair, who is bandaged in six different places and is sleeping upside down – “because she makes bad choices and has been demoted to assistant until I’m less mad at her, so.” He shrugs. “Spirited is what y’all get.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” she tries. The boy just snorts. 

“Y’r’gonna havta try a whole heap harder to offend me, that’s for damn certain,” he assures. “If I was really gonna quit, I woulda done it two years ago when they slapped the head honcho badge on my shoulder and told me to get crackin’.”

Hazel stills. Demigod life is a – wild thing, she knows, and most have not lived as long as she has, ageing like amber in the depths of the Underworld while the world stretches on ahead. Percy’s face when he realized demigods could live longer than eighteen still haunts her nightmares. Camp Half-Blood is a loud, lively place, that burns brightly over its layers of ashes and yells over the sound of weeping ghosts left behind. That much she can gather. It should not be strange to her for an eleven-year-old medic, or an army of teenagers. Her own camp is guarded by an eight-year-old. 

But this boy still has stubborn baby fat clinging to his cheeks, for all his height. He cannot be more than fourteen. Fifteen, if she stretches. 

The youngest head medics at Camp Jupiter are twenty-two. Regardless of demigod life, skills take time to learn, and stomachs and hearts take years to turn to stone. 

“I’m – sorry,” the boy says, voice crackling like burning pyres. “I’m –” he forces a smile, a quick, strained thing – “I am, uh, spirited. Unprofessional. I haven’t slept in several days and I’m – uh, I don’t like working Austin too hard. He’s still learning, and he doesn’t like healing much, anyway.” He busies himself quickly with the patient he pointed out earlier – Kayla, the thirteen-year-old medic. It is quickly apparent that there is nothing to be done for her, and he stands there, back turned to Hazel, scarred hands twitching above her forehead until they settle, finally, featherlight, like he’s scared a touch will wake her. Like he’s scared a touch will hurt her. 

His shoulders shake, slightly. It’s too dark for anyone else to see the twin droplets, splattering on the corner of her cot. 

Hazel’s chest smarts something awful. 

“Where are the other medics?” 

She knows there are none before he answers. He must know that she knows, judging the careful steadiness of her voice, the fleeting touch of her finger on his clenched fist. She pulls back when his hands begin to shake, worse than before, and his finger worms under the bandages on his wrist, pulling and twisting, twisting, twisting. He stands close to Kayla, still. Hovering, careful. His lips part, and Hazel holds her breath. 

“There were more of us,” he begins, hushed. His dark eyes track Kayla’s snoring. “I was the thirteenth. They were –” He looks up, suddenly, looks over, and the look in his eyes is like cracking ice, like a glacier that has stood for thousands of years breaking finally into the arctic sea and falling under its own weight to the sandy floor. Like the fractured flash of sky between lightning, like the azure glass shards of a Christmas ornament refracting back the twinkling candlelight. “It was so loud in here, once.”

Hazel tries to reconcile that, in her head. This boy standing at the edge of his younger sister’s hospital bed, his younger brother tucked safely away, awake for maybe the fourth or fifth day in a row. I was the thirteenth. 

Hazel knows a little something about unlucky number thirteen. 

“War?” she asks, quietly, remembering something Jason had told her, on guard on the Argo, about a Titan’s battle on two sides of the country. About an army of snake-monsters for them, and something on the other end. Something worse. 

“Slaughtered,” the medic says hoarsely. Another tear traces the path of the first, low light flashing off the sheen of it. “First the – first my sisters, the oldest, then my brother, then – all of them, at once, at the same –” He chokes, on something, on the truth of it or the pain of it or both. Something bubbles in Hazel’s chest, thick and oily, something like horror and pain and hatred; a pit of the same tar that killed her the first time bubbling through her veins and burning the back of her throat. Twelve children. Her throat dries.

“All of them?”

“Every last fucking one,” says the boy, and the pain swells from him so thickly and ardently Hazel is half-sure each ghost is standing behind her, boring into his gaze. “Every last one. I watched them.”

