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reynaisbetterthananyman · 6 days ago

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Loose Ends.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 10.8k

warnings: kinda suggestive themes (not between the underage characters)

a/n: We’ve officially made it to the first true arc of the story!! Drumroll for battle of the labyrinth!!! This is just an intro to set up the framework of this arc, so it’s not as long as the prologue chapters but I hope you enjoy it all the same :)!!

previous, original version here, masterlist, ao3

Son of Hades.

Your new friend was the son of the Lord of the Dead, something learned last winter—a truth that had sent a chill down your spine.

And no, it wasn’t because you thought Nico was some kind of freak, or cursed, or dangerous, but rather, you were afraid for him.

Afraid of what that meant, of what might be waiting for him.

And, as you stared into the darkness of the woods where he had run off, swallowed by shadows, you found yourself whispering a silent prayer—to Hades himself.

That he wouldn’t leave his son alone.

Not now. Not when he needed him most.

CRASH!

You flinched hard as an armor dummy flew past your head and slammed into the arena seats with a deafening thud.

Its head snapped off on impact, rolling across the ground, leaving a trail of thick slobber dripping from the jagged neck.

You wrinkled your nose. “Mrs. O’Leary! That’s the twentieth dummy you’ve destroyed today! At this rate, we’ll be down to zero. Leave some for the rest of us—this camp runs on a budget, you know?!”

“Woof!”

You turned to find the giant hellhound behind you, tail wagging furiously. Her eyes were wide with excitement—and if that wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her tail against the dirt certainly was.

You scoffed. “You want another one, don’t you?”

“WOOF!” she barked, tail going even faster.

Crossing your arms, you gave her a look. “And why, exactly, should I get you another one after the last twenty you broke?”

Mrs. O’Leary, master manipulator, went full pout mode—big, pleading eyes, a soft whine in her throat.

You tried to resist. Really, you did. But only the cruelest souls could say no to puppy-dog eyes that came from an actual giant puppy.

“Ughhhh, fine. But this is the last one, alright?”

Her tail resumed its happy thumping as she leaned in and gave you a massive, slobbery lick across the face.

“Okay, okay!” you yelped, pushing her head away. “I get it, you’re happy! I don’t need to smell like dog spit for the fourth time this week.”

She plopped down contentedly, watching you like a kid waiting for their ice cream cone.

Grumbling under your breath, you turned and started the familiar trudge toward the armory to fetch her next dummy. With the rate she was going, Mrs. O’Leary was sure to put Camp Half-Blood out of business.

Mrs. O’Leary had shown up a few weeks ago with the camp’s new sword instructor, Quintus—a demigod who’d actually managed to live past twenty. Which, in this lifestyle, was basically the equivalent of hitting the lottery.

He was... odd. Not in the ha-ha-he’s-quirky way. No, more like the quiet, mysterious, probably-has-a-secret-past-and-a-hidden-dagger kind of way.

He didn’t talk much, but he had this calm, calculating look in his eyes. Like he was sizing up everyone at camp. Like he knew more than he let on.

And maybe he did. After all, Camp Half-Blood didn’t exactly attract normal folks.

But still—something about him rubbed you the wrong way.

Not that anyone else seemed to care. Everyone else was just happy there was someone new to train them without trying to kill them in the process.

But you? You had questions. Lots of them.

And because being nosy was practically your fatal flaw, you poked. You prodded.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

You might’ve said something dumb. Something like: “He doesn’t look that good. I bet I could beat him.”

Spoiler: you couldn’t.

You didn’t even last two minutes sparring. He had you flat on your back before you could finish your third swing, and he didn’t even break a sweat.

It was humbling. And by humbling, you meant completely humiliating.

So now, instead of spending your mornings riding your favorite pegasus or enjoying some peaceful solitude, you were on unofficial dog-sitting duty for the camp’s largest, loudest, and most destructive pet.

Mrs. O’Leary wasn’t the worst punishment in the world, but after the fifth dummy she obliterated, the charm had definitely started to wear off.

You struggled against the training dummy, yanking at it with both arms as it refused to budge from the crowded row of equipment.

The thing was wedged in like it had grown roots, and its full weight was starting to crush you.

With a growl of frustration, you yanked harder, then let go all at once and slammed your fist into its head.

Bad idea.

The dummy’s head knocked into the one behind it. That one wobbled, then tipped into another.

One by one, each head in the neat row clunked to the floor like dominoes—echoing like a string of tiny failures in the otherwise quiet armory.

You just stood there for a moment, breathing through your nose, fists clenched so tight they ached. The skin along your knuckles was burning, and your chest felt hot.

Stupid dummies. Stupid duty. Stupid camp.

You turned on your heel and stormed toward the exit. You’d just lie to Mrs. O’Leary. She wouldn’t care. She probably forgot about the dummy already. Let someone else deal with it.

You were tired. Tired of being everyone’s errand boy. Tired of pretending like you weren’t furious.

But just as your hand touched the door handle—zap.

A tiny jolt sparked against your neck. You sucked in a breath, more startled than hurt. You reached up and your fingers found the chain.

Your anger flickered—wavered—as you slowly pulled the dome pendant up from beneath your shirt. It felt heavier than usual.

The glass was cold against your fingers as you turned it. Inside, the flower sat hunched like it was hiding from the world.

It wasn’t supposed to look like this. Not anymore. It had been weeks—months even. It should’ve bloomed by now.

Instead, the bud was curled in on itself, withered and wrinkled at the edges.

Your hand trembled slightly as you held it closer to your face. The petals used to twitch softly. But now? Nothing. It was like the flower had gone silent.

You clenched your jaw. “What do you want from me?” you muttered to the glass.

No answer.

Just like last winter. Just like when Nico left.

You scowled at the thought of him.

After he ran away, you were worried sick. Percy had told you the truth—Not only was Nico the son of Hades, but one born in the 1930s.

He hadn’t just slipped through the cracks of time; he had been frozen in it.

Hades didnt break the oath he made with Poseidon and Zeus after all. Nico and his sister had been hidden away in the Lotus Hotel for decades, and now, suddenly, he was here. Afraid. Half a century out of place.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it—how lost he must have felt. How alone.

You were scared for him, wandering out in the cold by himself. So you left him something behind: your gift box.

Inside, folded carefully, was the aviator jacket—warm and worn, lined with soft fleece. It had been meant for him.

You didn’t know if he’d ever come back, if he’d ever see it. But you left it anyway, tucked near your old tree.

And he did come back.

It was a couple of days later, on a bitter night with frost clinging to your eyelashes, when you returned to check—and the box was gone. No note. No sign. Just an empty patch in the snow and a faint trail of footsteps that vanished too quickly.

Were you sure it was Nico who took it? No. Not really. But you wanted it to be. You needed it to be. That hope was the only thing you had left, and you clung to it with everything you had.

You didn’t know why the flower in the dome had started to wrinkle after that winter.

Deep down you feared it meant something horrible. That you had already failed your father’s request. That some invisible thread had already begun to unravel.

Still, there’d been no word from him—Anteros—since your last meeting six months ago. No dreams. No whispers. Maybe that meant you still had time.

And despite everything, you weren’t mad at Nico for leaving. Not really. On some level, you understood why he did.

The part that stung—the part that kept you up at night—was that he hadn’t told you he was going.

When spring came, you joined Percy, Annabeth, and Grover to search for him. You combed through the woods every chance you got, even venturing deep into the West Forest—a place that always unsettled you.

It was darker there, older, like the trees themselves were watching. You hated it. But if there was even a chance he had passed through, you weren’t going to let fear stop you.

Not anymore.

You camped out in the woods every day, desperate for any sign of where he might’ve gone. At first, you thought you’d find something right away—a footprint, a shred of fabric, maybe even the faint echo of his voice.

But the days dragged on, cold and quiet. Hope thinned. You were close to giving up.

Then one day, just as the sun began to set and you were packing up your things, a hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.

You jumped, heart lurching, and let out a loud scream—only for the same hand to clamp over your mouth.

“Stop screaming!” the voice snapped—low, familiar, and urgent.

You froze.

That voice. It sounded like…

“Nico?” you asked, your voice muffled against the cold palm still clamped over your mouth.

Behind you came a heavy sigh. You felt it more than heard it—his chest shifting, like the air had been knocked out of him.

Then, quiet and certain:“Yeah. It’s me.”

Your brain short-circuited. It was him.

You started to twist in his grasp, needing to see his face, but he held you in place.

“Wait,” he said quickly. “Promise you won’t scream again?”

You nodded fast, your breath catching. “I promise.”

His hand fell away, and you turned. You spun around, already smiling—but the joy in your chest faltered the moment your eyes landed on him.

Nico looked awful.

His skin was pale, almost gray in the moonlight, making the dark circles under his eyes look bruised. His clothes hung off him looser than you remembered.

His black curls had grown long and wild, framing his face in unwashed tangles. His lips were chapped. His expression was distant.

But what hit you hardest—what made your breath catch in your throat—was his eyes.

They were sunken. Hollowed out. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Like he’d forgotten how to be a person.

It crushed you.

He wouldn’t look at you.

You glanced over the details that hadn’t changed: the little freckle near his jaw, the faint upward curl to his lashes. He was still him. Still Nico.

Those small pieces of familiarity dug into your chest harder than anything else.

You whispered, “Nico…”

He flinched.

In his head, he was already preparing for it. The disappointment. The questions. Maybe even a shove. He’d imagined this moment over and over while he was gone—how you’d react if he came back. None of the versions were good.

He was a mess.

He’d run, and he hadn’t even said goodbye. You were probably furious. Or worse, indifferent.

But he was wrong.

“I missed you!” you blurted, your voice cracking—and before he could blink, you launched forward, wrapping your arms around him like he was something precious that might disappear again.

Nico’s entire body went rigid.

Your arms squeezed tighter. You buried your face in his shoulder, and the scent of camp smoke and cold dirt hit you. He was trembling slightly.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

This wasn’t how he’d pictured it. Not after what he’d done. You should’ve been yelling. Telling him off. Asking him why he’d left without a word. He deserved that.

He didn’t deserve this—your warmth, your affection, your forgiveness.

But still… his arms rose. Slowly. Cautiously.

And then, finally, he hugged you back.

Not a half-hearted one, either. His grip grew tighter, desperate even, like he needed this just to remind himself he was still real. That you were still real. That maybe he hadn’t completely ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough, lips barely moving. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long.”

You didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not…?”

He trailed off when he felt something warm hit his shoulder. A few seconds passed before he realized what it was. His eyes darted to you, still curled into his neck.

“[Name]?”

You didn’t answer—just let out a soft, choked sob.

Guilt swept across Nico’s face. Gently, he pulled back to look at you—and immediately wished he hadn’t. Your eyes were red, your cheeks wet with tears, your expression crumpling under the weight of too many emotions all at once.

“Yes?” you sniffed.

“You’re… crying,” Nico said quietly.

You let out a wet laugh and hastily rubbed your sleeve across your cheeks. “Oh, am I? Huh. Weird.” You sniffled again and gestured vaguely around you. “It must be the spring allergies. You know—photosynthesis… and stuff.”

Nico blinked at you. He didn’t laugh, not exactly—but something close curled at the corner of his lips.

You were crying, yes. But you were also still you.

And gods, he hadn’t realized how much he missed you until just now.

Not just your voice or your laugh—but the way you looked at him like he wasn’t broken. The way you spoke to him like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t turned into a ghost of himself.

It was as if your friendship had picked up right where it left off. No hesitation. No questions he didn’t want to answer. Just you. And for the first time in months, Nico felt something close to... relief.

He had been so alone. Every part of him ached for something familiar—some tether to the world before everything fell apart.

And even if he didn’t want to say why he returned out loud, even if the words stuck to the roof of his mouth like honey, he found that comfort in you.

You sat down against the base of a tree, the spring sunlight dancing through the leaves above your heads. You patted the spot beside you with a soft smile—casual, no pressure.

Nico didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect or disappear. He just sat down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. Something in his chest settled.

It was then your eyes fell on his clothes—specifically, the jacket.

You hadn’t even noticed it at first, too overwhelmed by the reunion, too distracted by the weight of your relief. But now…

“The jacket!” you gasped, practically beaming. “So you did take it!”

He looked down, fingers lightly grazing the soft, worn leather around his elbows. The jacket hung a little loose on his frame. His cheeks flushed red.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “It was cold.”

You let out a fond laugh, unable to help yourself, and reached up to pinch his cheek.

He swatted your hand away with an annoyed glare that didn’t reach his eyes. “Quit it.”

“I’m so glad you found it,” you said. “Do you like it?”

He looked down, fingers picking at a loose thread along the cuff. “Does it matter?”

You gave him a look. “Of course it matters.”

There was a pause, and then, quietly, “I like it.”

A slow smile curled across your face. “I’m pretty awesome, huh?”

He huffed. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

The moment settled into an easy silence. Only for a moment, until you spoke up.

“So…” you cleared your throat, glancing over at him. “Son of Hades, huh?”

Nico tensed beside you. His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he didn’t answer.

“…Yeah,” he muttered eventually.

You picked up a stick and began dragging lines into the dirt, trying to keep your tone casual. “How… do you feel about it?”

He scoffed under his breath, dry and bitter. “What does it matter? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said softly. “I just… I want to know how you feel. That’s all.”

Nico leaned back against the tree behind him, staring up at the canopy above, like maybe he could disappear into the leaves. “...Like I was born wrong.”

“Nico, how could you be born wrong?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief.

“I’m not from this time, [Name]. I was born in the 1930s, for gods’ sake.”

You frowned, not understanding how that could possibly mean what he thought it did.

“That doesn’t make you wrong,” you said, your tone sincere, even a little hopeful. “It just means you’ve survived more than anyone should have to. That’s... amazing.”

He let out a breath—almost a laugh, but it was hollow. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Well, isn’t it?” you asked, tilting your head. “You're still here. That means something. It has to mean something.”

Nico glanced at you, skeptical. “To who?”

“To me,” you said instantly, without hesitation. “You’ve lived through so much, and you’re still trying. That’s not wrong, Nico. That’s brave.”

He looked away again, jaw tightening. His expression turned unreadable.

“You know,” he said abruptly, “I’m not staying here.”

Your heart sank. “Where are you going?”

“Places. I’ve got things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff that you wouldn’t understand.”

You furrowed your brows. “Then make me understand.”

“I can’t!” he snapped, his voice sharp and defensive as he stood. “You don’t get it! You won’t get it.”

You flinched—but didn’t back down. “How can you know that if you won’t even try?”

“Because I know, okay?! You live in this little world where everything’s bright and fixable and people don’t just disappear without warning! But that’s not my world.”

The bitterness in his voice shocked you into silence. His eyes were blazing now—haunted, desperate.

You swallowed. “Then let me into your world.”

He scoffed and turned away. “You don’t belong there.”

“I decide where I belong!”

“You’re not coming with me,” he said firmly, final. “It’s too dangerous.”

You chased after his retreating form. “So what—you’re in danger now?”

“No. But if you follow me, you will be. I can’t afford to look over my shoulder every second hoping you haven’t gotten yourself killed.”

“I’m not helpless!” you snapped.

“You’re not strong enough.” He didn’t yell, but the words hit just the same. Cold. Sharp. Meant to hurt.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“So you think I’m weak?”

“That’s not—” He cut himself off, groaning. “I just don’t think you’re ready. Not for what I’m dealing with.”

“That’s really funny, you know,” you said, a laugh escaping you. “You think just because you’re a son of Hades, I can’t keep up with you?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“It’s not about you!” Nico snapped. “It’s not about your strength or your pride or how badly you want to be involved. It’s about me, and what I have to do—alone.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too quickly now. “You don’t have to do anything alone, Nico! You choose to. And now you're pushing me away, again, like I mean nothing to you.”

“See? This is exactly what I mean. You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t! Because you won’t let me!”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I never asked you to!”

Silence crackled between you like lightning.

“I don’t want to go with you,” you added, breathing hard. “Not if you’re going to treat me like I’m something fragile. I’m not your shadow, Nico. I’m not just here to sit around and wait for scraps of trust.”

Nico stepped forward, face flushed and stormy. “Fine!”

You stepped up too, chest to chest, nose to nose. “Fine!”

“Good!”

You both stood there, eyes locked, adrenaline burning through your veins.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The memory of that day was now seared into your mind. You hadn’t seen Nico and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

Seriously, who did he think he was?

Your face heated as the anger from earlier crept back in, curling hot and bitter in your chest.

With a frustrated exhale, you let the dome drop from your fingers, the chain swinging back to rest against your chest.

Then, without a second thought, you twisted the armory doorknob harshly and stomped out, every step fueled by righteous irritation.

Mrs. O’Leary was chasing her tail when you returned. Her ears perked up the moment she caught sight of you, and she bounded your way like a furry train.

You didn’t understand how her footsteps didn’t crack the earth—but you did know you didn’t want to get flattened.

With a startled yelp, you flailed your arms in front of you. “Whoa, whoa, WHOA—”

Thankfully, Mrs. O’Leary skidded to a stop just in time, her massive paws sending up a flurry of dirt. You let out a relieved breath and placed a hand over your chest.

“Thanks for not killing me,” you muttered.

She didn’t seem interested in your gratitude. Instead, she looked around, head tilting expectantly. You blinked for a second before realization hit you.

“Oh—right. The dummy.” You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly sheepish. “Yeah, those guys are, um… currently undergoing emergency care. Totally tragic. Maybe next time?”

Her ears flopped down, and you immediately felt a pang of guilt. Why was smashing armor so fun to her?

Actually… if the armor looked like Connor or Travis, you kind of got it.

You were about to offer her a consolation stick when Mrs. O’Leary took matters into her own hands—or rather, tongue—and gave you a massive, slimy lick straight across your face.

You shrieked like a banshee and stumbled back, wiping furiously at your cheek. The hellhound recoiled at the noise, startled.

“Mrs. O’Leary!” you cried, horrified. “I swear, if I catch kennel breath in my hair again—!”

“I don’t think you want ‘dog slaughter’ on your list of criminal offenses.”

You froze.

Speak of the devil.

Drew Tanaka’s voice floated in from behind just before she casually shoved you out of the way, stepping in to pet Mrs. O’Leary with a smug grin.

From your new position on the ground, you shot her a withering glare. “Thanks for the warm welcome, as always.”

In response, you kicked her shin—not hard, but enough to catch her off balance. She tried to retaliate, but you were already rolling away and laughing like a maniac.

You hopped to your feet and dusted yourself off, then held out a hand toward her, still grinning. “I was just returning the favor, D.”

She eyed you like you were a cockroach, but begrudgingly took your hand. “You are insufferable.”

“Had to learn from the best,” you said with a wink, nudging her side.

She didn’t laugh. You scoffed.“Oh, lighten up. It was a joke.” Then you raised an eyebrow. “By the way, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be with Katie today.”

“I was,” Drew said, rolling her eyes. “Until Katie ditched me to join her cabin for some war game Quintus set up.”

Your brow arched with curiosity. “War game?”

“Yeah. Pathetic, right?” She crossed her arms. “Why would anyone willingly—”

“I’m playing,” you announced before she could finish.

Drew’s mouth dropped open like you’d just told her you were running off to join the Hunters of Artemis. She blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry—did you just say you’re playing?”

You gave her a flat look. “Yeah?”

“You? You, [Name], are playing in a war game?”

“Why does everyone keep reacting like that anytime I do anything that requires swinging a sword?” You frowned. “I’m going. It’s final. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

She placed her hands onto your shoulders.“The big deal is that you’ll actually have to fight. With real weapons.” she said, voice sharp with exasperation. “You do know that, right?”

It was almost sweet. Almost. If she weren’t such a walking she demon, you might’ve thought she actually cared.

“I’m aware, Drew. But it could be fun. Maybe you should play. Could be good for you.”

She laughed, dry and humorless. “When pigs fly. I don’t need to train when my words can bring a whole army down.”

Of course. Classic Drew. Patting her own back like she didn’t already have half the camp wrapped around her charmspoken finger. It wasn’t fair.

Her power was straight-up cheating. If you weren’t a child of a love god yourself, you were pretty sure you would’ve fallen for her theatrics too.

The only thing worse than her power was how much she knew it.

But you weren’t about to admit you were jealous. Ever. So instead, you smirked. “Doesn’t hurt to learn something outside of your ego.”

She mirrored your smirk with a deadpan smile. “That was so funny I forgot to laugh.”

You ignored her, glancing around the clearing. Campers were already drifting toward the woods, buzzing with anticipation.

Your gaze fell to Mrs. O’Leary, who had decided to lay down in the sun and take a very well-earned nap. You were supposed to be watching her. Oops.

A plan clicked into place in your mind. You turned back to Drew, a little too innocently.

“Hey,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back. “You like dogs, right?”

She squinted at you, suspicious. “They’re… fine.”

“Great!” you chirped. “Since you’re not busy this afternoon, you can watch Mrs. O’Leary for me!”

“What?”

But you were already gone, sprinting toward the woods, your laughter echoing behind you like a battle cry.

“[Name]!” Drew’s scream followed after you, furious and very, very loud.

Victory.

Why did it feel like you were wearing three tons of gold?

Currently, you were shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your combat armor. The chest plate felt like it was trying to crush you into the earth, and the helmet was squeezing your skull like it had a personal vendetta.

This armor was way heavier than the one you wore during capture the flag last winter. You actually missed that one. That one didn’t feel like it was plotting your slow demise.

Ideally, this was not how you would’ve spent your day. Combat wasn’t really your thing.

But today? Today you were a changed boy. Today you were participating. Today you were going to get stronger—strong enough that next time you saw Nico, you could pummel him.

Besides, how hard could waving a sword around really be? Your humiliating duel with Quintus had obviously been a fluke. And that other failure during capture the flag? Also a fluke. Everyone gets one (or two… or three).

Speaking of Quintus, he was standing in front of you now, leading a group of campers through the pre-game instructions.

At least, that’s what you assumed.

You were too busy suffocating in your own armor to really process the words coming out of his mouth. Something about wreaths and monsters and blah blah blah… you know, typical camp stuff.

That is—until he said your name.

You froze, fingers still awkwardly fumbling with the straps across your chest. Your head snapped up, body going rigid with panic.

Great. Just great. What had he said? Were you volunteering? Were you being sacrificed? Had you signed up for something terrible and not realized?

Everyone was looking at you now.

“[Name] [Last Name] and Ellis Wakefield,” the swordsman called out, voice echoing across the group.

You froze. Your hands dropped the part of your armor you were still fussing with as you blinked up blankly at Quintus. “What?”

He peeked out from behind the scroll he’d been reading, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

“Your partner,” he clarified, clearing his throat to cover it. “For the game.”

“Partner?” you echoed, dumbly.

“Yes,” he said, with just a little too much amusement. “For the war game.”

“Oh. Right.” You glanced helplessly around at the sea of half-armored demigods. “Um… partner? Where are you?” you called out, wincing the second the words left your mouth.

Gods. Why were you like this? If your goal was to convince the entire camp that you were not cut out for combat, you were doing a phenomenal job.

A sharp whistle pierced the air to your right, followed by confident, steady footsteps. You turned—and your heart promptly dropped into your stomach.

Ellis Wakefield. Son of Ares.

A boy your age, but somehow he still walked like he owned the ground under his shoes. His wavy dark hair was tousled like he’d just stepped out of a wind tunnel and didn’t care, and his eyes scanned you with the kind of mischief that made you nervous.

His build wasn’t huge—he was still a kid, like you—but he carried himself like a fighter.

Ellis clicked his tongue and grinned. “Well, would you look at that? You and me, huh?” He stopped in front of you and gave a little mock bow, dramatic and just on the edge of rude. “Didn’t expect you to be playing.”

You straightened, suddenly defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He tilted his head, regarding you with something between amusement and mild disbelief. “Oh, nothing. Just—helmet’s on backwards.”

You blinked. “What?”

Without asking, Ellis stepped in and casually spun the helmet around on your head, patting the top of it once it was facing the right direction. “There. Much better. Now you only look a little like you wandered into the wrong camp.”

“Excuse you!” You said, crossing your arms. “I was just making sure you knew my helmet was backwards. Making sure my partner is educated and all.”

Ellis raised a brow. “Uh huh.”

There was nothing directly cruel about it, but the look in his eyes made something twist in your chest. He hadn’t said you weren’t cut out for this —but he didn’t have to.

It was in the smirk, the tone, the way he looked at you like you were some sort of jester.

Just like Nico. Dismissing you before he even gave you a chance. Telling you what you couldn’t do. As if they knew who you were better than you did.

You turned away slightly, jaw tightening, trying to shake it off. You weren’t here to impress Ellis—or anyone, really. But that didn’t make it sting any less.

Ellis’s voice came again, a little lighter. “Hey. No hard feelings.” He moved past you, throwing a glance over his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll cover you if things get messy.”

That stopped you.

You glanced at him, lips parting in disbelief. “I don’t need covering.”

He blinked, then laughed. “Right, right. You’ve got it all handled.” There was a small wink. “But just in case, I’ve got your back.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you agreed, but because you couldn’t trust yourself not to say something sharp.

Instead, you followed, shoulders stiff, heart pounding a little too fast. You weren’t going to let him be right. Not him. Not Nico. Not anyone.

You’d show them.

“Here, little monsters,” you called out in a light, sing-song tone as you trudged through the trees, weapon swinging half-heartedly at your side. “I’m a walking bag of premium demigod meat, just for you!”

Behind you, Ellis snorted. “Nice tune. Keep it up—maybe Apollo’ll descend and claim you out of pity.”

You didn’t even bother turning around. “Hilarious,” you muttered, eyes still scanning the empty woods. The decision to ignore him was getting harder by the second.

His voice was like a mosquito: persistent, smug, and impossible to tune out.

Even worse? You hadn’t seen a single monster since you started this stupid game. Of course. The one time you actually wanted to fight something, Camp Half-Blood’s usual monster infestation decided to go on vacation.

Ellis suddenly moved ahead of you, walking backward with infuriating ease, his arms crossed over his chest. “I know you can talk, [Name]. You were doing great back there shouting bait into the woods.”

You kept your eyes fixed on the trail. “Ever consider that maybe I don’t want to talk to you right now?”

A lie. You did want to talk to him—more than you’d admit aloud. You’d watched him countless times in the arena, training alongside his siblings, sword flashing and that unmistakable cocky grin playing on his lips.

But now, standing side by side as partners in a game where fighting wasn’t optional, the weight of expectation pressed down hard on your shoulders. You weren’t just trying to talk—you were trying to prove you belonged. To measure up to a son of Ares.

And that pressure… it was suffocating.

Plus, you were absolutely terrified. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Dude, you look sick,” Ellis said, slowing his pace.

You instinctively matched his steps, startled by the sudden shift. “What do you mean? Sick like cool, or sick like ew?”

His nose scrunched. “Sick like you’re going to hurl all over that shiny chest plate any second now.”

Before you could respond, Ellis stopped abruptly and planted a firm hand against your chest, halting you.

You stared at him, brows knitting together in silent confusion, but he only lifted a finger to his lips and tilted his head slightly, listening.

You mimicked him, focusing your ears.

Rustling. Subtle, but not wind. Not distant chatter. Something—something—was moving through the trees ahead. Sharp breaths escaped you as adrenaline kicked in, making each exhale feel too loud.

You tried not to blink, not to breathe, as the noise grew closer. Your eyes flicked to Ellis. He didn’t move.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat as your body tensed on instinct. You didn’t dare speak—whatever it was, it was close.

Ellis didn’t move. He didn’t even draw his sword. He just stood there, listening, like he was waiting for confirmation.

Do something, you wanted to scream.

And then—

SNAP—!

You didn’t get the chance to process anything before Ellis shoved you—hard.

You stumbled sideways and hit the ground just as something exploded from the brush where you’d been standing. A massive scorpion, hissing and twitching, pincers clicking menacingly in the air.

Ellis was already on his feet and had you upright in a second, one hand gripping your arm, the other unsheathing his sword in a smooth, practiced motion.

“I know fighting’s not your thing,” he said quickly, eyes still locked on the creature, “so stay behind me. I’ve got this.”

There it was again. Something about the way he said it—so casual, so smug, so sure—struck a raw nerve. You didn’t need to be coddled.

You didn’t need another person telling you to sit back and watch.

Your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword. You weren’t useless. You weren’t helpless.

“I said,” Ellis added, eyes narrowing on the scorpion, “stay behind me.”

“No,” you snapped, pushing past him. “I can handle myself.”

Then, possibly fueled by adrenaline. Or pride. Or spite. Probably all three—you did the dumbest thing imaginable.

You raised your sword above your head like a maniac and charged the scorpion. “RAHHHHHHHH!”

You were met with a screeching hiss. The scorpion lunged before you could even swing, pincers snapping toward your legs.

You panicked. “Okay, nevermind!” With as much strength as you could muster, you threw your sword.

To your credit, it did clock the thing in the head. For about five seconds, the scorpion twitched and reeled in place, stunned.

But now… you were swordless. And it was angry.

You scrambled backward until your spine slammed against a tree. Helpless. Trapped.

It recovered fast, now charging with twice the fury, pincers wide, poison-stinger curling toward you like a hook.

You braced for impact.

Then a blur of motion.

Ellis ran in front of you, his sword clashing with the scorpion’s claws in a violent clang. He shoved it back with a grunt, eyes flashing, lips curled in irritation.

Still facing the threat, he spoke over his shoulder through clenched teeth. “[Name], I swear to the gods—when this game is over—I’m beating you up. I told you to let me handle it!”

Ellis didn’t waste a second. The moment he was sure you were safe, he charged right back into the fray, his boots pounding against the forest floor.

The scorpion, still disoriented but far from defeated, hissed and reared its tail. Ellis didn’t flinch.

He ran toward it—like a lunatic, like a demigod who’d grown up fighting monsters for breakfast.

The scorpion anticipated his angle, jabbing its tail like a spear in his direction. But Ellis slipped beneath it at the last second, dropping into a roll and coming up right behind it.

With a speed you didn’t think was possible for a kid his age, he leapt up and grabbed hold of the tail just under the stinger.

You gaped.

“What is he—?”

The scorpion screeched, thrashing wildly, its tail swinging like a wrecking ball. Ellis hung on with nothing but sheer force and leg strength, clinging to the beast like it was a rodeo bull.

Somehow he kept his balance, anchoring himself with his knees and one arm as the other drew back with his sword.

And then—schhh-CHUNK!

In one clean, decisive swipe, Ellis hacked off the scorpion’s stinger. The deadly barb clattered to the ground with a fleshy thud, oozing a bit of venom as it lay still.

The scorpion shrieked and went wild, its movements jerky and panicked. But Ellis was already on the move.

He used the rebound force of the tail’s final swing to launch himself into the air—and landed directly on the creature’s back.

There was a moment, a single frozen second, where time seemed to still. Ellis stood over it like a statue carved out of combat instinct and adrenaline.

And then—he drove his blade straight down into the scorpion’s spine.

A blinding flash of gold, a burst of dust, and the creature was gone—disintegrated into nothing but ash and quiet.

Ellis landed on his feet.

You stood there like a deer in headlights, still pressed against the tree, your mouth parted in total shock. Frozen, you watched as Ellis casually bent down to pick it up.

He walked back toward you, not a scratch on him, not even a bead of sweat on his brow. When he handed the sword back, your fingers barely curled around the hilt.

“You…” Your voice cracked. “You were amazing.”

Ellis blinked at you, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You pushed yourself off the tree, energy finally rushing back into your limbs.

Emboldened by the post-battle high, you swung your imaginary sword into the air, mimicking his moves—dramatically, and terribly.

“Against the scorpion! You were all—pow pow! And it was all—hissss kaboom!” You waved your arms wildly. “It was awesome. Brave, even. Like, heroic kind of brave.”

Ellis’s cheeks flushed despite the way he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “We’re at a camp for heroes. That’s kind of the point,” he muttered—but the pout forming on his face betrayed how pleased he was.

But just as quickly, he caught himself and snapped back to form, shoving your sword against your chest with just enough force to break the spell. “Don’t think I forgot that stupid stunt you pulled,” he added, voice stern again.

“Oh. That…” You laughed, scratching the back of your neck. “I was just, um…”

Ellis stared expectantly. “Just what? Trying to book a one-way ticket to Hades?”

Your nose scrunched. That was the last name you wanted to hear. “Ugh. Gross. No way. I’d rather die. Wait—no, cause then I’d meet him. I meant I’d rather live. But that sounds ridiculous. Actually—”

Ellis watched, increasingly horrified, as your rant spiraled. “[Name], I swear—”

“I mean, technically, living is better than dying, but then again—”

“[Name]!”

You snapped to attention, startled.

“Just shut up!” he barked, exasperated. “Life, death—who cares right now? You almost got yourself killed! And not in some heroic, blaze-of-glory way, but in a dumb, preventable, avoidable kind of way!”

You opened your mouth to respond—but stopped. Something caught your eye. A flicker of movement, just behind Ellis, in the trees.

You squinted. Was it a shadow? A person?

“—seriously, what were you thinking? Are you even listening to me right now?!”

“Behind you,” you whispered, eyes locked on the trees.

Ellis didn’t have much time to react—not like last time.

The scorpion was already mid-pounce, its grotesque form suspended in the air, claws wide open, its sights set squarely on your partner.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Oh my gods, Ellis—move!”

But there was no time. The scorpion was too fast. You could only watch, helpless, as it lunged straight for him.

For a single horrifying heartbeat, you were certain he’d be crushed. Dead. Just like that. Dying in the middle of the woods, in way-too-heavy armor, flattened by an overgrown bug was not how you imagined this day going.

And Ellis—Ellis wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not because of you.

But before the monster could strike, something sliced through the air—sharp, fast, whistling past your face. An arrow. Then another.

The scorpion shrieked, pinned to the forest floor by glowing celestial bronze shafts. You blinked up toward the trees just in time to see her leap down. Clarisse.

She charged, her spear gripped in both hands, and without hesitation, she drove it clean through the scorpion’s head. It hissed, shuddered, and exploded into golden dust.

You didn’t even have time to catch your breath before she bent down and yanked something red from the ashes—a small parcel tied to what had been the scorpion’s tail.

Wiping dust from her armor, she cracked the package open and held up a wreath. “We won,” she announced flatly.

Lee Fletcher emerged seconds later from the trees, his bow still at the ready. “Did we get it?” he asked, jogging over.

Clarisse flashed him the wreath with a shrug. “We got it.”

Next to you, Ellis stepped back, a stick snapping beneath his boot. It was a small sound, barely noticeable. But Clarisse’s head whipped toward it like a wolf catching the scent of blood.

She zeroed in on him, eyes narrowing.

He wilted on the and his shoulders sank as Clarisse stalked toward him. Lee trailed after her, but when he saw the two of you, his face softened. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine—”

“They would’ve been dead if we didn’t show up,” Clarisse interrupted you and Ellis looked like he might actually throw up this time.

Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth. “I… I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Clarisse’s glare sharpened. “You think sorry means anything in war? I taught you better than that. You let your guard down. You hesitated. That could’ve been the end of you.”

He tried to hold her gaze, but it was no use. His voice stammered into silence, and all he could do was look at the dirt.

That... that made your blood boil.

He had saved your life. Moments ago, he was a hero—facing off a scorpion like it was second nature. Now, he was getting torn down like he hadn’t just put himself in danger to keep you safe.

Fuming, you stepped in front of Clarisse, chest puffed up like you were six feet tall instead of a growing eleven year old.

“Hey!” you snapped. “What’s wrong with you? Your brother just saved my life—like literally dragged me out of death’s jaws! He made one mistake, and you’re acting like he’s some kind of disgrace.”

Clarisse raised a brow, unimpressed. “You, of all people, are defending him? Seriously, Ellis?”

That stung more than it should have. Another one for the growing list of people who saw you as weak.

“My name is [Name],” you said through clenched teeth, standing firm. “And yes. I’m defending him. Someone has to. When have you ever defended your siblings instead of stomping on them?”

Clarisse’s face darkened. Her hands clenched around her spear.

“You have no idea what’s going on, [Name],” she growled. “Stay out of it, you little—”

Lee stepped in before things could explode. “Hey,” he said quickly, grabbing her arm. “He’s a kid. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

You were about to argue—because actually, you meant every single word—but stopped when Lee gave you a very pointed look that screamed not now.

Clarisse yanked her arm free, scowled, and turned on her heel. “Whatever. We’ve got the wreath. Let’s go.”

Lee gave you a tight smile and followed after her. You tried to move too, ready to catch up and finish what you started—words burning on the tip of your tongue.

But you didn’t get far.

Ellis caught you by the straps of your chestplate, tugging you back.

“Drop it, [Name],” he said, voice low and tight.

“But she—”

“I said drop it.” His hand fell away. “I don’t need your help.”

He turned and walked away. You watched him go, stunned. Something about the way he said it—it didn’t sound angry. It sounded… ashamed. Maybe even afraid.

You didn’t know what made your chest hurt more: that he thought you’d made things worse… or the fact that he didn’t believe you were worth standing up for either.

Silence.

Not a word passed between you and Ellis on the slow walk back to camp. He stayed a few paces ahead, armor clinking faintly with every step, his posture taut and unreadable.

You dragged behind him, hands clenched and mind spinning.

It wasn’t that you regretted defending him—no way. Ellis didn’t deserve to be humiliated like that, especially not in front of someone like Clarisse.

But you weren’t stupid either. You saw his face when you stepped in. Heard the cold edge in his voice when he told you to drop it.

You hadn’t helped. Not really. You’d truly only made it worse.

Was that what embarrassed him? That you of all people had stepped up? Was it shame? Or disappointment? Maybe it was both.

And gods, maybe he was right to be disappointed. You’d been reckless.

The only reason either of you were still breathing was because Ellis had thrown himself in front of you—and because Clarisse and Lee had shown up at the last second.

You weren’t strong enough. Not yet.

You swallowed hard, eyes lowering to the ground as your boots hit the gravel path.

The image of Ellis fighting—his balance, his focus, the way he read the scorpion’s moves like it was second nature—was seared into your brain.

You’d never seen someone move like that up close before. Not a kid. Not one your age.

And not someone who made you feel like you could be more, if only you tried harder.

You didn’t want to be left behind. You didn’t want to be a liability. If Nico had been right—if you really weren’t strong enough—then that needed to change.

You would change.

Eventually, the shadows of the woods thinned and the golden glow of Camp Half-Blood spilled into view. Ellis didn’t stop walking.

He didn’t even glance your way. Just kept heading toward the direction of the arena, jaw tight.

You frowned at his back. “So I don’t even get a goodbye?”

Ellis stopped mid-step, shoulders rising with a breath. “Goodbye,” he said over his shoulder, voice clipped. He kept walking.

Your chest tightened. “Wait!”

You jogged up to him and grabbed his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, and his eyes dropped to your hand. Then, slowly, he looked up at you, a scowl already forming.

“Why should I listen to you?” he asked flatly.

You blinked, thrown by how sharp the question felt. “Well…” Your brain scrambled for a good reason—something clever, or noble, or at least mildly persuasive—but came up painfully empty. “There’s no good reason you should.”

You hesitated, then added softly, “But… maybe the kindness in your heart?”

Ellis stared at you for a moment—long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he jerked his chin toward you. “You’ve got five minutes. Go.”

“Five minutes?! That’s, like, no time at all to explain my cause!”

He tapped an invisible watch on his wrist. “Time’s ticking…”

You shrieked. “Okay, okay, fine—uh—right. So—basically—I think you’re, like, super cool out there and I know I messed up and this is probably really selfish of me to even ask—and gods, I know I was reckless and got us both in trouble and you’re totally right to be mad—”

“Four minutes.”

“AH!” You took a deep breath. “Okay, here it is! I think you’re an amazing fighter and I want you to train me!”

When you finally stopped talking, you were panting like you’d run a marathon. The words were out, floating between you in the quiet.

Ellis blinked at you. He opened his mouth—then coughed into his fist, clearly trying (and failing) to hide his laugh.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, straightening his face like it hadn’t just cracked into an amused grin.

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “You think I’m joking.”

“No,” he said, lips twitching. “I think you’re dead serious. Which is somehow worse.”

You stuck your chin out. “So? Will you?”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You got me in trouble today,” he said slowly. “That doesn’t exactly win you points.”

Your shoulders slumped. Yeah, that was fair. Unfortunately. But you weren’t going to give up that easily.

“I can make it up to you,” you said quickly. “What if—what if I get Clarisse to back off? Then will you help me?”

Ellis raised a brow. “Clarisse?” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you can talk Clarisse down?”

“There are only a handful of people Clarisse actually listens to,” you said, crossing your fingers dramatically. “And Silena is one of them. Whom I happen to be, like, this with.”

He snorted. “You’re delusional.”

“I’m serious!” you insisted. “Silena loves me. In return, you train me. Deal?”

Ellis studied you again. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, to your shock, he stepped forward and once again adjusted your helmet—gently this time. “Your helmet’s crooked, again.” he muttered, more amused than annoyed.

He didn’t move back right away. Just smirked down at you and gave a half-nod.

“Meet me at the arena after lunch tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t be late, [Name].”

You beamed. “Wait—is that a yes?”

He was already walking away, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder.

“See you there, cadet.”