Hazel watched. She held her eyes open for as long as she could when the tar swallowed them, when Gaea dragged them down. Her mother’s kiss burned hotter on her forehead than the boil of the earth exploding around them, and the shine of Marie Levesque’s guilty tears glittered brighter than the diamonds popping like falling stars everywhere Hazel touched. She held her eyes open until the heat dried them blind. She watched, as long as she could, her prodigal mother sink, her beautiful, broken mother die. She had thought she would feel something worse, something like satisfaction. Vindication. Nico told her they hold grudges. She had known it about herself before then. But the pain of her body ripping from her soul was secondary to the pain of realizing, to the pain of finally understanding that her mother suffered, too. Pluto’s wanting had cost them both, and Marie had only barely been able to apologize. She had never been able to make amends. And now she walked, like all souls do, along the beaten paths of Asphodel, reduced to her guilt, to her anger, to her wanting. 

Hazel sits heavily on the one remaining cot. After a moment, the boy joins her. 

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” he admits, quietly. He meets her eyes when she faces him, blue-black in the candlelight. “All – this.”

She follows his gesturing hands. To the bandaged girl, Kayla, to the bloodied, to the sheets pulled over small faces. To the brothers and sisters slumped exhausted by bedsights, tear tracks dried on young faces. To the faded pictures rubbed worn with mourning, gentle fingers. 

They have never been thanked by the gods. 

She’s not sure it would be worth it, either.

“There’s nothing that will bring them back.”

It’s not consolation. It doesn’t sound like it, either; to her own ears it sounds defeated. Agreeing. 

“Do you think they’d even want to be back?”

“Probably not.” She swallows, thinking of Leo. Is he relieved? He’d insisted on being the sacrifice. She hadn’t fought him. She couldn’t blame him for wanting. “I wouldn’t.”

They sit in the non-silence. The medic pulls the bandages on his wrists until they are bruising; Hazel’s fingernails, unbidden, reach up to her lips, pick, pick, picking until salted iron dribbles down her chin, onto her pajama shirt. In the heavy stillness of the twilight there are people coughing, and snoring, and worse, moaning, groaning. Crying. Calling out for their mothers, for their sisters. Birds wail outside the open windows. Cicadas weep. Dryads murmur amongst themselves, sap dripping out of them in swathes.

“I know you’re a big-shot Prophecy of the Seven kid,” says the medic, smiling wryly at her. He sniffles, swiping a hand over his face; as the first rays of sunlight begin to stream in Hazel realizes he is spattered with a night sky’s worth of freckles. “But, uh. If you’re not busy, I could use a hand today. Every day, really. Whenever you’re free.” He exhales. "Sometimes it makes it a little bit worth it."

There is a veritable library’s worth of to-do lists for Hazel to work through tomorrow. Today. She’s a high enough rank that her presence and her direction will be missed. 

Regardless, she smiles back. 

“Yeah.” She reaches for his hand, and he releases his bandages, holding their palms together. “Yeah, I’ll hang out in here today.”

[helpallthenamesaretaken]

that feeling when you've recently come back from the 1900s where violence and disgust towards black people was prevalent everywhere and suddenly now your white best friend points at your black mom and says that she looks beautiful like you:

THIS MOMENT IS GOING TO HIT SO HARD IN TV ADAPTATION WHEN PERCY WILL LOOK HER IN THE EYES AND TELL HER "she looks like you. she's beautiful. my gf's black too btw🥰

(percy would not mind annabeth being black in the books, he would still find her beautiful, so why should you?)

[justaz]

amnesiac!percy being super, super, super protective of hazel to a concerning degree but he brushes it off as maybe she reminds him of someone from his life before. when percy explains his plan of drinking gorgons blood, hazel offers herself up to drink the blood. she’s died once before, she can do it again. percy has something to do, he has people to find. he can’t risk his life for something like this. hazel can do it. chances are, with the doors of death open and thanatos locked up, she can find her way back as a child of pluto.

percy refuses. he won’t let her get a word out. she insists. he refuses. their argument crescendos into him calling her bianca. its draws them all up short. percy is confused, he has no idea whose name that is. he has no idea why his chest hurts so bad. hazel does. hazel knows. its her dead sister’s name. nico’s real sister. the one he lost years ago.

she knew that percy and nico knew each other, nico pretty much confirmed it but he refused to elaborate on any of the details. percy must’ve known bianca. that must be where percy and nico knew each other from. she has grown somewhat used to nico calling her bianca, she had been a substitute, a consolation prize from the underworld. nico couldn’t find his real sister so he settled for a shadow of her. she had thought percy, someone she had grown to think of as an older brother, would be different. yet here he is, with no memory, calling her the name of a ghost, someone she can never hope to live up to. someone she can’t compete with. someone who will always be better than her.

[bayetea]

I hate the "as a girl whose grandmother was a slave, can I just say not cool?" line from hazel in moa it's the worst line of dialogue rick has written in his life. But like what the fuck. what kind of insane lore drop is that. hazel's grandmother was an enslaved woman. marie levesque cast a spell to meet the god of riches so that she could finally know what it was like to live beyond the indigence and suffering of her mother. marie wanted to be a queen, not a slave like her predecessors. she wanted pluto to give her all the riches beneath the earth

and then the earth enslaved her body. gaea possessed her and through gaea's influence marie forced hazel for six months to overexert herself to the point of collapsing to raise and reanimate alcyoneus. gaea worked hazel like a slave

it's so explicit here. this is SLAVERY. gaea was using hazel's forced labor for material wealth and power. she was only 13. her grandmother was used and her mother was used and hazel herself was used, they were black women exploited for what their bodies could provide in service to the hideous intentions of monsters in power over them. hazel broke free from the cycle and saved the world all by herself by choosing death - it was the only way out

and even in her second chance at life she's actively fighting to die again. she's an instrument of the gods being used to achieve an end that is supposed to kill her. she was convinced that freeing thanatos would result in him taking her life. she didn't know throughout hoo if her father would kill her when the main quest succeeded. even nico didn't think hazel was going to live. she didn't WANT to die a second time. but she fought for the world and for her friends anyway

by the end of marie's life she was only skin and bones. gaea used her body until she didn't need it anymore. marie was the daughter of an enslaved woman who dreamed of being a queen and instead the earth goddess robbed of her life and dignity. and her soul would have been tortured further in the fields of punishment if not for hazel's unfathomable selflessness and bravery to negotiate for mutual asphodel. hazel never even saw marie again after that. what was it that doomed the levesque family? that marie asked the god of death and riches for too much? she deserved even more than what she asked for. I'm fucking sick no one talk to me

[1800-lemon-boy]

Friendly reminder that just like Nico had to learn it’s okay to be queer, Hazel would have had to learn that it’s okay to be queer, a person of colour or a woman.

Hazel was born in the 1920s-1930s and we don’t talk about that nearly enough-

[xixovart]

hazel “is it ok to grieve someone i never met” levesque

[sleepyvib-es]

tbh all i wanted from hoo was more developed friendships

[the-goddess-of-gays]

Heroes of Olympus but the ships are slowburn like in the first series so we have to suffer all over again

Frank and Hazel stumbling around each other and Frank being unable to explain why he hates Leo so much while Hazel is still barely over Sammy

Piper "he may not know it yet, but he is MINE" McLean pulling increasingly desperate stunts to try and win Jason over x Jason Grace who is as oblivious as PJO Percy

Percabeth asking each other "were we like this? there's no way we were like this" and Grover having the time of his life on the other side of the empathy link because Percy now knows what he's been enduring for the last four years

Leo's seventh-wheel character arc would so much more pronounced because now the flirting pre-couples seem to literally have no time for him unless they want to talk about romance and he just wants his fucking friends back

I'm very very normal about this

[cece693]

i need a will solace fic in your writing oh my days you write so good

If You Can Hear Me

pairing: will solance x male reader tags: you almost die, admitting feelings, will is on the verge of a panic attack, angst then fluff, but angst isn't that bad, I promise

You never expected to feel at home at Camp Half-Blood. Before your satyr guide found you and whisked you away, you spent your days stumbling through a series of close calls with monsters you didn’t fully believe in. Now, you’re a recognized camper, forging your own identity among children of gods and goddesses, brushing shoulders with legends-in-training.