The late morning sun spilled lazily through the high windows, casting a golden glow over tangled sheets and bare skin.

The air hung warm and slow, thick with myrrh and the faint scent of sun-warmed linen. In the quiet, a hand moved gently—fingertips dragging lazy circles along a collarbone, like they were sketching verses into flesh.

Anteros lay still, eyes tracing the sunlit ceiling. The patterns carved into the stone glowed faintly in the light—shapes that curled like vines or flames, depending on how one chose to see them.

His thoughts were drifting, unhurried, until a voice broke the silence.

“What are you thinking about?”

It was soft, still rough with sleep.

He turned his head to look. The god beside him was half-draped across the pillows, golden in the sunlight, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lightly around Anteros’s waist.

He looked entirely at ease here—too at ease, Anteros thought, for someone with a schedule full of divine obligations.

Anteros let out a soft hum, his fingers continuing their idle tracing. “Nothing important.”

A low chuckle rumbled in response. “That’s rare for you.”

There was no real bite to it. No need for pretense. This, whatever it was, had settled into a quiet rhythm—slow mornings, shared silences, the soft negotiation of boundaries neither of them pushed too far. It wasn’t love in the way mortals told it—no declarations, no burning sacrifice—but there was something steady in the way their mornings lingered.

“You know,” the other god said, stretching just enough to make the bed creak beneath him, “you’re going to make me late for my own music lessons.”

“You’re a god,” Anteros murmured, not bothering to move. “Time bends for you.”

The god huffed a quiet laugh, his hand rising to brush a loose hair from Anteros’ forehead. “And yet I never seem to have enough of it when you’re around.”

That made Anteros pause. He didn’t respond—just leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against the other’s. His eyes fluttered shut, the closeness pulling something quiet and aching to the surface. His thoughts stirred in silence, his heart weighed down by the trials fate had recently laid at his feet.

For a moment, he wished the other could simply know—feel what lived behind his silence, without the burden of words.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Barely a breath.

“Apollo.”

Apollo replied lazily, his fingers now tracing slow, idle shapes along Anteros’s hips. “Hm?”

Anteros opened his mouth, hesitating. “I—”

Knock, knock, knock.

A voice filtered in gently from the other side of the door. “Lord Anteros? Forgive the intrusion, but your brother—”

The door creaked open before she could finish.

“—has been waiting centuries for you to get out of bed,” Eros finished for her, stepping inside without so much as a glance at the startled nymph still hovering behind the door. He gave her a dismissive wave before letting his gaze fall on the two figures tangled in gold sheets and morning haze.

“Well,” he said, the grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t let me interrupt... whatever this is.”

Anteros moved in a flash. His wings unfurled in a sharp sweep of motion—sleek and radiant, they snapped open in a defensive arc, instantly shielding Apollo from view. With a flick of his fingers, a silk, rose quartz robe shimmered into existence around his body, cinching itself neatly at the waist.

He stood at the edge of the bed, jaw tight, feathers slightly bristling. “Eros.”

Eros blinked at the sudden display of modesty—then grinned, thoroughly entertained.

“Well, well,” he drawled, arms crossing as he leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t mean to walk in on such intimacy, but I must say—it’s nice to see you’re still so dramatic about your privacy.”

Apollo, behind the shield of feathers, let out a low chuckle. “He really is.”

Anteros gave him a sharp look over his shoulder, then turned back to Eros with a sigh. “Did you come here to say something useful, or just to gawk?”

Eros raised his eyebrows, innocent. “Can’t it be both?” He tilted his head. “Also, you missed breakfast with Mother. Again. You can imagine she’s not too happy with you.”

Anteros exhaled slowly, folding his wings back with obvious restraint. “I’ll visit her later. And Next time,” he muttered, “knock—and wait.”

“You really ought to put a lock on that door,” he added, eyes gleaming. “Or at least hang a Do Not Disturb charm.”

Apollo, still half-reclined and clearly unbothered, snapped his own soft golden robe onto himself with a flick of his fingers. The fabric shimmered briefly before settling over his shoulders like liquid light. He arched a brow toward Eros and offered a smile, all teeth and mock civility.

“They should invent one that repels annoying little love bugs like you.”

Eros clutched his chest in mock agony. “Careful, sunbeam. Your freakish jealousy and possessiveness over my brother is showing.”

Apollo’s grin sharpened. “Jealous? Of what, exactly—you? Please, there's nothing you can give Anteros that I can't. In fact, I can even give him something extra—”

“Quit it!” Anteros’s voice cut sharply through the room, wings flaring slightly with the motion. A gleam irritation danced across his eyes, and the air seemed to still in response. He turned to his brother, drawing his robe tighter around his waist with a rough tug, jaw set.

“Really, Eros. What did you want?”

Eros gave a lazy shrug, still entirely too pleased with himself. “Just thought you’d like to know there’s a bit of a fiasco going on in your precious greenhouse. The light keeps flickering in and out—like it’s haunted.”

Anteros’s expression dropped. His wings, which had just begun to fold, tensed again, feathers rippling with alarm. A beat passed where nothing was said—but everything in him moved. Panic was not a feeling he wore often, but in that moment, it crept into the corners of his eyes.

Without another word, he shoved past Eros, his steps purposeful and quick. His robe snapped behind him like a banner in the wind, catching the golden light that filtered in from the open windows. The marble halls echoed with his departure, sharp and unrelenting.

Left behind, Apollo and Eros exchanged a brief glance.

Apollo’s playful edge had dulled. His eyes followed Anteros’s path down the hall with something closer to concern. “That wasn’t just casual worry,” he said quietly.

Eros nodded, the mirth finally fading from his features. “No,” he agreed, pushing off the doorframe, shoulders squaring. “Something’s wrong.”

He moved after his brother, his usual leisurely gait replaced by something more alert.

Apollo lingered for a breath, watching the empty doorway, then sighed and followed—his robe glowing faintly in the morning light.

Anteros moved quickly through his palace, his hair fluttering with every hurried step.

The halls of his domain shimmered with the soft blush of rose-gold light, not from torches or magic, but from the walls themselves—living stone that pulsed with warmth and longing. Veins of quartz ran through marble floors, catching reflections like passing thoughts. Everything in the palace felt—crafted with care, but designed to respond to emotion more than presence.

Where love had been returned, the space sang gently. Where it had faltered, the shadows lingered longer than they should have.

Heart-shaped arches gave way to corridors lined with ivy-kissed columns, each wrapped in climbing roses that never wilted, breathing with subtle life. Statues of lovers—some immortal, some mortal, all equal—lined alcoves along the way. Not posed in grandeur, but caught in tender gestures: a forehead kiss, intertwined fingers, the moment before a smile.

As Anteros swept past them, the atmosphere seemed to ripple around him, the perfume of blooming petals and old vows trailing in his wake.

He finally pushed open a pair of curved, gilded doors that led out to his famed rose garden—a sprawling terrace of soft pink and ivory blooms that stretched like a living tapestry beneath a gentle mist. The air was heady with their scent: warm, floral, and grounding.

In the heart of it stood the greenhouse.

Crafted from golden filigree and panels of enchanted glass, it gleamed under the daylight, though now that light blinked unevenly—flickering like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The roses closest to it shivered unnaturally, petals twitching as if caught in some invisible current.

Anteros didn’t hesitate. He stormed toward it, wings flicking once as he approached the arched entrance. The usual tranquility of his garden was gone, replaced with a tense, electric hush.

And as he stepped over the threshold, into the golden greenhouse, the warmth of the air shifted—tinged now with something colder. Something unfamiliar. Something wrong.

Apollo and Eros followed behind, both silent for once.

Something had changed.

And Anteros could feel it in his chest like a string pulled too tight.

Eros stared at his brother’s face. “I know that look,” he said, voice half-laughing. “It’s the same one you had when you figured out Mother’s little affairs with Father. Is trouble brewing?”

Anteros didn’t reply. He stood motionless, wings folded tight, gaze locked on something ahead. Eros, undeterred, slithered closer, resting his chin on Anteros’s shoulder and peering up at him with glinting curiosity.

“Don’t go emo on me,” he muttered. “It isn’t heartbreak season yet.”

Still, not a flicker of emotion crossed Anteros’s face. No eye-roll, no sigh—just silence, taut and heavy.

Eros narrowed his eyes. He had been watching his brother drift into this brooding quiet for months now. At first, he’d assumed it was something mundane—maybe Anteros had finally discovered the little trysts happening between the rose garden nymphs and a certain king of the gods who shall not be named.

But that theory had been debunked quickly enough when Eros flew past one afternoon and saw his brother walking beside Queen Hera, chatting with her in what looked suspiciously like good spirits. Eros had even clapped—quietly, from a safe distance. Gaining Hera’s approval was no small feat. Was he jealous? Maybe. Just a little. But it made sense. Anteros and Hera both shared an unflinching reverence for loyalty—and an unrelenting wrath for those who broke it.

He followed his brother’s line of sight now, finally catching sight of the object of his obsession: in the center of the golden greenhouse, laid reverently atop a silk cushion, were two glowing golden threads—delicate and divine, pulsing with quiet power. Fate-bound. Connected. Unraveled, somehow.

Eros let out a low whistle. “Ah. I see what’s got you all twisted up.” He tilted his head. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

Anteros’s scowl was immediate. “I’m not afraid.”

“Sure,” Eros drawled. “You just look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

Anteros’s jaw clenched. “Things haven’t been progressing the way they’re supposed to.”

“You know I can help,” Eros offered, more serious now.

Anteros turned, finally looking at him—and not kindly. His jaw tightened. “Your help,” he said through gritted teeth, “is not needed.”

Eros lifted his brows, grinning. “Touchy.”

“You’re impulsive, unpredictable, and you get bored too easily. I’m not gambling fate for one of your chaos-driven whims.”

Eros raised his hands in mock surrender but didn’t back down. “Oh, come on. You and I both know I’m good at this. We’re two halves of the same whole. You can’t function without me—and I sure as Olympus can’t function without you. Just say the word, and I’ll be at your service.”

As tempting as the offer was, Anteros knew better. Eros was chaos wrapped in charm, and this—this was too delicate. Too close. Too important.

“No,” he said, firm. “And that’s final.”

Eros was clearly ready to argue, already releasing another breath but then another voice cut through the tension—low, calm, and unmistakably pointed.

“Back off, Eros.”

The two brothers turned in unison. Apollo stood just inside the glass archway, the sunlight curling around him like armor. His golden robe fell carelessly over one shoulder, his gaze fixed on Eros—not with hostility, but with something colder. Protective. Anchored.

“You’ve had your fun,” Apollo said, walking closer. “Now give him space.”

Eros straightened, folding his arms with a smirk. “Oh look, it speaks. Thought you were still asleep and tangled in my brother’s sheets.”

Apollo’s expression didn’t change. “If I’m tangled anywhere, it’s by choice. Now try me again, Eros, and I’ll tie your wings together with truthweed and leave you on Artemis’s doorstep.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

Eros blinked, clearly not expecting that level of fire from the usually serene sun god. “Well. Someone’s feeling bold today.”

But Apollo was already turning to Anteros. His sharpness softened instantly, like a light dimmed for a gentler glow. He stepped to Anteros’s side without a word, placing a grounding hand against his lower back.

They stood together in silence for a moment, gazes returning to the threads. Apollo said nothing, but his expression turned contemplative. He anchored his gift of prophecy. The strands were faltering—but not broken. Just trembling under the weight of something unseen. Hesitation. Possibility. The shifting gears of fate.

“They haven’t snapped,” Apollo said quietly. “They’re… deciding.”

Anteros’s lips parted, but no words came out. Just the barest shift of his shoulders—like a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Eros watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. He wasn’t used to being left out of the emotional core of a situation. And while his usual response would be to needle, this time, something in him stayed silent.

The two gods stayed there a while, watching the golden threads flicker.

The knot that bound the two golden strings had begun to unravel.

It started subtly, just as spring unfurled its first blooms—an imperceptible loosening that only someone like Anteros would have noticed. But he had noticed. And since then, it had plagued him, gnawed at him. Each day he returned to the strings, watching as they shimmered faintly on their silk cushion, and each day they mocked him with their quiet defiance.

He had hoped, prayed even, that the unraveling would halt. That perhaps fate had simply hesitated, not faltered. And for a time, it seemed it had. The threads held steady, suspended in fragile stillness.

But today—today, something shifted.

The golden light began to flicker.

Faint at first, then more steadily, like a heartbeat stuttering in fear. The glow dimmed around the knot, the place where the two threads joined—their union unraveling thread by trembling thread, the color leaching away as if the bond itself were fading.

#nico diangelo x reader #nico diangelo x male reader #pjo x reader #x male reader #heroes of olympus x reader #perserverance #nico di angelo #percy jackson #trials of apollo #heroes of olympus #pjo x male reader #pjo x you #pjo hoo toa #heroes of olympus x male reader #percy jackson x male reader #percy jackson x reader

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 6 days ago

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total drama island but replace them with the side and minor characters of Camp Half-Blood and Apollo as Chris

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 12 days ago

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You have an idea how much I love "perseverance" god, you don't know how much I've searched for a Nico story 🤩 and with a son of Anteros, he does it better. I sincerely hope to read the next chapter very soon 😍😍😍😍

Aww, thank you!

Yeah, I’ve noticed the lack of Nico fics and it’s SICKENING!! I wanted to make a story for people who love Nico and wanted to interact with a (hopefully?) canonical version of himself .

I feel like he’s severely misrepresented, so I’m writing this story for people like you!!

(I am currently in the middle of writing the next chapter dw <3)

#perseverance ask <3

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 14 days ago

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@heartmii is my other account for those unaware

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 15 days ago

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Overture.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 12.9k

warning: internalized homophobia, a bit of angst

previous, original version here, masterlist, ao3, next

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound had been constant for hours. Relentless. A mechanical drip of time, counting out each moment that you didn’t wake up. The monitor hooked up to your chest chirped dutifully, as if trying to reassure the world you were still here.

It didn’t help.

On the chair beside your bed, Nico glared at the machine like it had personally offended him.

“Beep beep, be quiet,” he muttered under his breath, a tired scowl tugging at his mouth.

As if obeying his command, the machine abruptly fell silent. The absence of sound was instant and jarring. And in that silence, Nico’s stomach dropped.

His heart jumped into his throat. He straightened so fast the chair creaked beneath him. Then he was leaning over you, grabbing your wrist, fingers desperate and too cold as he searched for a pulse.

He told himself not to panic. That it was just a coincidence. A glitch. That the monitor was dumb and not prophetic.

But what if it wasn’t?

His chest clenched. His thoughts turned dark, spiraling into the worst-case scenarios. If he’d somehow cursed you—if you were gone—

Then—

“Beep.”

The machine resumed with a single, sheepish chirp, like a guilty child sneaking back into the room. Nico froze.

Then exhaled.

The breath left him like a spell breaking. He slumped back in the chair, one hand still resting on your wrist, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not cool,” he grumbled, shooting the monitor a final, exhausted glare. He didn’t let go of your wrist right away.

He shuffled in his chair, bones groaning in protest after hours of sitting in the same cramped position.

It had been a full day since you passed out in front of the woods—an image Nico couldn’t get out of his head.

One moment you were upright, joking, full of life. The next, you collapsed like nothing.

The memory made his stomach twist.

Your lips were drawn into a frown even now, and Nico wished he knew what you were dreaming about. Or if you were dreaming at all.

He remembered the Apollo cabin rushing in, their faces taut with concern as they loaded you onto a stretcher. He’d trailed behind them without question, practically on their heels.

Lee Fletcher had tried to reassure him. Said your body was just reacting to a lack of sleep—that you were “catching up” on rest. But Nico didn’t buy it. Not entirely.

You’d been fine the day before. Energetic. Talking his ear off, even. It didn’t feel right.

His eyes drifted back to your wrist, where his hand still rested. Your pulse had returned to a steady rhythm. Your skin had warmed up.

The clammy sweat was gone, replaced by a damp towel the Apollo kids had laid gently across your forehead.

You looked…better. But not exactly peaceful.

Your brows were still furrowed, like you were fighting something in your sleep.

A nightmare, maybe?

Nico bit his lip, then glanced at your hand. He wanted to reach for it. To comfort you. Maybe let you know, somehow, that you weren’t alone.

The idea made his heart flutter and his face burn, but he didn’t pull back.

Instead, he steeled himself, drew in a breath—and slipped his fingers into yours.

Your hand was warm. Familiar. It fit in his like it belonged there, and despite himself, Nico smiled. A small, quiet thing.

Then your expression shifted.

The tension in your brows eased, your lips relaxed. You didn’t wake—but something in you settled. Calmed. And Nico’s smile grew.

He tucked his knees up to his chest, still holding your hand. Resting his chin atop them, he let his eyes stay on you, content just to watch your chest rise and fall.

Some might’ve gone off to find distractions—something to pass the time.

But not Nico. This was enough. You were here. You were breathing. That was all he needed.

Minutes passed.

His eyelids began to droop, the room softening at the edges. His head dropped from his knees to rest on his arms, eyes fluttering shut.

Sleep was almost upon him when the infirmary door creaked open.

He jolted upright, instinct snapping him back to alertness. Quickly, too quickly, he dropped your hand, letting it fall limply off the side of the bed—like it hadn’t been in his at all.

In the doorway stood someone Nico didn’t recognize—a boy who looked to be around his age.

He had sun-bleached blonde hair that curled a bit at the ends, like he spent a lot of time outside, and clear blue eyes that seemed too bright for a place like this.

His skin was tanned, and the orange Camp Half-Blood shirt he wore looked well-worn, faded at the shoulders from long hours in the sun.

He looked more like someone who belonged on a beach than in an infirmary—but the moment he stepped inside, his posture shifted into something focused and practiced.

When their eyes met, the boy smiled. “Oh—hi. You’re Nico, right?”

“Yeah.” Nico confirmed, his voice tighter than he wanted it to be. He hoped the strain wasn’t obvious, though he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Something about the boy’s easy confidence made him feel suddenly self-conscious, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Nico watched him warily as he walked toward your bed and pulled out a clipboard from under his arm. He glanced down at you, lips pressed in concentration, scribbling something quickly in neat handwriting.

Then he checked your forehead with the back of his hand, lifted your wrist briefly to feel your pulse, and nodded to himself before updating the chart again.

His movements were swift, but gentle. Thoughtful.

“I’m Will, by the way,” he added, peering up at Nico from beneath his bangs with a soft, friendly smile.

Nico gave him a small nod, unsure what else to offer. A part of him wanted Will to leave—to vanish back through the door so Nico could take your hand again without anyone watching.

It was selfish. He knew that. But something about holding your hand had made everything else less overwhelming.

Still, the silence that followed wasn’t exactly pleasant. It pressed against Nico’s shoulders like a weight, until he couldn’t help but say something.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out sharper than intended, and Nico flinched, shrinking in his chair. “Um—sorry, I just…”

Will held up a hand to stop him, shaking his head lightly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled again, this time more understanding than amused. “You’re new here, right?”

Nico nodded, not trusting his voice.

“What a welcome, huh?” Will gave a quiet laugh that filled the room with a little warmth. Not forced, not loud—just something soft and melodic. “Emergency pass-outs, emotionally exhausted campers. Pretty classic.”

Something in Nico eased at that. Just a little. Will didn’t seem fazed by any of it, and that made his presence oddly reassuring—like maybe things really were under control.

“I see you’ve made a friend already,” Will said, nodding at you. “[Name] is one of the camp’s most resilient people. He has a striking ability to bounce back quickly. But then again… most people at this camp are stronger than they think.”

Nico’s eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said anything about you. Not out loud.

Will caught the look and offered a small, knowing smile but chose not to comment on it. Instead, he reached casually into his pocket and pulled out a lollipop wrapped in crinkled red plastic. “Lollipop?”

Nico blinked at him.

Will waved it a little. “You’d be surprised how many medical problems can be temporarily solved by sugar. Or at least distracted from.”

Nico hesitated, then slowly reached out and took it. “…Thanks.”

Will’s smile grew. “Anytime.”

For a moment, the tension in Nico’s shoulders softened. He didn’t unwrap the lollipop. Just held it in his hand, unsure why the small gesture meant so much.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Will said with a nod, already turning toward the door. He stuck his head out into the hallway and called for his brother.

It was barely a few seconds before Lee appeared in the room. He gave Nico a curt nod before gesturing toward the bed. “How’s he doing?”

Will handed over the clipboard, his fingers drumming along the edge. “Vitals are steady. Heart rate’s normal, no fever. No signs of infection or any kind of magical interference—at least not the kind I can see.”

Lee flipped through the notes, his brow knitting tighter with each page.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s strange.” He looked up, eyes sharp and calculating as they met Nico’s. “You were with him all day yesterday, right? Did he seem off at all? Any weird behavior, dizziness, anything?”

Nico shook his head, his voice instinctively defensive. “No, he was fine—laughing, talking, eating. He even beat me at Mythomagic.” He frowned, more to himself than anyone else. “There was nothing weird.”

He spoke too soon when the monitor shrieked to life.

It started as a quickened beeping—annoying but bearable. Then it spiked. The sharp, rapid beeps tore through the room like sirens.

Not the steady rhythm of rest—no, this was panic. Fear. A body fighting itself.

Lee’s eyes snapped to the machine. “His heart rate is spiking!”

The tension exploded into motion. Will bolted from the room before Lee could even finish barking orders.

But Nico didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His blood turned to ice. All he could hear was that awful, frantic beeping. All he could see was you, pale and still, your body tense under the sheets like it was caught in some invisible storm.

Without thinking, Nico reached forward and grabbed your hand—this time with no hesitation, no second-guessing.

His fingers laced tightly through yours. He squeezed hard, like his grip alone could anchor you.

“Come on,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Come on, [Name], stay with me. You’re okay. Just hold on.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him. He didn’t know if it mattered. He just needed to do something.

He closed his eyes.

For once, he wished he knew who his godly parent was. Not just for identity. For belief. For prayer.

Who did you ask for miracles when you didn’t know who was listening?

He didn’t care.

He prayed anyway.

Please. Just let him be okay. Please.

He squeezed your hand again, a little tighter. “You’re not allowed to die on me. Got it?”

And then—

You gasped.

The sound split the tension like a blade.

Your whole body jolted upright as if yanked from the depths of some unseen ocean. You sucked in air, chest heaving, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

The heart monitor steadied behind you, the beeping falling into a calm rhythm.

Nico exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He slumped slightly forward, the adrenaline draining from his limbs.

He glanced up, toward the ceiling—toward the gods, or the stars, or whatever had just intervened.

Thank you… whoever you are.

Lee was already beside the bed, crouched at your side with practiced efficiency. His voice was gentler now, though still laced with urgency.

“[Name], can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Your eyes stayed wide, locked onto Lee’s face. You looked dazed, disoriented, like you weren’t sure if this was still part of a dream. Your body shifted slightly under the blanket, like you wanted to sit up—but then your gaze dropped, and your attention went to the boy beside you.

Nico could feel the weight of your stare, like you were trying to memorize every detail of his face, trying to make sense of something unspoken.

“You’re… Nico?” you asked, your voice fragile.

Nico’s brows furrowed. He looked over at Lee, searching for some kind of guidance. Lee only gave a small, reassuring nod.

“I am,” Nico said finally, his voice low, almost careful.

As soon as he confirmed it, the tension in your shoulders loosened. Your breathing began to steady, and you let your head fall gently back onto the pillow. Relief visibly washed over you, like your body had been holding onto panic without you realizing it.

Lee stepped forward to check you over, running through a series of simple reflex tests and asking the usual barrage of clinical questions. Nico watched, uninterested in most of it—until something in your expression changed.

“…I was having this awful dream,” you muttered.

Lee paused mid-check. “A dream? What was it about?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came out. You blinked, confused, and tried again. “Well, I—” But once again, your voice was stolen.

Your lips moved, but the words refused to leave.

Lee tilted his head. “You…?”

“I—” Nothing. Your voice failed again. A quiet panic began to rise in your face.

“I’m not lying,” you said quickly. “I’m trying. Every time I try to talk about it, I just—can’t!”

Your frustration was raw, on the verge of desperation. Lee didn’t say anything right away. He just studied you with a skeptical squint, clearly not convinced.

“Okay,” he said after a beat, exhaling sharply. “Look, I’ve got an Ares kid with a gash that won’t stop bleeding, and according to every test we’ve run, you’re fine now. We’ll monitor you for the rest of the day—but let’s not waste anyone’s time with weird jokes, alright?”

You bit your tongue and nodded silently, the weight of being dismissed pressing hard into your chest.

Once the door clicked shut behind Lee, the air in the room felt heavier.

You turned your head toward Nico again. Your expression had changed—softer now. Sad, almost. “You believe me, right?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I believe you,” he said simply. Because he did. The haunted look in your eyes wasn’t something you could fake. That wasn’t confusion or some elaborate joke—it was something real. Something that had shaken you.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, your features shifted again. Your lips tugged upward, not quite a grin—but something honest.

Your smile, small and still a little tired, hit him harder than he expected. It looked good on you.

And the realization that he might’ve helped bring that out warmed something in him he didn’t know he’d left exposed.

Your fingers curled more tightly around his.

“I swear,” you said, voice a little raspy but sincere, “you’re awesome.”

The words took him off guard.

Nico’s breath hitched. His ears flushed red, the warmth creeping all the way to his neck. He turned his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice the smile threatening to break across his face.

“Let’s—uh—let’s get you something to eat,” he mumbled, still avoiding your gaze. “The sooner you eat, the sooner you can get out of here.”

Your stay in the infirmary was short-lived—just one night—but it wasn’t unbearable, mostly thanks to Nico. He stuck by your side the whole day, and you were beyond grateful.

You guys played hours of Mythomagic, argued over which stats were better, and shared enough candy to make the Apollo medics side-eye your sugar levels.

Without him, you would've had to endure Michael Yew’s infamous get-well-soon song solo, and frankly, you weren’t in the mood to hear anything about “kissing your boo-boos better.” Nico had saved your life.

Twice, if you counted emotional damage.

At some point, between games and stolen snacks, you brought up a comfort movie. “You know what this reminds me of? That scene in Spider-Man 2 when Peter loses his powers and passes out in an alley.”

Nico blinked. “Spider-Man?”

You stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m… not?”

You nearly sat up in bed again. “You’ve never seen Spider-Man?!”

“No” Nico said, confused. “Is Spider-Man a monster or…?”

“He’s a superhero!” you gasped. “He gets bit by a radioactive spider and—okay, no. Never mind. That’s it. Next summer? I’m bringing DVDs, and we’re having a movie marathon in the Big House. All three movies. No arguments. Do you have a favorite superhero?”

Nico thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Superman’s pretty awesome. He’s strong, but he’s not cruel. He doesn’t use his power to scare people.”

You lit up. “Classic choice. Truth, justice, cape that somehow never gets dirty.”

A small smile tugged at Nico’s lips. “My mom actually got me the first edition of Action Comics when Superman debuted.”

You blinked. “Wait—the first edition? Like, the one with him lifting the car?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She surprised me with it after school one day.”

“Whoa.” You sat up straighter. “Did you get it off eBay or something?”

“eBay?” Nico repeated, brows furrowing. “No… she bought it at the store. What’s eBay?”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. “…Nevermind. That must’ve cost a fortune.”

“It was just a few cents.”

The two of you locked eyes, confusion bubbling between you like an invisible fog.

“That’s… crazy lucky,” you muttered, unsure of how else to respond.

Nico shrugged. “I guess so?”

You leaned back against your pillow, chewing over that weird little interaction. There was something odd about him—just slightly off—but not in a bad way. You almost asked another question when footsteps echoed from the hallway.

One of the Apollo kids was making their nightly rounds, and Nico was told to leave the infirmary.

It bummed you both out. So naturally, you came up with a plan.

Nico would hide under your bed while the Apollo camper did their final sweep of the night. A brilliant plan. Flawless, even.

Except for the part where you almost gave it away trying to hold in your laughter when Michael peeked his head through the door.

“Goodnight, [Name],” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

You did your best to play it cool. “Goodnight!” you chirped—your voice cracking halfway through.

Michael’s squint deepened. “You okay?”

“Yes! I’m just… tired. See?” You threw in a fake snore for good measure.

“…Right,” he said flatly, not buying it, but too tired to deal. He backed out of the room, still squinting.

You waited until the door clicked shut before whispering under your breath, “Okay, coast is—”

BANG.

The door swung open again.

You nearly leapt out of your bed in shock. “What?!”

Michael stepped inside, looking around the room like a cop in a bad TV drama. Then, slowly, suspiciously, he turned back to you.

“…Nothing,” he said at last. “Just making sure you don’t pull any tricks.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then turned them toward you. “I’m watching you.”

You nodded solemnly. “As you should.”

Once he was finally gone, silence returned—and then a head popped up from beneath your bed.

You and Nico broke into muffled laughter, hands clamped over your mouths.

Flawless plan.

The rest of your night was spent in hushed chatter, scattered mythomagic cards, and whispered stories.

The infirmary lights dimmed to a soft glow, and for once, everything felt calm. But as the quiet stretched on, your thoughts wandered—back to before you passed out.

Back to the argument.

You remembered it now with painful clarity: Nico and Bianca, voices raised, that hurt carved deep into Nico’s face.

You glanced over at him where he sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, carefully reorganizing his deck of mythomagic cards. He looked relaxed. Happier, even. There was a light in his eyes, something gentle and unguarded. And that made it harder.

You didn’t want to ruin the peace. But you wouldn’t be much of a friend if you just pretended it hadn’t happened.

“Nico,” you said quietly.

“Hm?” he replied without looking up, still focused on the placement of his cards.

You hesitated. “Before I passed out… the argument between you and your sister—Bianca.”

His hands stilled.

You sat up a little straighter. “I—I just wanted to check in. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

For a moment, Nico didn’t say anything. The silence pressed in. Then, slowly, he let out a breath. “I don’t know.”

His voice was soft, but not hesitant. Just tired. Honest in a way that made your chest ache.

“It’s okay,” you said. “To not know, I mean. Look at me—I barely know anything, and I’m still kicking.”

That coaxed a faint, tired laugh out of him. He glanced at you, something a little less weighed-down in his expression. “I don’t think that’s true. You know more than you think. You know how to make me smile… and how to make me laugh even when I’m trying my hardest not to.”

You felt your face warm instantly. “That’s not really a skill,” you mumbled, tugging at a loose thread on the blanket. “That’s just… me being dumb. I guess I’ll take it. Better than knowing all the state capitals or whatever.”

Nico tilted his head, teasing just a little. “Do you even know all the state capitals?”

“I know at least… three,” you said proudly, which made him snort.

There was a pause, a comfortable one this time. And then Nico’s expression shifted—his smile fading, eyes growing distant.“I didn’t mean to say all those things to her,” he said quietly.

You looked up.

“To Bianca,” he clarified. “While you were asleep, she was chosen to go on the quest that the oracle mentioned. Zoe volunteered her.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed somewhere past the infirmary walls. “They’re going to rescue Artemis. There’s this monster no one’s ever seen before, one that even the gods are worried about. Thalia, Grover, Zoe, and… Bianca. They left earlier today.”

His voice cracked at the end, so soft you almost missed it.

“She didn’t even look for me before she left. After everything I said… I don’t know if she even wanted to say goodbye.”

“She does love you,” you said gently. “Anyone could see that.”

“I know,” he replied, almost a whisper. “But I think I hurt her. I was angry, and I felt abandoned, and—I just let it all out without thinking. And now…”

He trailed off.

“Now you’re scared it’ll be the last thing she remembers you saying.”

Nico’s eyes met yours again, startled.

You shrugged. “I get it.”

The blanket shifted as Nico leaned back slightly, as if the weight of his thoughts was too much to sit under.

“She said she needed space,” he murmured. “That she couldn’t take care of me the way I needed. But I never asked her to. I just wanted her to stay.”

You reached out and touched his hand gently, grounding him. “That doesn’t make you a burden, Nico.”

He swallowed hard and nodded, just once.

“I hope I get a chance to tell her that,” he said after a long beat.

“You will,” you said. “And she’ll be lucky to hear it.”

“Percy said he would try his best to look out for her,” Nico murmured.

“Oh? Percy went on the quest too?” you asked, surprised.

“Yeah, but it’s a secret—he wasn’t supposed to. He snuck along.”

You leaned back against the infirmary headboard, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “That makes sense.”

Nico tilted his head. “Why?”

You hesitated. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” But the moment you saw Nico’s blank expression, you stopped yourself.

Right. He probably doesn't see it like that.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to find a way to explain it, then gave up with a wave of your hand. “Nevermind.”

Still, the thought lingered.

Percy Jackson, slipping away under cover of night just to make sure the girl he cares about doesn’t face danger alone?

Gods, if that wasn’t straight out of some old-school romance film, you didn’t know what was. It was reckless, yeah—but it was oh, so romantic. The kind of thing you had always imagined love would be like.Being so hopelessly in love, your lover would walk straight into a death trap for you. Not perfect, but brave. Stupidly brave.

What a dream.

Shaking yourself out of your daydream, you turned to Nico and asked, “What if Chiron finds out? Percy stowing away like that... that can’t go over well.”

“He won’t,” Nico said quickly. “I told Chiron Percy was helping Argus look for something out by the cabins—some issue with a missing weapon. I even left one of Percy’s shoes half-buried in the dirt for proof.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You planted evidence?”

“It was convincing,” Nico said defensively, though a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Argus doesn’t talk much, and no one really questions him. Chiron just assumed Percy volunteered to help and lost track of time.”

You stared at him but couldn’t help the laugh that burst out. “You’re diabolical.”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “You’re a bad influence.”

The rest of the night passed in a blink—your hushed conversations keeping time suspended.

Neither of you noticed the golden streaks of morning sunlight slipping through the infirmary windows until it was too late.

When one of the Apollo kids finally came to check on you, Nico didn’t even bother to hide this time.

To your surprise, Lee didn’t seem fazed at all by his presence. He just gave Nico a casual wave before turning his attention to the chart at the end of your bed.

“So… Michael didn’t say anything, right?” you asked as Lee wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your arm.

He smirked. “You think Michael would rat you out? Please. We all sneak into each other’s cabins. It’s basically an unspoken rule—mind your business, or your next prank war will be brutal.”

You blinked, mouth parting. “Seriously?”

Lee laughed. “You really didn’t know?”

How would you have known? You weren’t like these reckless, mischief-making demigods. You were a sweet, rule-abiding kid.

The kind people liked because you never caused trouble. The kind who wouldn’t dream of breaking curfew. The kind who, frankly, had no idea there was an entire underground camp culture dedicated to breaking the rules.

“[Name]! When I catch you, I will strangle you to death!”

Clarisse’s voice thundered through camp like a war drum, shaking the ground as she tore after you. You sprinted past cabins at full speed, gasping out rushed apologies to every camper you nearly bowled over in your panic.

“Sorry! Sorry—oh gods, sorry!”

You weaved through the pavilion like a man possessed, leaping over chairs, and shoving one behind you with your foot in a last-ditch effort to slow her down.

No such luck.

Clarisse hurdled over it with terrifying ease and, in one smooth motion, flung the chair back at you. It narrowly missed the head of Connor, who ducked with a squeak and yelled, “Hey! Innocent bystander here!”

(Well, “innocent” was debatable.)

“Oh, come on!” you shouted, not daring to slow down.

You shot past the Pegasus stables just as Silena and Beckendorf were stepping out, deep in conversation. Silena had a woven basket balanced on one hip, full of what looked like treats or tools—you had no time to tell. You zoomed past them, nearly knocking the basket from her hands.

“Sorry!” you called over your shoulder.

The basket didn’t stand a chance. Seconds later, Clarisse barreled through like an oncoming train.

The moment the basket hit the ground, she skidded to a stop, doubled back, and gently picked it up, brushing it off before returning it to Silena with an apologetic grunt. Then, without a word, she charged off again.

Beckendorf crossed his arms as he watched the chaos unfold. “Someone’s feeling better. Should we maybe help him before Clarisse grinds him into dust?”

Silena didn’t look the least bit concerned. In fact, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Nah. He has a weird talent for weaseling out of things. Remember when he blew the back off the Hermes cabin because he wouldn’t stop poking at the Hecate kids’ potions?”

Beckendorf groaned. “Don’t remind me. I spent three weeks rebuilding it. And as punishment, he agreed to be their potion test subject for a month.”

Silena giggled. “And then he came crying to me about it every night like he was cursed.”

They both broke into laughter, the kind that came easy after weeks of watching you dig your own grave with reckless determination.

You, meanwhile, were still screaming and running like your life depended on it. Because, well… it did.

You briefly considered pleading for your life. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was technically a plan.

No, what you really needed was a distraction.

Your eyes darted around in search of salvation—and like a gift from the gods themselves, salvation walked right out of the infirmary.

“Hey, Clarisse!” You shouted over your shoulder. “Michael told me he could totally beat you in a one-on-one. Oh—and he’s the one who stole your favorite chest plate. Y’know, the one that’s been missing for weeks?”

She skidded to a halt so fast it sent dust flying. Her whole face turned red like a cartoon villain. “HE DID WHAT?!”

She turned and roared Michael’s name so loudly that birds took off from nearby trees. Michael, mid-scroll, jumped about three feet in the air before launching into a panicked, half-coherent defense.

You didn’t stop to admire your genius diversion for long, but you did throw a very smug smile over your shoulder as you strutted away.

“I saw that.”

You nearly launched yourself into the clouds.

“By the gods, Nico!” you gasped, clutching your chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack! This is the second time you’ve done that. It’s like you materialize out of thin air.”

Nico only laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t be silly. And anyways, this isn’t about me—it’s about you and why Clarisse is trying to rip your spine out.”

You gave a sheepish grin. “She caught me putting itching powder in her pants. I lost a bet to Drew.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but his eyes flicked to something over your shoulder—and the smile dropped from his face.

“What?” you asked warily.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he just pointed. “You might want to start running again.”

You turned—and there she was. Clarisse was storming back your way like a vengeful monster straight out of a myth, Michael now crumpled behind her on the ground like a forgotten prop.

You turned back to Nico with a sigh. “Yeah, that tracks. Join me?”

He raised a brow. “Why? So you can sacrifice me next, like you did poor Michael?”

You gasped, hand to your chest. “Excuse me? I would never sacrifice you. I happen to like you way more than I like Michael.”

Nico snorted. “That’s not saying much.” He reached for your hand. “Honestly, where would you be without me?”

“Dead, probably.”

Nico scrunched his nose and bumped your shoulder. “Don’t say that. C’mon. Let’s get you out of this mess.” With zero explanation, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of marbles.

You blinked. “What—”

Before you could even process it, Nico flung the marbles behind you in Clarisse’s direction. You heard the shatter of glass, a sharp curse, and what sounded suspiciously like someone slipping.

But you didn’t wait to check. Nico took off, and you bolted after him, doing your best not to trip over your own feet.

Between your ragged breaths, you called, “Why do you even have marbles in your pocket?”

“Travis said it made good insurance,” Nico answered simply. “I guess he meant for moments like these.”

You huffed. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

Eventually, he slowed down in front of a tree—that tree. The same one you’d run to the first time you met.

“Can you climb?” Nico asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a knowing grin.

It was the same question you’d asked him the day before, and somehow it landed softer this time—more like an inside joke than a challenge.

It was strange how comforting that memory felt. It had only been a day ago, but it already felt cemented. Like the beginning of something. Like the kind of moment you tuck away and keep replaying long after it passes.

And it was clear from the way Nico looked at you, like he was already halfway remembering it, that it meant something to him too.

You smiled back at him, breathless but content. “I can.”

You hoisted yourself up with a grunt, gripping the same branch as before, and reached for Nico’s hand. His fingers closed around yours without hesitation, steadying you until you both collapsed into place like you belonged there.

Once he settled beside you, the silence between you was companionable—easy. You didn’t feel the need to fill it with anything but your presence.

“Is this where we hide out now?” Nico asked after a moment, glancing around the space like he was seeing it with new eyes.

You tilted your head, amused. “What do you mean?”

He lightly patted the branch under your legs. “This tree. We keep ending up here after we’ve caused some kind of chaos. I don’t know—it’s starting to feel like our hideout.”

You looked around again, really taking it in this time. The bark beneath you was rough and scarred with old initials, the leaves above rustling with the occasional summer breeze.

Bits of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken gold patches, flickering across Nico’s dark hair and the delicate look in his eyes.

“Oh,” you said, suddenly fond. “Do you want it to be?”

Nico shrugged, but his voice gave him away. “I don’t mind.”

You bumped your knee against his. “Neither do I.”

He leaned back against the trunk, arms folded behind his head, and sighed. “Then it’s settled,” he said with a smile. “This is our spot.”

That marked another special day.

From then on, the tree became your place—a quiet little world for just the two of you. Whether it was playing small games, sharing snacks swiped from the pavilion, or simply talking until the sun dipped behind the trees, that branch always brought you closer by the end of the day.

Four days had gone by since you’d claimed it as yours. Five since you’d met. And in that short span, the routine had formed naturally: meet early, before most of camp was awake, when everything was still quiet and unhurried—just the chirping of birds, the rustle of wind, and the sound of his voice.