Yet something—someone—stands out in your day-to-day life more than all the magic or swordplay ever could: Will Solace, son of Apollo, healing prodigy, a gentle flame of warmth in a place often fraught with danger. His sunny smiles and steady hands once drew you to the infirmary for the smallest bruise you could find an excuse for. But over time, it grew from a mild crush into something deeper you never quite had the courage to name.

Summer at Camp Half-Blood means bustling energy, from chariot races around the track to wild, chaotic capture-the-flag nights in the woods. But the major event currently on the horizon is the Summer Challenge—an advanced training exercise that blends elements of scavenger hunt, combat drills, and puzzle-solving. Every cabin has a part to play, and rumors fly that the Ares Cabin has a special “surprise” planned.

On the morning of the challenge, you’re summoned by Chiron to help finalize some last-minute preparations in the arena. You, Will, and a few others are to do a final walkthrough, checking safety wards and making sure the enchanted training dummies are programmed correctly. It’s supposed to be routine.

Will walks beside you, quiver slung casually over his shoulder and hair tousled by the light morning breeze. He flashes you a lopsided grin that sends your heart hammering. “Don’t look so nervous,” he says, noticing the tension in your stance. “We’ve done these checks a million times. And if anything unexpected does show up, you’ll handle it. You always do.”

You offer a wry smile. “I’ll try not to trip over my own sword this time.”

He laughs, bright and warm. “And if you do, I’m definitely blaming the Ares Cabin’s poor craftsmanship.”

The arena is alive with activity as teams set up. Stacks of foam-tipped arrows, wooden swords, and magical devices line the edges. Clarisse La Rue, decked out in her Ares armor, prowls around with a scrutinizing eye, barking orders to her siblings.

You and Will split up to check opposite sides of the arena’s boundary wards. You’ve almost completed your circuit when an alarmed shout echoes from across the field. At first, it’s unclear what’s happening—just a chorus of raised voices, the heavy clatter of weapons. Then someone screams, “Monster!”

Your gaze snaps toward the center of the arena. A shape unlike anything you’ve seen crawls into view, vile and twisted, like a Chimera that’s been cursed by some dark magic. Part lion, part venomous reptile, it exudes an aura of rot and malice. You see greenish-black vines wrapped around its body, pulsing eerily like they’re feeding on the creature’s rage.

Will sprints to your side, bow in hand. His eyes flash with concern. "We’ve got to stop it,” he says, notching an arrow. “Or at least contain it until Chiron and the others can evacuate the younger campers.”

You nod, setting your jaw. “Let’s do it.”

Chaos reigns as campers flee the stands in droves. A handful of brave souls remain to fight—yourself, Will, Clarisse, and a few from the Hermes Cabin. Amid the frenzy, you notice that the wards designed to keep monsters out must have been tampered with—this beast shouldn’t have been able to step foot in the arena.

Someone planned this. The thought chills your blood.

Each time the monster roars, those eerie vines tighten, like they’re drawing power from the terrified energy around them. Arrows from Will’s bow glance off the beast’s hide, and Clarisse’s strikes, though powerful, barely scratch its scaled sections. You flank it on the opposite side, heart hammering. Timing your approach, you hurl your weapon at a vulnerable spot. With a vicious swipe of its tail, the monster smashes your sword aside and lunges. You barely dodge in time, landing hard on your shoulder and rolling across the dirt.