“I see four birds,” you said, lying back on the branch with your arms folded beneath your head, eyes following a small flock overhead.

Nico mimicked your posture and squinted at the sky. “I see six.”

You followed his gaze and noticed two birds a few feet behind the rest. He frowned. “The other birds are leaving them behind.”

You shook your head, lips quirking. “No. The two birds are flying slower than the rest.” You pointed lazily at them. “Maybe they’re in love and the others disapprove.”

Nico turned his head toward you, brows scrunched. “In love?”

“Sure,” you said. “They’re flying slower on purpose, waiting for a chance to break off and go their own way. That way, they don’t have to follow the flock’s rules anymore.”

There was a beat of silence before Nico spoke again, cautious. “You think… people in love do that? Leave everything behind?”

You blinked at him, then shrugged lightly. “Sometimes. If being with each other means more than staying where they are… yeah, I think they do.”

Nico was quiet, the kind of quiet where you knew he was turning something over in his mind. “That sounds… hard.”

“It probably is,” you admitted. “But love’s supposed to be worth something, right? Like, real love. It should make you brave. Even if it’s terrifying.”

His eyes flicked back to the birds. “So... is that why people do dumb things when they’re in love? Like sneak off on quests and throw themselves into danger?”

You grinned, immediately picturing Percy. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because love makes you stupid and impulsive. But a little bit of stupid isn’t the worst thing.”

Nico looked at you again, this time with something unreadable in his gaze.

“...Have you ever... have you ever been in love?”

You paused, then let out a small laugh. “Nico, I’m only ten! Of course not… But I’d like to be one day.”

He flushed, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. His tongue moved before he could stop it. “What would that be like… for you, I mean?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard by how soft and genuine his voice sounded. But then you smiled, warm and easy, like the question didn’t scare you at all.

Tilting your head, you gave it real thought.

“I don’t know,” you said, swinging one leg off the branch, letting your foot sway in the breeze. “If it were me, I’d want something really sweet. I’m kind of a sap. But I’d also want to make them happy, not just be made happy. I don’t think I could love someone if it was all one-sided. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a child of Anteros.”

Nico didn’t respond right away. He just nodded slowly, like he was taking mental notes, committing each word to memory.

“And,” you added, your voice softer, “he wouldn’t mind if I talk too much or get things wrong sometimes. But we’d still love each other through the hard parts too. Even when things weren’t easy.”

You didn’t even notice when you said “he.” It was natural, instinctive. So natural you didn’t look over to see Nico freeze, his eyes flicker through something complicated and fast: confusion, surprise… maybe even fear.

“He?” Nico echoed, voice quiet. “You mean… you’d want to be with a boy?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath. You turned toward him, your face open, unflinching.

“Yeah,” you said simply. You weren’t ashamed. You hadn’t even thought to be. But Nico… Nico looked like he’d just heard something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe.

His eyes flicked down, then back up.

“Can… can you do that?”

You blinked, tilting your head.

“Why not?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t help who I like. And boys are cute…”

You meant it playfully, but the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy, like the start of something beginning to crack open. Nico stared ahead, the smallest crease forming between his brows.

You glanced at him, more tentative this time. “What about you?” you asked quietly. “What do you like?”

Nico blinked. Slowly. As if you’d asked a question in a language he barely recognized.

“What do I…” he echoed under his breath, his voice trailing off.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

His fingers tightened slightly around the branch beneath him. His posture stayed the same, but something shifted in his eyes—something small and scared and stuck.

What did he like?

It was a question that should’ve been simple. But it wasn’t—not for him.

Because he had thought about it. In the dark, alone, in quiet moments when no one was looking. He’d wondered. He’d felt things he didn’t have names for—things he’d pushed down so deep, they nearly stopped existing.

But now, here you were. Saying it aloud. So casually. So freely. And it made something ache in him—something that wanted to reach out and match your ease, but couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. And it came out too quickly. Too flat.

A conditioned deflection.

You didn’t press him. You didn’t laugh or tease. You just nodded, like that was okay. Like not knowing was still a kind of answer.

And somehow, that made the knot in his chest pull tighter.

He looked at you again, uncertain. Quiet. And he wondered what it would be like—to be like you.

To speak without shame.

To say what you felt.

To know what you wanted.

And not be afraid of it.

He was still tense, still unsure. But you were swinging your leg absently, staring up through the branches like the conversation hadn’t cracked open something raw in him. Like it hadn’t just shifted the ground beneath his feet.

It made him want to say something. To try something.

“I want to,” he said quietly.

You paused mid-swing. “Hmm?”

“What I like,” he clarified, voice tight. “I want to know… what I like.”

You turned your head fully to face him, eyebrows raised, but your voice stayed soft. “You don’t have to know right now.”

“But you do,” Nico said. It wasn’t accusatory, just... a little awed. A little envious. “You’re so sure of it. You say things like it’s nothing.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” you replied. “Liking someone... it’s not wrong, Nico.”

He looked away sharply, his fingers digging into the bark. “How did you know…?”

A long silence stretched between you. The breeze shifted the leaves overhead.

“I didn’t always know,” you admitted after a moment. “And I was scared too—for a while. Not because I thought it was bad, but because I didn’t think anyone would ever get it. But my mom—she’s great. Weird and stubborn and kind of loud sometimes, but... great. She’s always had this way of seeing people, even when they didn’t know how to say what they were feeling yet.”

A small smile tugged at your lips at the memory.

“One day, I kind of blurted it out. Told her I thought maybe I liked boys, and that I was scared that meant something was wrong with me. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at me and said, ‘Love’s never wrong. Anyone who tells you otherwise has forgotten what it’s for.’ Then she hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe, bought me cupcakes, and made me sit through two awful rom-coms just so we could poke fun at them together.”

You snickered, the memory warm and whole in your chest. “She made it feel like the biggest thing in the world—and the most normal thing, too.”

Nico stared, like he couldn’t quite picture it. Couldn’t imagine a world where saying that didn’t end in disaster.

You glanced at him, noticing the look on his face. “She said the way I feel—that love I carry—it’s not something to fix or change. It’s part of me. And one day, someone’s going to be lucky I love the way I do.”

Your eyes met his, wide and gleaming. “I think she was right.”

The words settled between you, warm and certain. Nico didn’t look at you right away, but something about his expression shifted.

From what you’d said, it was clear to him why Anteros had chosen your mother. There was a lightness in the way you spoke about love, like it was something you knew how to hold without fear. The envy he felt stirred again—but alongside it, a quiet, gnawing curiosity.

“I think so too,” he said softly, though the tips of his ears were turning red.

You couldn’t help but frown at his sudden seriousness. Nudging him playfully, you scooted a little closer.

“Nicooo,” you sang, wiggling your brows at him, trying to cut through the tension. “Of course someone will love me! Look at me—I’m a beauty in the making!”

Nico rolled his eyes, but there was a small, helpless smile on his lips now.

“And you!” you added, pointing at him. “Someone’s gonna be lucky to have you, too. And when you have your first kiss, it’s gonna be sooo romantic. It’ll be—” You made loud, exaggerated smooching noises, leaning closer and flopping your head onto his shoulder with a laugh.

Nico rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were burning now, clearly unused to this kind of teasing. Still, he didn’t pull away when your head rested lightly on his shoulder.

“That sounds gross,” Nico muttered.

“What? Kissing?”

He nodded, looking mildly horrified.

“Oh, it is gross,” you said. “Disgusting. Saliva. Mouths. Ugh. But only if it’s with the wrong person. Trust me—Silena gave me the talk. Like, capital T.”

He gave you a confused look, and you sat up straighter.

“‘[Name],’” you said in your best imitation of Silena’s voice, “‘don’t you dare waste your first kiss on someone lame. It should be sweet, like candy. And you better mean it. Otherwise, it’s just awkward and wet.’ I swear she would’ve interviewed applicants if she could. ‘Hi, do you meet the standards for [Name]’s magical, emotionally meaningful first kiss?’”

That finally earned you a reluctant snort from Nico. You dropped the act with a grin and nudged him lightly. “But yeah. What she said stuck with me. Make sure it’s with someone you won’t regret. Then it won’t be gross. It’ll be… I don’t know. Sweet. Like candy.”

Nico went quiet again. His fingers played with the hem of his coat. “Knowing me,” he muttered, “I’ll have horrible luck and mine’ll be awful.”

You glanced at him, unsure if he was joking or actually believed it. The silence that followed stretched a bit longer than you expected.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you spoke up.

“Well,” you said, quieter this time, a little more bashful. “Maybe we could… I don’t know. Just get it over with?”

Nico turned to you slowly, eyes wide.

You hurried to explain, your face warming. “I mean—not in a bad way. Just… like an experiment. No pressure. Just so it’s done and neither of us has to have a terrible first kiss later with someone who doesn’t get it.”

You tried to smile, but Nico was still staring. Not horrified. Just stunned.

“Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

You both stood there for a moment, unsure. A little afraid. Then, slowly—almost at the same time—you leaned in. Tentative. Awkward. Barely breathing.

Your noses bumped.

“Sorry—” you both said at once, then quickly ducked your heads, flustered.

“You can lean in first,” you offered—only to hear him say the exact same thing.

You froze, eyes wide. Then, slowly, the tension cracked, and you both laughed. Quiet, breathy, nervous—but it helped. It made the moment feel lighter. Easier.

You tilted your head, and this time, your lips met.

The kiss wasn’t anything like the movies. No perfect music or magical spark.

It was short. Hesitant. Barely there.

But it was soft and sweet. And it made your heart pound loud enough to echo in your ears.

A part of you couldn’t believe it had just happened—but the other part, the louder part, was practically buzzing. You’d just had your first kiss. Yours. Something you didn’t think would happen anytime soon, let alone with someone like Nico.

You wanted to scream into a pillow. You wanted to run straight to Drew and tell her every ridiculous, fluttery detail.

When you pulled back, you offered a tiny smile. “See? Not gross.”

But Nico wasn’t smiling. His eyes had gone distant, like something had been breached inside him that he hadn’t meant to touch.

Then, abruptly, he stood up, hands clenched at his sides. “I—I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?” You asked despite your stomach beginning to twist.

But he was already climbing down from the tree, too fast, too stiff, like he was trying to run away from something chasing him.

You stayed where you were, stunned, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.

“…Oh,” you whispered.

The feeling in your chest wasn’t excitement anymore. It had curdled into something tight and aching.

At first, you just sat there in the tree, still and blinking, hoping maybe he’d come back. That maybe he’d just panicked and would reappear with an apology or a nervous joke. But the minutes dragged. Nothing but the rustle of leaves. The wind. The hollow quiet.

He was gone.

You swallowed hard, trying not to cry, not here, not like this. The air felt cold against your skin now, sharper. The branch you were sitting on suddenly didn’t feel like yours anymore. You climbed down stiffly, not even noticing the bark scraping your hands.

The second your feet hit the ground, you wanted to run after him.

But where?

You didn’t even know where he would go. And even if you did, what would you say? You didn’t know why he left, not really. All you knew was that he had, and that something you thought had been safe and special now felt broken in your hands.

By the time you reached the dining pavilion, breakfast was already underway, but you didn’t feel hungry. You didn’t even bother grabbing a plate. Your eyes scanned the crowd desperately.

Nothing. No dark hair. No big, curious eyes.

You wove through the tables anyway, pretending you were just looking for a seat, but every step was another pit in your stomach.

You finally asked one of your cabinmates, voice barely above a whisper, “Have you seen Nico?”

They shrugged without looking up. “Nope.”

You forced a smile and moved on.

Another kid. Another shrug. A different table. Another shake of the head.

You kept your voice steady each time, like it didn’t matter. Like you were just casually wondering. But your fingers had curled into your shirt without you noticing, twisting the hem tight in your fist.

You sat down eventually, because standing felt too exposed, but you didn’t eat. Your eyes just kept drifting toward the woods, toward the empty seat where he might’ve been.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was just a kiss. Just a dumb, silly little kiss.

But it had meant something to you.

You’d felt…happy. Nervous, but happy. Brave, even. You’d wanted to share something, and you thought—you really thought—he wanted it too. That maybe it had been special for him, just like it was for you.

But the way he looked after—like he couldn’t get away fast enough—it stuck in your mind like a bruise.

Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he didn’t want it. Maybe he regretted everything.

Maybe you were just stupid for thinking you could share something like that with someone you’d barely been friends with.

You pressed the heel of your palm hard into your chest, a weak attempt at stopping the tight, spiraling feeling inside. But it didn’t. It just kept growing.

You didn’t know what you’d done wrong. You didn’t know how to fix it.

You just knew Nico was gone. And you weren’t sure if he was coming back.

The day had zoomed past in a blur. Every activity felt half-done, every conversation muffled by one thought circling relentlessly in your mind: Nico.

It was impossible to focus.

During archery practice, you shot arrows too far left. At one point, you somehow managed to trip over your own bow and shot someone’s foot—

“Ow! My foot!”

“I’m so sorry!”

You cringed at the sight of Travis being half-dragged to the infirmary, an arrow sticking comically out of the center of his foot.

Great. Just what you needed — another thing to feel guilty about.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, you still hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Nico.

You tried not to panic, but your imagination was starting to spiral.

What if he’d gone past the borders? What if he left camp? What if he hated you now?

You dragged your feet through the dust back toward Hermes cabin, shoulders slumped and throat tight with something awful and familiar — something like rejection, but worse. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was a loss.

But then, just ahead — a flicker of movement near the dying campfire.

You froze.

He was there.

Alone. Sitting stiff and quiet on the far bench, staring into the flames like they held some kind of answer.

Your heart jumped. Hope rushed in before you could brace for it.

“Nico!” you called before you could second-guess it, and jogged up beside him, sliding onto the log with too much nervous energy.

He flinched.

The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him locked up. He shifted away, subtle but unmistakable — his entire body leaning to put space between you.

Your stomach twisted.

You tried to hide the sting and paused in your tracks. You just sat there beside him, feeling the distance like a wall.

“I’ve been looking for you all day,” you said, voice gentler now. “You vanished on me.”

Silence. He didn’t even blink.

You swallowed and pressed forward, the words rushing out faster now that they’d found a crack to escape through.

“Anyway, I just… I wanted to know if you were okay. And to say I’m sorry. For kissing you. I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything—I mean, maybe I was weird, but not like bad weird—” you let out a breath, trying not to talk yourself into a spiral. “I just… I like being your friend, Nico. And I don’t want one tiny kiss to ruin that.”

Still nothing.

He just stared straight ahead, shoulders tight, face half-lit by the fire. You searched for some sign—some flicker in his expression—but there was nothing there for you to hold onto.

You shifted awkwardly. “We can still be friends, right?” you said, quieter now. “I mean… we’re still us, aren’t we?”

That one seemed to strike something. Nico exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. It was like he wanted to say something—like there was a whole war going on behind his eyes—but whatever it was got swallowed.

“I just…” His voice was thin. “I need to be alone right now.”

The words hit you like a slap you hadn’t braced for.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Okay.”

You smiled automatically, the way people do when they’re trying to prove they’re fine even when they’re dying inside. “I’ll go, then. See you later?”

He nodded. Didn’t look at you.

You stood slowly, hoping he’d say something—anything. But the silence stretched too long.

The walk back to your cabin felt colder than it should’ve.

Even with the fire at your back, even with the night air still warm on your cheeks, you felt chilled down to your bones.

“It reeks in here.”

The voice cut through your haze like a dull blade. Tissues were scattered in a loose halo around your bed. Chocolate wrappers clung to the sheets like guilt. Your hair stood up in clumps, pointing in every direction as if trying to flee the mess themselves.

You hadn’t looked in a mirror, but judging by the hot sting in your puffy eyes and the steady trail of snot gliding down your upper lip—you already knew you looked feral.

Drew stood in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the chaos with visible disgust. “This is how people live when they’re, like… really depressed.”

You sniffed hard, burrowing deeper into your blanket burrito. “So maybe I am really depressed.”

“And I’m ugly,” She rolled her eyes, stepping over a crumpled granola bar wrapper before reluctantly sitting beside you, grimacing as she nudged aside a pile of empty chocolate wrappers. “So what’s with all the doom and gloom? Why are you being so... funky?”

“It’s Nico,” you muttered, blowing your nose into another tissue. “He hates me.”

You launched into the entire tale: how you’d been looking for him all day after he vanished. How you found him at the campfire and tried to patch things up. How he barely spoke, barely looked at you. How today, he’d ignored you completely—but not others. That part stung the most. He was talking to other campers just fine. Laughing. Acting like nothing had happened. Like you didn’t even exist.

Drew’s expression didn’t change. “What’d you do?”

You stared at her. “Why do you assume I did something?”

“Because you’re you.”

You sighed, curling deeper into the covers. There was no way you were going to tell Drew what actually happened. She’d never let you live it down.

“…I might’ve broken one of his mythomagic cards.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Those little paper things?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s better off without them.”

You threw the used tissue in your hand onto the floor, ignoring the yelp from Drew. “The point is he’s mad at me and I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Glue the card back together or something,” she suggested lazily.

You groaned and dropped your head back into your pillow. “You are useless. I could get better advice in therapy.”

“I don’t think any therapist wants to unpack your abandonment issues,” she said sweetly, patting your head like a dog. “Especially not while you’re a blanket-dwelling goblin.”

Nothing says best friend like brutal honesty. You knew she meant well—somewhere deep, deep in her black heart—but you were also pretty sure she existed just to spite you.

“Drew, is [Name] okay—”

Silena paused at the doorway of the Hermes cabin, immediately assaulted by the chaos inside. Her nose wrinkled as her eyes swept over the discarded tissues, candy wrappers, and general gloom that had claimed your bed like a second skin.

“You are so lucky it’s not inspection day,” she muttered, stepping inside. She plucked a chocolate wrapper off your nightstand like it might have been biohazardous. “Did a monster attack in here?”

You groaned and tightened the blanket cocoon around your body. “It’s worse. I’m officially experiencing my first heartbreak.”

Silena arched an eyebrow. She exchanged a look with Drew—one of those unspoken girl-to-girl translations that made you feel like a child—and then rolled up her sleeves.

“Okay,” she said. “Emergency protocol. Shower. Hairbrush. Clean clothes. And please, let’s get you some socks that match. We’re fixing this.”

You squawked as she yanked back your blankets without hesitation. You flailed to pull them back, holding on to them like they were a lifeline.

“What if Nico hates me forever?” You whined, voice small.

“Then you’ll be heartbroken,” she said matter-of-factly as she started dragging you upright, “but at least you’ll be clean. No one mourns in chocolate-stained pajamas, [Name]. Have a little pride.”

You clung to the bedframe like your life depended on it, feet digging into the mattress while Silena tugged insistently at your arm.

“Drew!” you cried. “Do something!”

But Drew had already cracked open the window and was waving a hand in front of her nose. “Where do the Hecate kids sleep? I’m going to steal some of their sage. We need to cleanse this heartbreak fog before it seeps into my pores.”

“You guys are mean,” you muttered, finally letting go as Silena pried your fingers off the wood.

“Nope,” she said, guiding you up with a strength that was both infuriating and comforting. “We’re honest. And we love you too much to let you rot in here.”

Silena didn’t shout. She didn’t rush. She just moved with this quiet confidence like she’d done this before—like she’d pulled people out of darker places and made sure they stood again. Even as she smoothed your hair and fussed with your shirt, her touch was warm, grounding.

Eventually, after you’d thrown on the freshly ironed shirt Silena had picked out—and sat back down on the now perfectly made bed she’d put together for you, complete with hand-knit sheets that smelled faintly of vanilla—you told her what you’d told Drew.

The same lie. The same awkward fumble of words.

“I broke one of Nico’s Mythomagic cards,” you muttered, eyes on the floor. “Like, one of the rare ones.”

Silena didn’t immediately scoff or roll her eyes like Drew had. She didn’t say Nico was being dramatic or that the cards were just paper. She just tilted her head, folded her arms, and listened.

You risked a glance at her. “Now he won’t talk to me. He’s pretending I don’t exist.”

She let the silence hang just long enough to be thoughtful—not judging, just processing. Then she let out a soft sigh and sat next to you on the bed, careful not to wrinkle the new sheets she’d taken such pride in.

“Well,” she said gently, “if that card meant a lot to him, I get why he’s upset.”

Your heart sank a little. But then she nudged you lightly with her shoulder.

“But I also know you. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt him.”

You blinked at her, lips parting to say something—anything—but the words caught behind the knot in your throat.

“You’ve only been at camp for four months,” she went on, “but every single person who’s come after you? You’ve welcomed them like they’ve always belonged. No hesitation.”

She gave you a small, fond smile. “You’ve got a huge heart, [Name]. And for some people... that takes time to get used to. Especially here. Life isn’t exactly kind to us half-bloods, and a lot of us learn to keep our guards up.”