From the corner of your eye, you see Will run forward, golden light flaring around his hands as he tries to shoot an energized arrow—one infused with Apollo’s power—straight into the monster’s flank. It hits with a flash, briefly knocking the creature back, but the vines seem to absorb much of the energy.

“That’s not good,” Will pants, darting closer to you. “We need a new plan.”

You start to push yourself up, ignoring the bruise forming under your gear. “We have to cut off whatever’s fueling it,” you say. “Those vines—maybe they’re what’s making it so strong.”

Another roar shakes the arena. The beast’s eyes flare with glowing malice as it charges you again. With no time to think, you throw yourself in its path to keep it from trampling a wounded camper behind you. For a split second, Will’s voice cuts through the noise. “Move!” he yells, horror etched on his face.

But you can’t. The monster’s claw descends, and a blinding pain ignites in your side. You feel warmth trickle down your ribs—your own blood. Then comes the swirling sensation of poison, or maybe some dark vine energy, seeping into your veins. Everything spins. Your vision narrows on Will’s face—pale, stricken. He’s sprinting toward you, calling your name. The last thing you see before the world fades is his trembling, outstretched hand.

You come to—barely—in the infirmary. At first, you think you’re fully passed out, because all you can see is darkness and distorted flashes of color. But your ears pick up something: Will’s voice, hushed and thick with emotion.

“…did everything I could,” he’s saying, voice trembling. “The poison is resisting normal healing.”

Someone murmurs a response, but you can’t make out the words. Footsteps fade, leaving Will alone at your bedside. In the fragile silence, you catch Will’s shaky breath. “Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please wake up. I can’t lose you—I don’t want to lose you. Not when I…I feel like I’ve only just started to realize how much I…”

He trails off, as though the rest of the confession is too heavy to say aloud. But he tries again, determination in his tone:

“You mean everything to me. I can’t believe I waited this long to tell you. If you can hear me, if there’s any part of you listening right now... I—I love you. I’m sorry if that’s too much, but I can’t hold it in anymore.” He chokes out a bitter laugh, the sound tinged with tears. “I never had the nerve to say it while you were awake. Now I’m terrified you won’t wake up at all.”

Warmth flares against your side. Apollo’s healing energy, funneled through Will’s heartbreak and determination, spreads through your veins, battling the toxic magic. Little by little, it pushes back the darkness. You float between consciousness and oblivion for an indeterminate time, but slowly, Will’s healing works. The darkness recedes enough that you can feel the softness of the infirmary bed and smell the faint scent of ambrosia.

Your eyelids flutter open, revealing the bright interior of the Apollo Cabin’s medical ward. Will is there, perched on a wooden stool, head resting against his folded arms on the bed beside you. He looks utterly exhausted, but you notice his hand is clasped gently around yours.

You manage a weak croak. “Will…?”

He jolts upright, eyes wide. Instantly, his free hand goes to your forehead, checking your temperature. A tangled mix of relief and panic flits across his features. “Hey—hey, you’re back. Oh gods, don’t move too much yet.”

His gaze lingers on your face, like he can’t quite believe you’re awake. You offer a faint smile, ignoring the throbbing ache in your side. “That monster…?”

Will sighs, shoulders relaxing. “Destroyed. Clarisse and the others managed to sever those vines once we figured out the source of its power.”

You watch him closely, remembering fragments of what you heard while drifting in and out. The raw emotion in his voice, the words he spoke—it all left an imprint, burned into your memory despite the haze. “Will,” you say gently, “I…I heard you, I think. I’m not sure how much was real or a dream, but—”

His cheeks flush. He looks like he wants to sink through the floor. “Y-You heard that?”

You give his hand a squeeze, wincing at the slight pull of pain along your side. “Yes, I heard that you care about me. A lot. Maybe even love me. I—I wasn’t fully conscious, but that part kind of stuck.”

Will averts his gaze, teeth sinking into his lower lip. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability from him. “I didn’t mean to drop that on you while you were half-dead.”