Silena looked past you for a moment, as if remembering something of her own.

“So maybe Nico doesn’t hate you,” she said finally. “Maybe he just doesn’t know what to do with someone who sees him without expecting anything back. Maybe he’s still finding his footing—figuring out who he can be, and where he fits. And you... you’re a lot to figure out.” She smiled again. “But eventually, he’ll see what I see.”

“A sensitive little kid?” you muttered.

Silena scoffed, playfully offended. “No. A rare kind of brave,” she said. “The kind that feels things fully and still chooses to share them. The kind that doesn’t shut people out, even when they’re scared. That’s something special, [Name]. Don’t make light of it.”

Before you could respond, she reached over and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. The kind of hug that squeezed all the breath out of your lungs but somehow made your chest feel lighter at the same time.

You let out a soft laugh against her shoulder without meaning to.

That was the thing about Silena. She always knew exactly how to make you feel better. No big speeches, no magical fix—just warmth. Steady, unshakable warmth.

You adored her for that.

When you’d first arrived at camp—wide-eyed, alone, and completely unsure of where you fit—everyone had assumed you’d be claimed by Aphrodite.

Honestly? You had, too. Love, beauty, and charm—it all sounded like her domain.

And Silena... Silena had been the first to greet you with open arms. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait for confirmation. She’d practically adopted you on the spot, already claiming you before the gods did.

Then the sky lit up.

And the symbol that glowed above your head wasn’t Aphrodite’s.

It was of a god you’d barely heard of—Anteros.

Half the camp didn’t even recognize it. And in that moment, your heart sank. Not just from confusion, but from fear—fear that you’d lose the person who had made you feel welcome.

That Silena, with her perfect smile and open arms, would decide you weren’t what she thought after all.

But she didn’t flinch.

She clapped the loudest. Pulled you into the tightest hug. Told everyone Anteros must be proud to have a kid like you.

She still checked in with you before bed every night that first week, even when you pretended you were fine. You’d roll over with your back to the door, biting your lip and willing yourself not to cry—but Silena always knew.

She’d knock softly, peek in, and ask if you needed anything. When you didn’t answer, she’d leave a mug of hot cocoa on your nightstand anyway.

When you got sick a week later, she didn’t just send someone from the infirmary. She showed up with her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, carrying a tray with soup she made herself.

So now, curled up in her hug, the edges of your hurt finally began to dull.

“Why don’t you make Nico something?” Silena said softly, rubbing your back.

“What do you mean?”

“A gift,” she said. “Something from your heart. To show how genuinely sorry you are. I’m sure Nico would be touched by it, and the two of you will be friends again in no time.”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled. “What if it just makes everything worse?”

“Or,” she said gently. “What if it makes things better?”

Across the room, Drew was snooping through people’s bunks. “Or not, and he’ll hate you forever.”

You glared at her. “Wow. Thank you, oracle of doom.”

Silena turned to scold her sister. “Drew.”

Drew shrank half an inch. “I mean… good luck.”

You’d fumbled around for hours, wracking your brain over what to give Nico. Something that would give him comfort. So stitching, patterning, and the occasional jab of a needle to the finger—and many, many hours later—you and Silena finally stood back to admire what you’d created. What had started as a vague idea was now something real. Something you were proud of.

“Anddddd—done!” Silena announced, adding the last careful touch to the black jacket displayed proudly on the mannequin.

You stared, jaw slightly slack. It was perfect.

Silena had always mended clothes for campers who didn’t arrive with much—especially in the colder months. She was known for her winter coats, and when it came time to design your gift for Nico, she didn’t hesitate to help, sketching beside you for hours.

At first the designs felt wrong; they werent you or Nico. But then there was one—sleek, dark, effortlessly cool—and you knew.

An aviator jacket.

You and Silena threw yourselves into the work, barely stopping to sleep or eat. One and a half days of needle pricks, tangled thread, and a cursed amount of seam-ripping later, you were finally done. You weren’t sure how your fingers were still intact, but gods—it was worth it.

Practically buzzing, you flung your arms around Silena in a bone-crushing hug. “Lena, thank you, thank you, thank you! I love it—I think Nico will too!”

She laughed, hugging you just as tightly. “You’re welcome, [Name]. I think he’s going to love it too.”

Then she turned to her sister, lounging on the floor and casually filing her nails.

“What do you think, D? Is it cute?”

Drew glanced up, gave it a once-over, and shrugged. “It’s alright.”

You grinned. “So, she likes it.”

Silena chuckled and rolled her eyes. “High praise, coming from her.”

With the same care she used on everything she made, Silena gently slid the jacket off the mannequin and folded it neatly. She placed it inside the box you’d wrapped earlier—your favorite color, because Nico might not care about the packaging, but you did. The lid matched, complete with a satin bow Silena had tied herself.

Usually, you liked receiving gifts more than giving them. But this time was different.

This was for Nico. And the thought of seeing his face when he opened it—the flicker of surprise—sent a tiny thrill blooming in your chest.

The box practically vibrated in your hands, your heart pounding with every step toward the door—already halfway out when Silena’s firm grip caught your arm and pulled you back.

“Lena, come on! Let me go—I’m going to burst waiting!” You protested, trying to tug free.

She gave you a sharp look, then started fussing over your hair, smoothing down every flyaway and brushing invisible dust off your jacket. “No way. You’re not giving Nico a gift looking like you just rolled out of bed. It’s just... rude.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m nearly eleven—I can manage myself, thank you very much.”

She shook her head. “Sure you can. But you’re still my little mess, and I’m making sure you look the part.”

You were two seconds from escaping when, by some miracle, Connor strolled into the cabin—something you usually didn’t count as a blessing—this time, however, he came bearing gold.

“Hey, Percy, Grover, and Annabeth are back!”

You and Silena perked up immediately—though for very different reasons.

“They’re back?” Silena repeated, her hands falling from your shoulders. “That’s great! So they found Annabeth? Is she okay?”

Connor shrugged. “Didn’t look like they lost a limb, so… probably?”

Silena immediately launched into a stream of chatter with him about the quest—what they fought and if the rescue went according to plan.

But your mind had already wandered—straight to Nico.

If the group was back, then that meant the quest had been a success. Which meant Bianca must be safe. Which had to mean Nico was in a good mood. A really good mood. The kind of mood where he might not immediately reject you or your apology gift.

Hope bloomed warm and fizzy in your chest as you clutched the wrapped box tighter. This was your chance!

You turned to Connor, heart thudding in your chest. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re at the Big House—”

But you were already gone before he could finish, sprinting across the campgrounds with the box hugged tightly to your chest. Excitement bubbled in you with every step. This was it. Everything was going to be okay again.

You barely noticed the people you passed, the clamor of activity as news of the returning quest spread. You just kept running, closer and closer to the Big House—

But then, just as you passed the edge of the pavilion, you heard it.

“You promised you would protect her.”

You froze.

That voice.

It was Nico’s, but not the one you knew—the one that laughed quietly at your bad jokes or followed them up with an even worse one until you were both in tears. No, this voice was raw. Shattered.

Your feet slowed to a stop. Curiosity prickled at your skin as you crept toward the sound, the box still clutched tightly in your arms.

You peeked around the corner.

There he was. Nico. Standing with his back to you, fists clenched at his sides. And facing him was Percy, brows drawn tight with something between guilt and exasperation.

“I tried, Nico,” Percy said quietly, but you could hear the strain in his voice. “I did everything I could. But Bianca gave herself up to save the rest of us. I told her not to. She—”

“You promised!” Nico screamed, and the sound cracked through the air like a whip.

You flinched hard.

You’d never heard him like that. You’d never heard anyone like that.

Your grip on the box tightened, and for a second, you thought about running to him—throwing your arms around him and just holding him, because that’s what your mind screamed to do. But your legs wouldn’t move. Something rooted you to the spot.

It was like the air itself had changed. Denser. Colder. Not in the way wind bites or fog chills, but in a way that reached straight into your heart. Like something unseen had stretched between you and Nico—quiet and heavy.

A slow, aching weight that pressed down on your chest until you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

It was like in your dream, when you were in the woods and couldn’t pass through. A boundary between you and Nico, and you weren’t allowed on the other side.

“You lied to me! My nightmares were right!” Nico shouted, voice frayed with something wild and cracking beneath the surface.

“Wait—what nightmares?” Percy asked, his tone stumbling over confusion and panic.

Nico ignored him and flung something from his hand—small, metallic maybe, it skittered across the ground and vanished into the snow. “I hate you!”

Percy stepped forward, hands raised. “She might be alive,” he said, desperate now. “I don’t know for sure—”

“She’s dead.” Nico’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes clenched shut, his body trembling with a fury that looked too big for him. “She’s in the Fields of Asphodel, standing before the judges right now, being evaluated. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean, you can feel it?”

A sudden hiss sliced through the air like steam escaping from under pressure.

You turned sharply. The sound was dry, brittle—like bone scraping against bone.

Figures emerged from the snow-dusted shadows. Skeletons—clad in rusted armor, swords gleaming with frost and rot. Their eyes burned with a low, sickly green light, empty but aware.

Your breath caught.

One raised its sword toward you, and you froze again. Panic twisted your guts, and there was a feeling rising in your throat. A terrible knowing—your body recognizing something your mind didn’t yet understand.

Nico spun toward Percy, eyes blazing. “You’re trying to kill me! You brought these… these things?”

“No!” Percy yelled, exasperated. “I mean—yes, they followed me, but no! Nico, run. They can’t be destroyed!”

“I don’t trust you!”

The skeletons move forward. You barely had time to scream before it slashed downward—and you fell backward, heart thudding violently in your chest. The gift box tumbled from your arms and landed with a soft thud in the snow, paper crinkling beneath the weight.

Your hands hit the icy ground as you scrambled back, breaths coming in short gasps. The skeleton stepped closer, lifting its blade for another strike.

But before it could hit, Percy’s sword came down in a flash of celestial bronze, knocking the blade aside. “[Name]?!” he shouted, eyes wide with shock. “What are you doing here?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Three more skeletons closed in.

Percy swung again—he sliced one in half, but the bones rattled and knit themselves back together as if mocking him. He took off another’s head, but it still clawed toward him, relentless.

“Run, Nico!” Percy shouted, voice straining as he blocked another strike. “Get help!”

For a moment, Nico stood frozen too. His eyes met yours—brief, fleeting. He looked worried, like he wanted to run over to you. But his face twisted, and he looked away.

“No!” he yelled instead, backing up. He pressed his hands over his ears, shaking his head. “No, no, no!”

More skeletons emerged, rising from the ground like the earth itself was birthing them.

You stared in horror as Percy fought them off again and again, even as exhaustion began to show in his shoulders.

You wanted to help. Gods, you did. But you were locked in place by something crawling beneath your skin.

“No!” Nico screamed again, louder this time. “Go away!”

And for a moment—everything stilled.

The air turned thick, silent. Then the ground rumbled under your feet, just a shiver at first, but it grew fast. The skeletons froze, their rattling bones falling quiet, the eerie clatter replaced by a strange, trembling stillness. You staggered back as a long crack split the stone floor of the pavilion, snaking toward the middle like lightning.

Then—boom.

The earth split open with a roar. A crater tore itself into the ground, deep and jagged, fire licking up from the darkness below. Not red flames, but something darker—blue-white and flickering, like lightning caught in smoke. The skeletons screeched as they were pulled in, weapons and limbs flailing. One tried to dig its fingers into the stone, but the pit didn’t care. It dragged them all down, swallowing them one by one.

And just as suddenly, it was gone.

The ground sealed itself shut with a loud crack, leaving only a scorched mark behind—charred across the polished floor of the pavilion like a scar.

You gasped for breath, chest heaving, hands shaking. You turned slowly, your eyes landing on Nico.

What—what was that?

How had he done that?

Percy must’ve been thinking the same thing, because he stepped forward and asked, “How did you—?”

“Go away!” Nico shouted, spinning toward him. His face was twisted in fury, eyes glassy. “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”

The words hit you like a slap, but it wasn’t just that.

Something thudded hard against your chest.

Your breath caught as a sharp, vibrating pressure hit your sternum. You looked down.

The dome.

It was shaking.

You stumbled a step back, hand flying to the chain around your neck. The little glass dome pressed hard against you, like it was trying to leap free. Inside, the flower was trembling—its petals shivering violently, the glass fogging slightly from the sudden surge of heat.

Your heart pounded. Not again. Not like before.

Back in front of the woods, it had been a subtle jolt. Just a pulse, like static—odd, but harmless. But this?

This felt stronger.

“Stop,” you whispered, clutching it. “Stop, stop, please—what’s happening?”

But it kept trembling. The petals shook like they were scared. Or breaking. You didn’t know which was worse.

You looked around, hoping for someone to tell you what this meant, to explain what the flower was, what you were supposed to do—but there was nothing. No instructions. No help.

Then something rushed past you—Nico, running, face pale, expression unreadable. He didn’t look at you.

Percy chased after him, but his foot caught on something, and he fell—hard.

If you weren’t so stunned, you might’ve laughed.

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Your gift still lay in the snow, forgotten. The bow was crushed. The box had split open, the jacket slightly exposed and already dusted with frost.

“What is that…?” you asked, your voice dry and hoarse as you watched Percy push himself to his feet, something small and dark clutched in his hand.

“It’s… a figurine,” he said slowly, staring down at it like it weighed more than it should. “Bianca gave it to me. She told me to give it to Nico—to complete his Mythomagic collection, but…”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

You frowned, stepping closer. “Percy… what’s wrong?”

He looked at you, eyes uncertain, and turned the figure around.

Your breath caught when you saw it.

“It’s Hades,” he said, barely above a whisper.

#perserverance #nico diangelo x reader #nico diangelo x male reader #x male reader #pjo x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #nico di angelo #trials of apollo x reader #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x male reader

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 19 days ago

Text

I didn’t see the ending was cut off until now, so if you’ve already read this, please go to ao3 for the rest of the chapter! It was too long for tumblr!

Star Light, Star Bright.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 18.6k

warning: kinda graphic descriptions

a/n: i recommend reading this chapter on a03. It’s so long that the whole thing doesn’t fit on here (oopsies?) most of the chapter is written here but the ending is on a03!

orginal version here, masterlist, ao3

It was safe—except maybe around Thalia—to say your team had been utterly wrecked by the Hunters. Not only had Zoë Nightshade single-handedly annihilated your defensive line with alarming elegance, but the rest of her squad brought psychological warfare to a whole new level.

You and Nico had been running—bravely escaping—when they unleashed their most feared weapon: the Fart Arrows.

You weren’t prepared.

The moment the gas hit, you staggered to a stop, gagging. It was as if a thousand gym socks had died, fermented in a sewer, and come back for vengeance. Your lungs burned. Your eyes watered. Your will to live wavered.

With a dramatic wheeze, you dropped to your knees.

“This is it,” you rasped. “Tell my story.”

Nico spun around, panicked. He crouched beside you, grabbing your shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?!”

He looked perfectly fine—of course he did. His helmet, too big for his head, had slipped low enough to cover his nose. He was protected.

Lucky him.

You coughed again, weakly gripping his collar. “Nico… don’t forget me.”

Nico blinked. “Are you seriously—”

“I said tell my story!” you groaned, flopping to the ground.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nico sighed and, despite himself, muttered, “You died bravely. Death by stench. I’ll etch it into your gravestone.”

“Make it smell-proof,” you croaked.

“I’ll ask cabin nine,” he smiled, tugging you back onto your feet. “Come on, drama king. We’ve got to regroup.”

You staggered forward, leaning on him with a groan. “I see the light, Nico…”

“That’s the moon.”

“Tell it I love it.”

He kept dragging you along.

Thalia was yelling at Percy for leaving your base undefended—which, frankly, you found personally offensive. Sure, the defense had crumbled in record time, but that wasn’t the point.

Still, you weren’t about to argue with the girl who had literal sparks crackling from her fingertips and lightning practically simmering in her irises.

Luckily, Percy handled it himself, standing his ground and—rightfully (why wasn’t he captain?)—defending his decision.

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there.

Thalia, never one to back down gracefully, shoved Percy—okay, flung him—straight into the creek. Percy, to no one’s surprise, responded by sending a wave crashing into her face.

A weird, tense power standoff commenced. Sparks crackled in the air. Water rippled at their feet. The temperature dropped by about ten degrees, and your skin prickled like you were standing between two natural disasters.

You sighed internally. Great. Everyone’s going to die because these two are asserting their dominance.

Then Nico tugged your arm.

You turned, and his voice came in a low, uncertain whisper.

“Hey…what is that…?”

You followed his gaze—and immediately your stomach dropped.

Something was moving in the woods.

A shape, half-obscured by a curling green mist, drifting like smoke through the trees. The air around it shimmered strangely, like the space itself was warping. Goosebumps erupted across your arms.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the game.

“This is impossible,” Chiron said, his voice trembling. “She… she has never left the attic. Never.”

The smoke swirled and parted, revealing a withered, mummified figure—and you instantly paled. You’d heard about the Oracle in the attic, the dried-out woman who did nothing but spew ominous prophecies from her cobwebbed corner of the Big House.

But you always assumed you were safe from ever having to see her, so long as you stayed far, far away from the attic.

Clearly, the universe had other plans.

Beside you, Nico suddenly clutched his ears, and you turned to him, ready to ask what was wrong—until a voice echoed inside your skull, sharp and echoing like it was bouncing off the walls of your brain.

“I am the Spirit of Delphi. Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.”

You covered your ears, but it didn’t help. The Oracle turned to Zoë, its hollow voice echoing: “Approach, Seeker, and ask.”

Zoë stepped forward. Her jaw was set, but her eyes wavered. “What must I do to help my goddess?”

Your brow furrowed. Her goddess? What was she talking about? What happened to Artemis?

The answer came fast—and unpleasant. The sharp stink of sulfur hit your nose, making you gag and raise a hand to cover your face. The mist swirled and reshaped, revealing an image of a young girl.

At least, she looked young—but the power rolling off her form was ancient and wild.

You leaned toward Nico and whispered, “Is that Artemis?”

He nodded slowly, his expression tight with concern. “Yeah… but what happened to her?”

The vision sharpened. Artemis was bound in chains, tethered to a jagged mountainside, straining against her restraints with raw defiance. She was in pain—but even so, she fought, glowing with that fierce, untouchable light.

The oracle’s voice boomed, “Five shall go west to the goddess in chains,

One shall be lost in the land without rain,

The bane of Olympus shows the trail,

Campers and Hunters combined prevail,

The Titan’s curse must one withstand,

And one shall perish by a parent’s hand.”

And just like that, the green smoke drifted back into the Oracle’s mouth. Its body stilled, joints locking in that unnatural way, and it settled once more on the rock—like it had never moved at all.

A heavy tension coiled through the clearing. No one spoke. Not Chiron. Not Zoe. Not even the Stolls, who usually couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds.

For once, you didn’t feel the urge to crack a joke or ease the silence with a snide comment. The air didn’t feel breathable enough for humor. What you’d just seen… it wasn’t like anything you’d encountered before.

You’d seen monsters before—been attacked, even, on your way to camp—but this was different.

You had never seen a prophecy spoken aloud, never imagined what it would feel like to watch the future unravel in cryptic lines and haunting images.

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated the silence it would leave in its wake—the kind that felt less like peace and more like pressure. A storm on the horizon, waiting to break.

“[Name].”

Nico’s voice cut through the fog in your brain, grounding you just enough to blink out of the beginnings of a cold sweat.

“Huh?” you mumbled, still dazed.

He frowned, worry etched deep into his face.

“Everyone’s leaving,” he said gently. “Percy and Grover are taking the Oracle back up to the attic.”

You hadn’t even noticed the others moving. Your eyes flicked toward the path, where Percy’s shoulders were tense as he and Grover carried the motionless figure away.

Nico’s hand found yours, his thumb rubbing slowly across the back of your knuckles. The motion was soft and careful. It was the same gesture Bianca used on him whenever he was afraid.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

You swallowed hard, the pressure in your chest stubborn and unshakable. “Yeah… I just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the lingering weight in your ribs. The way the prophecy still echoed in your bones.

“Come on,” Nico said, tugging you gently toward camp. “We missed dinner, but maybe we can still find you a snack. You’ll feel better.”

You didn’t argue. Your legs moved on autopilot, following his lead like a rag doll while your thoughts swirled uselessly in a fog.

You’d just made it to the edge of the woods when—

“Nico, wait!”

Both of you froze and turned at the sound. Bianca was sprinting toward you, her brows pinched.

Nico’s face hardened instantly. Without a word, he turned back around and tried to pull you along faster. You barely had time to process the change in pace before Bianca caught up and grabbed his arm.

He recoiled like she’d burned him.