A weak laugh escapes you. “Hey, could be worse. And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you said it.” You shift, ignoring the dull throb of your wound. “I—I feel the same way. I just never knew if you’d be open to…well, this.”

He exhales shakily, relief flooding his features. When he looks at you again, it’s like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

Your throat tightens, and you grip his hand like it’s the only thing holding you to this moment. “I think I do,” you whisper. “And now that I’m not dying, maybe we can talk about it more?”

Will’s laugh is damp at the corners, and he squeezes your hand back. “Yeah. We’ve got all the time in the world to figure this out—once you’re better.”

He rises from the stool, gently resting a hand on your cheek. “But first, you need rest. Let me handle the bandages and keep an eye on your vitals. No heroic stunts for a while, got it?”

You nod, feeling a flush creep up your face at his closeness. “Deal. As long as you promise not to wait until I’m comatose to talk about your feelings next time.”

His grin sparkles with that golden warmth you’ve come to adore. “I’ll do my best.”

[winter-rossie]

Meanwhile In Camp Jupiter,

Any Random Roman: Tell Me what you remember about yourself! Percy: I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.

[iwannascreameurekaa]

"I know none of this will matter in the long run"

but it's about Leo building a whole boat in months just for it to explode right in front of his eyes

but it's about Leo dying and making this elaborate plan to live again so that he fulfills the prophecy but can also be happy with his friends only for the fates to pull a 180 and kill Jason

but it's about Hazel sacrificing herself, her life, her mother only for gaea to still be awaking when Hazel comes back

but it's Percy, Annabeth, Grover and every other demigod that fought in the first war when another starts

but it's Thalia after losing yet another loved one

but it's Sally because she knows that Percy isn't going to have a long and happy life because most demigods especially those of the big three aren't allowed to have those

but it's Jason after doing everything he can to make everyone happy and try and find a purpose even after Hera took his with his memories and he still ended up dying

[princessofghosts-posts]

Nico wasn't homeless

It's no secret that Percy is an unreliable narrator: the guy downplay almost everything he does in his own PoVs because of a self-esteem issue and inferiority complex ; while other characters see him for what he really is: a force of nature. The contrast of Percy's view of himself vs someone else's view of Percy is something talked enough in the fandom.

But an unreliable narrator is also someone that doesn't have the full picture of what's happening,and often gets to conclusions about something that's completely wrong.

Like in BotL. At the start Percy thought that Nico wanted to sacrifice his soul for Bianca's,but Nico never thought of it. He was angry at Percy and at the time hated him,but never wanted to trade his soul for his sisters's.

Another one is Percy's thinking process when it cames to where Nico was. He thought he lived on the streets,alone and without much food,during all of the time he was trying to find him after he escaped from Camp. But that's impossible. Minos very presence is a contradiction to it. (And his sword too,since he can't just find a stygian sword like nothing,someone had to give it to him.)

Minos,at the time was still one of the judges of the Underworld,he couldn't possible leave his position because he wanted to hunts down Daedalus ; and Nico didn't know what his powers could do yet,so he couldn't have summoned him. And even if he did,I don't think the Judges of the Underworld can ever be summoned,their position is eternal (untill Hades and Zeus say so) and they need to stay there. Especially with Hades's constantly complaining about how much dead people and souls there are.

Also,you need to remember that Nico spent most of the time in the Labyrinth,he was there even before Percy was. His apparences are a result of staying too much in the Labyrinth,added with his deteriorating emotional and mental stabiling because of what happened to Bianca. So he technically never lived on the streets. And the Labyrinth has entrances and paths that leads to the Underworld. If,after running away from camp,he used the entrance that Percy and Annabeth found later on,then he could have accidentally found his way to the Underworld. We can also take in consideration his shadow-travel ability,but even then,he still would end up in the Underworld: Bianca's soul would have unconsciously attracted him,since she was being judged at the time.