“Move, Bianca,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp in a way you weren’t used to hearing. Bianca huffed, her grip on his arm tightened, and her feet remained stubbornly in place. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me!”

“You’ve got a whole cabin full of new sisters—go talk to them!” Nico snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t need me anymore. You chose them. You left me. Now let go!”

Bianca let out an exasperated sigh. “Nico, that’s not true. I didn’t leave you. I’ll always be here. But I can’t take care of you the way you need. The way you deserve to be cared for.”

“That’s such garbage!” Nico snapped. “You joined the Hunters because you were done with me! You saw them as your way out. We were fine before they ever showed up!”

His voice wavered near the end, and you felt the tremble in his hand where it stayed locked with yours. In the faint glow from camp, his eyes shimmered with unshed tears, which he stubbornly blinked away.

“Just admit it, Bianca,” he said, quieter now, but no less raw. “I’ve only ever been a burden to you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, like a weight no one could lift. That kind of pain—gods, you knew it.

The ache of believing you were too much for the people you loved. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too complicated.

You remembered the way your mother’s eyes used to tighten when you asked too many questions. The way she’d sigh, exhausted, like even your presence was something she had to manage.

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers at family gatherings—before she cut them off completely. Heard how they talked about you like a burden. How they wondered why she “put up with all that,” like loving you came with a manual she’d chosen not to read.

You didn’t know exactly what happened, only that one year, the holiday cards stopped arriving and the phone stopped ringing. Your mother said it was better that way, that they didn’t deserve you—but a part of you still wondered if she was just tired of defending you.

If she wished you’d come out quieter, easier.

Normal.

And now, watching Nico—shoulders tight, voice cracking, hand trembling in yours like it was the only steady thing left—you recognized that pain like an old bruise. The fear of being someone’s reason to leave.

Bianca stood just a few feet away, but it might as well have been miles. And you, caught between the girl who raised him and the boy who was breaking right in front of you, didn’t know what to say.

What could you say, when every word Nico spoke sounded like something you might’ve said once, too?

So you stayed where you were. Silent. Steady. Trying to hold together what little you could—your hand in his, your presence the only offering you had—and wished that love alone could be enough to undo this kind of hurt.

“Nico,” Bianca said, barely more than a whisper. Her voice wavered, eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that? I do love you—but I… I need space to live my own life too. I have a right to.”

Nico’s face went still.

“Then go,” he said, voice cold and brittle. “Go and don’t come back.”

Here is when you decided to open your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to soften the sharp edge of Nico’s words. But before you could speak, a faint jolt pulsed from the chain around your neck. It was subtle, like static against your skin, but enough to startle you.

Your hand flew to your chest, where the glass dome lay, and you noticed the small flower inside beginning to tremble, its petals quivering unnaturally.

Confused, you blinked down at it—only for a wave of sorrow to slam into you like a tide. It filled your lungs like water, thick and drowning. The ache was overwhelming—grief that didn’t have a name, sharp and endless.

Your knees buckled slightly, and the world tilted, the conversation around you slipping into a distant hum.

Bianca paused, the instincts of an older sister kicking in as she caught sight of you swaying. She stepped away from Nico, quickly closing the distance to steady you by the arm.

“Nico, what’s wrong with your friend?” she asked, voice sharp with concern. You blinked at her, but her face was already starting to blur, smeared at the edges like a painting caught in the rain.

“Hey,” she said more gently. “Are you okay? Do we need to get someone?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight in your chest had become unbearable, grief pressing into your ribs until your lungs forgot how to breathe. Then your legs gave out.

Nico lurched forward with a panicked shout, catching you just before you hit the ground. “Bianca—go! Call for Chiron!”

But his voice was already drifting away. The last thing you saw was his wide, frightened eyes staring into yours. Then the world slipped out from under you like the ground itself had vanished.

And everything went dark.

Tick. Tock.

“Psst…”

Tick. Tock.

“Hey, kid.”

Tick. Tock.

“D’aww, well, isn’t he a sweet little thing!”

Tick. Tock.

“Should we pinch him?”

Tick. Tock.

“No, that’s rude!”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, got a better idea to wake him up?”

Tick. Tock.

“He’s fine. Sleeping like a baby!”

Tick. Tock.

“We don’t have time for this. Wake him up now.”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, I would’ve if I was allowed to pinch him!”

Tick. Tock.

“No pinching!”

Tick. Tock.

“You—!”

Tick. Tock.

“Enough. Look—he’s stirring.”

Tick. Tock.

Why was it so loud?

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Was that a clock? Who buys a clock anymore?

The sound gnawed at your ears like a slow, deliberate countdown. Your eyes snapped open—but the world didn’t greet you like it should’ve. Everything was warped. Soft. Like you were staring through water or frosted glass. Shapes hovered at the edge of your vision, twisting and settling with every blink.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

You flinched. That sound again. Close—too close. Embedded in the walls, maybe. In your bones?

As you lay there trying to orient yourself, you realized you weren’t alone. There were voices—quiet, hushed whispers, just above your head.

“Is he awake?”

“No, no, look at his face. He’s still got drool. That’s the face of someone deeply asleep.”

“Should we poke him?”

“Do not poke him. We’ve talked about this.”

“Look at him. He’s taking ages just to focus.”

It wasn’t a voice you recognized. Smooth, but sharp around the edges—like polished glass with cracks underneath. It had the kind of hostility you’d usually expect from an Ares kid right before a fight.

Then came a second voice, bright and airy with a scratch of rasp like laughter after a cold. “Would you quit being so hard on the kid, Phobetor? Oh, I just want to pinch his cheeks!”

Phobetor. The name was unfamiliar.

The first voice—Phobetor, apparently—hissed in annoyance at the scolding but fell quiet. You blinked slowly, trying to will your vision into focus.

Were they new kids?

That was your first thought. Maybe after you passed out and they dragged you to the infirmary, this was some weird welcome party for new campers—though the ticking and phantom voices didn’t exactly scream hospitality.

Your vision finally cleared, revealing a ceiling you didn’t recognize.

The ticking—constant and sharp—seemed to echo louder now, pressing in from every direction. You shifted, expecting the familiar comfort of your cabin bed, but the surface beneath you creaked ominously.

It was stiff, unforgiving. Definitely not a mattress.

And it wasn’t just the bed that was missing. You shivered, suddenly aware there was no blanket draped over you, no pillow under your head, just a thin chill crawling up your spine.

Did I fall out of bed? You blinked, trying to piece things together. That didn’t explain the aches pulsing in your back or the growing unease in your gut.

You slowly sat up—and froze.

This wasn’t the Hermes cabin. It wasn’t any part of Camp Half-Blood at all.

The walls around you were lined with clocks. Dozens of them. No—hundreds. All cuckoo clocks.

They ticked in a discordant symphony, out of rhythm with one another. None of them matched.

One was shaped like a cathedral with golden spires. Another, like a lily pad, had a frog tongue swinging in and out with each tick.

You turned to the nearest one, squinting. A figurine of a boy tugged endlessly on a girl’s braid, over and over in a loop.

“…Is this a prank?” You muttered, unsettled. The clock boy gave another mechanical yank, the girl’s painted face forever frozen mid-scream. Weird didn’t begin to cover it.

Turning away from the bizarre clock, your eyes landed on a nearby shelf. Toys were scattered across each tier, huddled together like they were whispering among themselves.

But they weren’t modern toys—no bright plastics or screen-faced gadgets. These were vintage.

One in particular caught your attention: an antique porcelain doll that looked uncannily similar to the one your mother kept on her bedside table when you were younger.

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t thought of that doll in years.

Carefully, you reached out and picked it up. Its skin—if you could call it that—was smooth but fragile, and the slightest pressure could’ve cracked it. The doll wore a delicate Victorian dress with hand-stitched lace, and a glassy, unblinking gaze stared straight through you.

Then, a sound reached your ears. Faint, distant… music?

You turned, drawn to the source.

A wooden dresser stood tucked into the corner of the room, its surface lined with ornate music boxes. Like the dolls, they were clearly vintage. Each one handcrafted, with the same intricate care you remembered seeing when you had to bunk in the Apollo cabin for a week.

Back when Connor had accidentally let in a swarm of stink bugs, and you’d ended up watching Lee Fletcher fiddle with the tiny gears of his latest project.

With Beckendorf helping him, the two of them had built something beautiful from scraps. The craftsmanship now in front of you reminded you of that—only these music boxes felt more… haunted.

Each one was unique. One featured an angel suspended mid-spin, surrounded by tiny, gleaming stars that winked in and out like real constellations. It was almost mesmerizing.

But then you caught sight of the next one—and snorted.

A baby Eros, all pudgy cheeks and wings, sat in the middle of a pink pedestal, wearing nothing but a golden diaper. Typical mortal interpretation of the gods: either eerily accurate or hilariously off the mark.

“Oh, Figaro! Would you look at this hat!”

The sudden voice made you freeze. You'd been so absorbed in the music boxes and the strange trinkets around you that you hadn’t heard anyone enter. That didn’t alarm you at first—because the voice was familiar. Comfortingly so.

You turned with a smile already forming. “Hey, Chiron—”

But the rest of your sentence collapsed the second you laid eyes on him.

That wasn’t Chiron.

Or at least, not your Chiron. The figure before you looked like a discount version—an uncanny Chiron knockoff fresh off a thrift store shelf.

He had two human legs instead of hooves, no sign of his horse half anywhere.

And he was dressed like someone’s fashionably confused great-grandfather: high-waisted trousers, stiff suspenders, and a pinstripe vest that screamed 1920s.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. Had the Mist scrambled your brain?

“Oh, he’s even cuter when he’s confused!” said a voice, smooth and teasing.

Your head whipped around, scanning the room. “Who said that?!”

“We’re right next to you,” came the raspier, growling voice—Phobetor again, and clearly still annoyed.

“I don’t see you.” You crossed your arms, deadpan.

“You don’t have to,” he replied coldly. The chill in his tone made it sound like you’d stepped on his dreams, or possibly his dog.

Rude. You’d never hurt a dog. Unless it was the Stoll brothers’ mutt, but that thing probably would’ve had it coming.

Then a new voice spoke—soft and warm, completely different from the others. It drifted through the air like silk, wrapping gently around your ears. “You are confused. I understand.”

You swore you felt a hand settle lightly on your shoulder. There was a calm power to it—soothing but impossibly deep, like lullabies sung in forgotten languages.

“Yeah,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Apparently I’m missing a lot lately.”

Your thoughts flickered, uninvited, to your father. To everything you didn’t understand, everything that hadn’t been said.

And to the growing sense that none of this was random.

As expected, the dreamy voice turned cold and unhelpful.

“Now is not the time for questions,” he said. “We will explain—but first, you must pay attention.”

And just like that, something shoved you—not physically, but with enough force to spin you back around to face… Grandpa Chiron.

You scoffed under your breath. The voices had gone silent.

No guidance. No explanation. Were you going crazy and hearing things? Or worse—was this Kronos messing with you? You grimaced.

The world didn’t need another power-hungry psycho. Luke already filled that role. You hadn’t known him personally, but from what you’d heard, he wasn’t exactly Camp’s pride and joy.

Only an idiot sides with the guy who ate his own children?

Still, something weird was obviously going on. Even if this Chiron was some imposter in your grandfather’s closet, he might be the only one around to help.

Swallowing your pride, you marched over and raised your voice:

“Chiron, I’m being haunted!”

He didn’t react. Just strolled right past you like you weren’t even there.

Your jaw dropped. Rude. How could he ignore you? You were, like, obviously his favorite camper.

Who else willingly spent time listening to his longwinded Greek history rants?

You waved your hand in front of his face, annoyed.

“Chiron! It’s me—[Name]! I tried to dye your tail pink last month, remember?!”

Nothing.

He kept moving forward, lost in his own little world.

…Wait. Was he walking through you?

Oh gods.

Your stomach dropped.

Were you dead?!

This was horrible. Chiron was dressed like someone’s great-uncle Larry and you were dead. And those voices? Probably other ghosts, doomed to hang around creepy doll rooms and cuckoo clocks.

Panic began to simmer in your chest.

No one to talk to. No one to see you. Just you, some haunted furniture, and the terrifying possibility that you were stuck in this dream forever, cursed to watch Chiron in suspenders.

With a long, defeated sigh, you sank onto the floor and stared blankly at a nearby trash pail.

“Guess I’m dead,” you mumbled.

Your shoulders slumped. “When Drew dies, she is so making fun of me for this.”

Just as you were contemplating your ghostly afterlife, your eyes caught on the cat weaving around Chiron’s feet. Something about its face made you tilt your head. It looked weirdly familiar.

...Was that Percy?

Before you could fully process that horrifying concept, the Percy-cat leapt onto the workbench Chiron had been fiddling with.

“Figaro!” Chiron scolded lightly, though his voice was full of fondness. “What did I say about jumping on the workbench?”

He reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. You watched, dumbfounded.

Figaro.

That name. You’d heard it before.

But where?

Figaro purred beneath Chiron’s smooth strokes, nuzzling into his palm like he’d just been given the world.

“Okay, okay,” Chiron chuckled. “I’ll excuse it this one last time.”

The cat’s purring only grew louder as he curled tighter around Chiron’s hand, tail flicking contentedly. With one final pat, Chiron nudged Figaro aside and pulled something small from his pocket—a child-sized hat.

You frowned. Maybe it was meant for the other dead kids. Even in the afterlife, you were doomed to suffer Chiron’s horrific fashion sense.

Chiron—Geppetto, you guessed now—placed the tiny hat on something resting on the table. You leaned to get a better look, but his body blocked your view.

“Oh, doesn’t he look great, Figaro?”

The cat’s tail twitched as if in agreement.

“Let’s give him a name,” Chiron murmured, stepping aside at last.

There on the table sat a puppet. A wooden one. Plain, but detailed. Hand-carved.

Huh. A strange old man, a cozy cluttered shop, a puppet...

Something in your memory stirred.

You tilted your head. “This is… familiar…”

You squinted at the hat-wearing puppet. A name danced at the edges of your brain. Pinok? No. Piney? Definitely not.

Then it hit you.

“Pinocchio!”

“Oh yes,” Chiron echoed with a wide grin. “His name shall be Pinocchio.”

He swung the puppet gleefully in his arms, completely unaware of the existential crisis you were now having.

This had to be a joke. A dream. A punishment?

But as Chiron twirled around with the puppet, you caught a better look at its face—and your heart stopped.

It wasn’t just a puppet.

The carved brows, the cheeks, even the upturn of the mouth…

Your breath hitched. “Nico…”

This was the afterlife? Living a twisted and reimagined version of a fairy tale?

Fairy tales used to be your escape, back when you were a kid. Your mom would read you every single one.

But now? You were in one. Literally. And with no sign of escape, it seemed like you were stuck here... forever.

Figaro hissed, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts, as Geppetto chased him across the floor with the puppet in hand.

You couldn’t help it—you snorted. Percy, scared of Nico? That was rich. Nico wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe glare a fly into oblivion, but still.

“Oh, he’s a cheeky boy, isn’t he, Figaro?” Geppetto cackled.

Figaro did not agree. The cat darted beneath a stool in protest, his ears flattened with clear disdain.

Before the puppet parade could continue, a deep bell rang out.

The sound echoed once—twice—then multiplied.

Every clock in the room began to chime, one after the other in rapid succession. It wasn’t just a ring—it was an overwhelming, chaotic chorus of cuckoo-clock cacophony.

You clapped your hands over your ears, wincing as the sharp peals swallowed the room whole.

This was no choir. This was a clockocalypse

Geppetto pulled out a pocket watch—because apparently, the orchestra of clocks ringing wasn’t enough. Still, he frowned as he checked the time. “Looks like it’s time for bed, Figaro.”

The small cat let out a meow and crawled out from under the stool, looking thoroughly unamused.

But before anything else could happen, your vision abruptly went black.

“AH!” You stumbled back, clutching your face. “Am I blind? Oh no, no, no—”

You’d take being stuck in this bizarre puppet play over blindness any day.

Thankfully, your sight returned just as quickly as it vanished. Light filtered in again, and once everything stopped spinning, you realized you weren’t in the workshop anymore.

Now you were in a bedroom.

Compared to the crowded, whimsical chaos of the workshop, this room was calm—almost too calm. Just two beds: a large one in the center, and a smaller one beside it. “Figaro” was carved on the tiny headboard of the small one.

Which meant this was Geppetto’s bedroom.

The abrupt darkness made sense now. You were transitioning scenes. Like flipping pages in a storybook.

Yes. That was the explanation you were sticking with. It was simple, it was logical, and it prevented you from spiraling further into the “am I actually dead and hallucinating?” debate.

Geppetto entered through the door, Figaro close behind.

Still carrying Pinocchio, he crossed to the dresser and propped the puppet upright against the wall with a gentle pat to its head, like a father tucking in his son. Then he turned to get himself and Figaro settled into bed.

Figaro was already halfway to dreamland, his limbs limp, tail flicking lazily over the blanket.

Geppetto paused, eyes drifting back to the puppet sitting upright, facing them with its lifeless wooden stare.

“Look at him, Figaro,” he murmured, lying back on his pillow. “He almost looks alive.”

The cat meowed in drowsy agreement—or maybe just protest at being kept awake. Either way, his eyes were already closing again.

Geppetto smiled faintly at his sleepy companion, his gaze softening as it returned to Pinocchio. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he whispered, “if he were a real boy? A boy who could talk and play without strings…”

His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished as he slipped into a quiet daydream. For a moment, he looked impossibly hopeful, like someone hanging on to the last edge of a forgotten wish.

Then he blinked and shook himself out of it. With a sigh, he turned and blew out the candle beside his bed, plunging the room into gentle darkness.

But not even a full second passed before he spoke again.

“Figaro,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to open the window. Would you mind?”

The cat lifted his head slowly, his face practically screaming yes, I do mind, but he still got up—reluctantly, dragging his paws—climbed onto Geppetto’s bed, and leapt to the windowsill.

With a bit of feline finesse, Figaro slipped through the small crack and tugged the window open with his back legs. The moonlight spilled into the room, bathing everything in silver.

Then Geppetto gasped.

“Look!” he exclaimed, sitting up and pointing skyward. “A wishing star!”

You looked up too, and sure enough, there it was—the highest, brightest star in the sky. You'd never seen one glow so intensely. It shimmered like it had something important to do.

Geppetto clasped his hands, and in a voice full of innocent wonder, began to speak.

“Starlight, star bright,

First star I see tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the wish I make tonight.”

Without meaning to, you whispered along with him.

It was a reflex—muscle memory from your childhood. Back then, you used to whisper that same rhyme to the stars outside your window, thinking maybe they were listening.

Geppetto turned to Figaro and hooked a finger under his chin. “Do you know what I wished for?” he asked.

Figaro, basking in the attention, gave a slow blink.

Geppetto’s eyes drifted to the puppet, then back to the cat. “I wished for my Pinocchio to be a real boy. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He sighed and let himself fall back into the pillow, clearly drifting. Figaro curled up at his feet without complaint.

“Goodnight, Figaro,” Geppetto murmured.

A pause.

“Goodnight, Pinocchio.”

Once Geppetto’s eyes shut, he started snoring immediately—and was that a horse neigh?

You had half a mind to go shut his mouth for him… but you didn’t want to risk suffocating the old guy in his sleep.

Then, a soft twinkling echoed through the room. Moonlight poured through the open window, growing brighter by the second. A white-blue shimmer blanketed the bedroom, and the highest star in the sky began to descend, pulsing with light.

You recognized this part—it was the Blue Fairy’s grand entrance.

You watched without much enthusiasm… at first.

The glowing silhouette forming in the center of the room wasn’t tall and graceful like you remembered. No elegant, adult figure in a flowing dress.

No… this one was shorter. Younger. Suspiciously familiar.

As the light dimmed and revealed the figure underneath, your jaw hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the room, drowning in a dress several sizes too big, was—

“Drew?!”

You barely managed to choke back the laughter, though giggles still slipped out, bubbling up uncontrollably. Of course your borderline evil best friend had been cast as the Blue Fairy.

The Stolls would've lost their minds over this. Why did you never have a camera when you needed one?

Fairy Drew strutted into the room, wand in hand, shoulders squared, her face already bored out of its mind.

She stopped beside Geppetto’s bed and cleared her throat. “Good Geppetto, you have given so much happiness to others—” she paused, lifting her palm and squinting at badly scribbled words, “you deserve to have your wish come true—blah blah—let’s just get this over with.”

Watching her stomp over to Pinocchio made the whole thing even more absurd. Your friends were fairytale characters now. Incorrectly cast, sure, but that somehow made it even better.

You turned your eyes toward the puppet—Nico, or a wooden version of him.