All of this to say that Nico and Minos met in the Underworld and that Nico was never on the streets.

Minos saw in him the opportunity to hunts down Daedalus while making sure that he could get away with it,since no one could go against an order from the son of their boss (that's also why I harp so much on his role as prince,it's basically canon if we read between the line. And no,I'm not delulu). Nico at the time was also emotionally devasted,so he took the gamble and went on with the plan. And after he found out what Minos was really doing behind his back,Nico made sure to ruin everything he still had,while also taking his role away to piss him off.

But since Percy didn't had the full picture,he never knew,and I'm not blaming him for this,since it's not the characters's fault. The fandom never thought about it too,since we prefer the "poor little boy all alone in a world he doesn't understand,without a family to take care of him." narration.

Us as readers never knew what fully happened to Nico during the time between TTC and BotL,so I can't say if he stayed all the time in the Labyrinth,after accepting Minos proposal,or also stayed in the Underworld. We also never got to know if he and Hades meet even before the last book,where got their family dynamic (fuck you for that Hades,you fucked up big time with him) but they probably did,and we also have hits of that when the OG big 3 kids trio needs to take back Hades's sword before Kronos's army get it.

Before TLO we had the Sword of Hades quest,where we can see Nico and Persephone arguing about some family's argument they had,and how because of that she turned him into a flower. And even tho Persephone doesn't like him,this imply that she and Nico are familiar on a way that's more of an "you are the bastard son my husband had with a mortal,I don't like you." (like Hera with Thalia) superficial thing,and that Nico actually lives or stay most of the time in the palace post BotL.

Which the fandom completely ignore or turn into headcanons,when we have enough hits in the canon narrative about it. No,Nico never lived on the streets,he was either in the Underworld or in the Labyrinth,after all researching Daedalus takes more than a couple of days. And after that,he lived in the Underworld enough to have Persephone address their conflicts as "family arguments" even tho they weren't close at the time. TLO literally has Demeter criticizing Hades for Nico's diet because "He needs more cereal to stay healthy,do something about it". So she also is familiar with him,even tho she should despite him because he was the result of Hades cheating on her daughter,and we all know how Demeter is about Persephone. But that's not the case,they don't like him that much but they also don't want him death.

Hades had all the cards on the table to have,with time,a good family bond with both Nico and Persephone,but fucked up by being a dick to his son (I will never forgive him for the whole "your sister was better" incident). He realized the mistake later,sure,and he try to minimize the damage already done by changing his approach to him,but it was already done: Nico will probably spend most of this life wondering about if he will ever be better than Bianca (which doesn't make sense because Bianca never accomplished anything and died for a stupid and well-know mistake she decided to do). Like Hazel because of Nico's slip up (I call this generational trauma) when he almost called her with Bianca's name,before correcting himself.

But yes,all of this to make y'all realize that only because Percy's thoughts of it,he is still an unreliable narrator that doesn't know everything,especially when it cames to Nico that 50% of the time just...disappears to do who knows what and then comes back with all the answers in the world in the other 50%. And that Nico wasn't living on the streets and actually had a place to stay.

And no,I'm not being delusional. Too many people (especially on Tik Tok and Reddit) try to gaslighting others into making them believe that Nico was actually homeless,but he wasn't and we have proofs of it in the books. If I see someone else trying to push "Homeless Nico" agenda again I'll write them a 20 pages long essay on how it's impossible.

[seagull9111]

headcannon that will is always seen "smiling" so where ever people dont see him smiling they just assume he is sad...

so that results in 24/7 smiling around other because he doesn't want to worry any of them

but when he is alone he lets him face drop, and the few times people have walked in on him when he is alone its always kinda a mess

[poppitron360]

Idk why, but the fact that it was Sammy’s machine shop that burned down just makes it so much more heartbreaking-

[1800-lemon-boy]

Friendly reminder that Hazel Levesque gave up Elysium for her mother, a person who treated her terribly her whole life

[queenofthegays15]

I kinda hate this