Still, unmoving, dull-eyed. It creeped you out more than you expected. Seeing him like that felt… wrong. Like he was lifeless. Dead. The thought made your stomach twist, and you quickly shifted your gaze back to Fairy Drew.

She lifted her wand, clearly uninterested in dramatics.

“Little puppet made of pine, wake.”

With a spark of blue light, her wand tapped the puppet’s head. The glow pulsed once, and suddenly, his eyes blinked open.

He looked around in wonder, slowly lifting his arms. “I can move!” he exclaimed.

Then, he gasped and pointed at his mouth. “I can talk!”

Drew grabbed his hand and helped him wobble to his feet, more out of obligation than compassion.

“I brought you to life because Geppetto wished for a real boy,” she said. Then under her breath: “For some reason.”

Pinocchio didn’t hear her—or didn’t care. He was too busy spinning around and admiring his arms like they were made of gold.

“Am I a real boy?” he asked eagerly.

Drew blinked. “No.”

The puppet’s smile faltered. “Well then, how do I become one?”

“You have to prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish to make your father’s wish come true.”

Then Drew’s expression shifted.

“Or,” she added, lowering her voice, “I’ll turn you into a ghost.”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“You’ll be stuck in this workshop forever,” Drew continued, tone dead serious. “Haunting your dad. Wandering the halls. Crying wooden tears. Forever.”

He looked horrified. You couldn’t blame him.

She stood back, letting the horror set in, then burst into laughter. “I’m kidding! You should’ve seen your face!”

She tossed her head back and let out another loud laugh, hands thrown up in mock fright. “Oh no!” she cried, mimicking Pinocchio’s earlier panic. “I’m a ghost now!”

You arched a brow, watching as she practically doubled over from laughing at her own joke. No doubt in your mind: this was Drew in all her chaotic glory.

What shocked you more was that Pinocchio started laughing too. Like, really laughing.

You cringed. The poor boy was too innocent to know he was being emotionally terrorized.

Still, Drew kept laughing. And somehow… so did he.

After what felt like forever, the fairy’s laughter finally subsided, her smile dropping. She pointed her wand back at the former puppet, frowning. “But I will turn you back to wood if you misbehave.”

Pinocchio hastily nodded, clearly not wanting to go back to being a lifeless puppet. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

Fairy Drew patted him on the head, her not-so-comforting smile hovering above him. “We both know that’s not true. You can’t tell right from wrong, silly Pinocchio.”

She turned and walked away, her oversized dress sparkling more with every step. Reaching the window, she stuck a hand outside, searching for something. When her hand came back in, it held a small cricket perched nicely on her palm.

“This’ll do,” she muttered, nose scrunched as she carried it back across the room and placed it down on the dresser.

That’s when you realized—someone important had been missing.

With a twirl of her wand, the once-chirping cricket shimmered in a flash of indigo light and transformed into a furious little bug in a miniature pinstripe suit. He adjusted his lapels like he'd been rudely summoned from a high-stakes meeting rather than a moonlit leaf.

“You’ve got some nerve yanking me out of my late-night stroll!” he barked, pacing in erratic little circles and waving his arms like he was trying to swat away the indignity. His antennae twitched with irritation, and his bulbous eyes narrowed on her as if she’d committed some unspeakable offense.

His voice—sharp, dry, and dripping with disdain—sounded suspiciously like Mr. D on a bad day. You know, the kind of tone that could make a satyr cry and a camper rethink every decision they’d ever made.

Pinocchio gasped, hands flying to his mouth before scooping the bug up with all the gentle awe of someone handling a sacred relic.

“Hey! Put me down! You’ve all got sweaty hands!” the cricket shrieked, kicking his tiny legs.

Fairy Drew rolled her eyes and flicked the bug lightly. “He’s not a real boy. He can’t have sweaty hands. And quit complaining, or I’ll zap your mouth off.”

That ended the cricket’s tantrum real fast.

“What’s your name, cricket sir?” Pinocchio asked, lifting him closer to his face with wide, hopeful eyes.

The cricket turned to shoot one last scowl at Drew, who returned it with an exaggerated, sugar-sweet smile and a sarcastic little wave.

The cricket sighed deeply before crossing his arms. “It’s Jiminy,” he muttered. “Jiminy Cricket.”

And that’s when it hit you. Jiminy Cricket. The wise, moral compass. The voice of reason. That Jiminy Cricket was Mr. D. Grumpy, snarky, passively-hostile Mr. D. The one who ran Camp Half-Blood like he wished it would burn down so he could finally take a nap.

This version of Pinocchio had to be completely deranged.

“Well, Jiminy,” Drew sneered, dragging out his name like it physically hurt to say it, “you’re going to be his conscience. He’d be a menace without one.”

“What is a menace?” Pinocchio asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

“It’s what you’ll turn into if this bug doesn’t take the job,” she said plainly.

Jiminy grumbled something under his breath, his whole body shaking with irritation as he stomped across the top of the dresser. “If you think I’m going to be the conscience of a walking bobblehead, you are seriously mistaken.”

Pinocchio frowned and gently touched his head, suddenly unsure if it really did wobble like that.

Before Jiminy could jump off the edge, Drew flicked her fingers, blocking his path with a sparkling hand. “You don’t get a choice, bug.”

The tip of her wand lit up, casting a warm glow that made it clear she wasn’t bluffing.

Jiminy froze. He looked at the wand, then at Drew, and immediately took a few shaky steps back toward Pinocchio. “Alright, alright, fine!” he snapped, glaring up at the glowing wand like it had personally insulted him. “I’ll do it, okay?”

The light on the wand faded.

“Good!” Drew said, all smug and satisfied.

At this point, you’d completely zoned them out—your eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the glitter and puppet strings and cartoon morality. They were going through the motions like actors in a play you’d seen one too many times. The plot spun on rails, predictable as clockwork.

You knew this story. Every twist, every beat. All the characters were here—rearranged, sure, twisted in tone, some more unhinged than you remembered—but the story was the same.

“Didn’t I tell you to pay attention?” a voice hissed suddenly in your ear.

You jolted like someone had dumped cold water down your back. Your head whipped around, scanning wildly for whoever was behind you—but no one was there.

“You already know you cannot see us,” said the chirpy, singsong voice from earlier—the one that somehow managed to sound both smug and deeply annoying.

You scrunched your nose. Of course. Them again.

“Oh, it’s you,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “Because this wasn’t annoying enough already.”

A sudden breeze brushed across your face, cold and too deliberate to be natural. You flinched, instinctively folding in on yourself like it could protect you from something invisible.

“Now, now, don’t be rude. I do have a name,” the voice said with a lilting laugh, like this was all some kind of game.

“Yeah? Then maybe try introducing yourself next time instead of creeping around whispering in people’s ears.”

Silence.

Typical. Couldn’t even give you a name. Just a voice and some cryptic nonsense, like that was supposed to mean something.

The background noise of Fairy Drew’s glitter-fueled threats and Pinocchio’s head poking continued like nothing had happened. The havoc hadn’t paused for your moment of discomfort.

You sighed and tried to shake it off, turning your attention back to the scene—just in time for a piercing, high-pitched screech to explode through the air.

The sound was sharp and immediate, like a siren made of nails on a chalkboard. It slammed straight into your ears, making your whole body tense.

You clapped your hands over your ears, teeth clenched. “What now?” you shouted, voice half-lost under the screeching.

No answer.

Then, with a sharp snap, the sound cut off.

“I’ll ignore your attitude this time,” the voice said, cold and clipped, “but consider this a warning.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were too busy clutching your ears, the ringing still bouncing around your skull like someone had struck a tuning fork inside your head. Your vision swam at the edges, your balance slightly off.

“Next time, make his ears bleed,” someone else snickered, voice full of glee.

You winced. Next time?!

If these were the ghosts you were stuck with in the afterlife, you honestly wouldn’t mind dying again—preferably into the company of someone quieter. Or at the very least, less sadistic.

An irritated groan slipped out before you could stop it. “Look, all I want to know is what’s going on. Why am I in Pinocchio? Who even are you three? And am I dead or what?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a loud, wheezing snort came from somewhere off to your right. “Kid thinks he’s dead!” the voice howled with laughter.

You could practically see him doubled over, wheezing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, completely delighted by your confusion.

You took a slow breath. Inhale. Exhale. You were not going to lose your temper. Not with whatever these things were. Instead, you forced a tight smile onto your face and kept your voice as calm and polite as possible.

“I am so sorry for my brothers,” came a third voice—this one soft and clear, like chimes in the wind. It had an elegance the others lacked, layered in a kind of practiced grace.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” the voice continued. “I am Morpheus. The one who nearly shattered your eardrums is Phantasos. And the one you probably want to strangle is Phobetor. We are the Oneiroi—spirits of dreams.”

“…So I’m not dead?” you asked slowly, still half-expecting someone to scream welcome! and yank you into a tunnel of light.

“You are not dead,” Morpheus confirmed, calm as ever. Then, after a pause, added dryly, “Although with how often you bring it up, one might think it’s something you want.”

“No!” you yelped, clearing your throat and glancing around. “No. I don’t want to die. I just… thought this was the afterlife.”

Phantasos’s laugh came sharp and unsettling—just as high-pitched as before. “Either way, we’re not here to kill you—”

“Unfortunately,” Phobetor muttered darkly. “

We get it, Phobetor, you’re edgy,” Phantasos said with a groan.

“What’s being edgy got to do with me wanting him dead?”

“Can you not? All you ever spout is nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You’re the father of nonsense!”

“Lalalala, not listening!”

“Oh, wait till I get my hands on you—”

A loud, deliberate cough snapped them into silence.

“Now… where was I?” Morpheus asked, sighing tiredly.

You raised a finger. “You were about to mention why I’m being harassed in my dreams.”

“Ah, yes,” Morpheus said. “As I explained, we are the Oneiroi. Think of us as… guides.”

“Guides?” you repeated, doubtful.

But before he could explain further, everything around you shifted.

Frozen.

The air stilled. Sounds dropped out like someone had hit mute. Fairy Drew was stuck mid-eye-roll. Jiminy’s foot hovered above the floor, never landing. Even the clouds above had stopped drifting—painted on the sky. Geppetto sat statue-still, eyes blank, chest unmoving.

“Wait—what’s happening—?”

Then you felt it. Something behind you.

A presence. Cold and close. A shadow pressed against your back like it had always been there, just waiting for you to notice.

And then—a hand.

Fingers settled gently on your shoulder, cool and precise.

You went rigid, breath caught in your throat.

A low, teasing snicker curled around your ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered—soft and smooth.

Slowly—every nerve in your body screaming—your eyes trailed down to the hand on your shoulder, then followed the arm upward.

And then you saw the face.

Morpheus was not what you’d expected. He wasn’t horrifying or monstrous—he was... ethereal. Calm. His skin was pale like moonlight filtered through gauze, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface, as if dusted in sleep-sand.

His eyes glowed faintly lavender, drowsy yet all-seeing, like someone who had just woken from a long, prophetic slumber.

Waves of soft black hair fell around his shoulders like velvet curtains, and his robe flowed around him with the slow grace of drifting clouds. He looked like someone you could trust—someone who had lived in dreams for so long, he had become one.

Your body relaxed the second you got a proper look at him.

“Huh,” you muttered. “I thought you’d be… you know, hideous. No offense.”

His smile faltered and the glow in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, narrowing with restrained annoyance.

“None taken,” he said, voice cool but clipped enough to say some offense was definitely taken.

He cleared his throat with a half-hearted cough. Then he withdrew his hand from your shoulder and gave a sharp snap of his fingers.

“Brothers, you may come out now.”

The room shuddered, like something had tugged at the edges of the dream itself. A tremor ran beneath your feet, the air vibrating with anticipation—but nothing else moved. Nothing except you.

Your knees wobbled suddenly, your balance thrown off by the unnatural pause in gravity, time, whatever this even was. You stumbled, reaching out on instinct—and grabbed hold of Morpheus’s sleeve.

He flinched at the contact, startled—but his hand shot out by reflex, steadying you. For a second, neither of you moved—his arm tense beneath your grip and your hand clenched tighter than you meant to.

“Finally! I was getting claustrophobic!” A voice shouted, loud and chaotic.

“I hate you,” another voice rumbled darkly—low, dry, and bitter as thunder crawling through stone.

The shadows thickened in a spiral. And then they emerged.

Still steadying you, Morpheus let out a long-suffering sigh, eyes fixed on the scene past your shoulder. “This has been the longest introduction ever,” he muttered, and with a light push on your shoulder, gently turned you around to face the others.

You blinked—and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The two gods towered over you like opposing halves of a dream gone wrong.

Phobetor was shaped like fear itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp around every edge, his entire form seemed sculpted from dark stone.

His skin had the grayish-blue hue of midnight shadows, and his hair hung like black smoke, constantly shifting. His eyes were pitch-black with pinpricks of glowing red in the center—like the eyes you imagined monsters had under your bed.

His lips were pressed into a deep scowl, his brow furrowed like it had never known rest. There was something very not okay about the way he looked at you—like he was scanning for weaknesses just for fun.

Phantasos, by contrast, looked like a dream wrapped in a nightmare’s grin.

He had deep, smooth skin the color of polished obsidian—rich, dark, and radiant like the surface of a still midnight lake. It shimmered subtly under the strange dreamlight, not with sparkle, but with an inner gleam, like the memory of starlight caught in a shadow.

His features were striking, otherworldly even: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and lips curled in an ever-shifting smile that danced between warm and wicked.

His hair was a dense halo of soft coils, the same dark hue as his skin, though streaks of dream-dust clung to the strands like dew on grass. Feathers—silver, gold, violet—were threaded sporadically into his curls, and they shimmered when he moved, accentuating the bounce of his unpredictable energy.

His eyes were full moons of pale violet, round and far too wide, like he was always seeing something no one else could.

There was beauty in him. Beauty that made you want to look longer than you should. But the longer you looked, the more your stomach curled.

Not because he was ugly—far from it—but because his elegance had edges, like a painting where something’s always just slightly off. A living paradox: comforting and uncanny. A lullaby sung in reverse.

“He looks terrified,” Phobetor noted with dry disdain.

Phantasos scoffed and rolled his eyes so hard you were shocked they didn’t fall out of his head. “Because you scared him with that ugly mug of yours.”

Shoving past his brother, he practically skipped toward you.

“Don’t worry! Phobetor’s just a grump,” he sing-songed, leaning in far too close for comfort. “I’ll protect you~!”

You flinched, instinctively pulling back.

Somehow… this was worse.

Sure, Phobetor looked like he wanted to skin you alive—but at least he was consistent. There was something unsettling about Phantasos’s unhinged energy, the way his expression flipped from joyful to menacing in a blink. He looked like he might hug you or vaporize you, and honestly, you didn’t want to find out which.

He bent down to your level, grinning widely “Anteros sure made a cutie! I could just eat you up!” he squealed, then proceeded to squish your cheeks with both hands.

Eyes wide, you leaned hard into Morpheus, silently cursing your father for passing on whatever trait made you so tragically pokeable.

Morpheus, visibly fed up with the whole performance, reached over and pushed Phantasos’s face aside with one hand. “You both scare him,” he muttered, voice thin with irritation.

He straightened your shoulders with a small sigh, then moved to stand between his brothers, swiftly taking charge before one of them sent you into shock.

“Now. Proper introductions,” he said, laying a hand on Phobetor’s shoulder. “This is Phobetor; he is the personification of nightmares. Every horror, chase, monster, fall—you name it—was him.”

Oh. So he was responsible for the giant rat dreams. Rude.

Phobetor barely spared you a glance. “Ironically, this is a nightmare.”

Morpheus turned to his other side, gesturing toward Phantasos, who wiggled his fingers at you. You averted your gaze immediately.

“Phantasos is the personification of fantasy dreams. Think surreal. Dreams that are strange, metaphorical, and often prophetic. His visions may hold glimpses of the past, present, or future.”

You pointed vaguely around at the frozen, uncanny dream version of the Pinocchio cast . “Weird, like… this?”

“Correct,” Morpheus said.

You squinted at Morpheus. “And you?”

He stood tall again, folding his hands behind his back. “I am the personification of dreams. I serve as a messenger of divine will—passing along information from the gods through dreams. Prophecies. Warnings. Visions.”

Cool. So… dream mailmen. Invasive dream mailmen.

“Alright, that’s neat and all,” you said, hands on your hips, “but why now? I’ve had dreams before—none of you have ever shown up. So why this time?”

That ticked Phobetor off. He blew a sharp breath through his nose, and you swore the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Careful, kid. Curiosity killed the cat.”

But you weren’t backing down. Not after the rat dreams. Not now.

“Satisfaction brought it back,” you retorted with a shrug and a smirk.

Phobetor’s fist twitched. You grinned.

You: 1 — Phobetor: 0.

Phantasos let out a wild snort and slapped both hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Morpheus just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with visible regret.

“You know what,” he muttered, dropping his hand with a tired flick. His gaze snapped back to you, suddenly sharp. “We’ve wasted enough time. The story has to move forward. We can’t tell you everything now—but next time, we’ll explain more. Just…”

He stepped closer, voice suddenly firm.

“Pay attention.”

“Wait, hold on—” you tried, but he clapped his hands.

And just like that, they were gone.

Figures. Some guides they were.

You huffed, arms crossed. “Fine,” you muttered. “Didn’t want answers anyway.”

You turned back toward the frozen dream-world with a pout. You were a growing, independent ten-year-old man who didn’t need the help of three ancient gods who know more about this than you do.

...Probably.

The sound of chatter pulled you back toward the now-unfrozen scene. Everyone was moving again like nothing had happened.

“...And now I’m done here,” Fairy Drew announced, dusting glitter off her skirt as she headed for the window.

She paused just long enough to give Pinocchio a once-over. “Remember—follow the rules and you’ll be fine.” She ended with a dramatic eye-roll aimed straight at Jiminy. Her wand sparked blue, and with a shimmer of light, she vanished.

“Good riddance,” Jiminy muttered, folding what counted as his arms—legs? limbs? He spun around and nearly jumped out of his tiny bug skin when he found Pinocchio staring at him.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Pinocchio tilted his head with a big, wooden grin. “Of course I am! I don’t have magic like the Blue Fairy, silly Jiminy.”

“You sure don’t. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be such a bobblehead.”

“I do not have the bobblehead that you keep speaking of.”

Jiminy sighed and started pacing across the table. “Your head’s empty enough to be one.”

The back-and-forth was already starting to wear thin. You’d seen this act before—and besides, you had better ideas. What better way to pass the time than by doing something absolutely not allowed?

Grinning to yourself, you grabbed a plain white sheet draped over a nearby chair and threw it over your head like a ghost.

Sure, they couldn’t see you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make your presence felt.

And hey—no harm in having a little fun with it, right?

You spotted a plain white blanket sitting in the corner. Perfect.

Grinning, you threw it over yourself and crept behind Jiminy, who was stomping across the tabletop, muttering incoherently under his breath. Pinocchio trailed him with his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth.

But his attention didn’t stay there for long.

His gaze shifted—past Jiminy, to you.

To the floating sheet.

He blinked. Curiously. Then again.

“Jiminy,” he called out, pointing subtly.

But Jiminy, still wrapped up in his muttering, didn’t even hear him.

The sheet was thin enough for you to see through in patches. Peeking through the fabric, you caught Pinocchio’s wide-eyed stare. You slowly raised one arm under the blanket and gave a gentle wave.

Pinocchio jumped slightly—then smiled. He waved back.

Encouraged, you leaned in closer, directly behind Jiminy now, and began mimicking his exaggerated movements. Pinocchio giggled, hand over his mouth, as he watched you give the cricket a pair of bunny ears.

Jiminy paused and squinted up at him. “Are my struggles amusing to you?”

Pinocchio shook his head quickly, pointing. “No! There’s—”

“Listen, kid, you don’t make fun of adult struggles.”

“But look—”

“No no, I get it. You’re still green to this whole life thing. I’ll let it slide—”

The wooden boy huffed, spinning Jiminy around to face you. The cricket froze. Solid.

Not a twitch.

You blinked. Oh no. Did you actually scare him stiff? You hadn’t meant to traumatize him. Just mess with him a little.

You reached forward and gently poked his head.

Nothing.

Another poke.

Finally, Jiminy twitched, followed by a horrified scream as he thrashed around screaming, “GHOST!!”

He landed on Pinocchio’s shoulder, clawing at the puppet's shirt. “RUN, KID! GET US OUT OF HERE!”

You burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered, delighted laughter. If Mr. D could see this—if Nico could see this—you’d never live it down. But still. Worth it.

Pinocchio scrambled down from the dresser, almost colliding with you. Jiminy was practically steering him like a horse, shouting, “THE DOOR, KID! THE DOOR!”

You watched, wheezing, as the two of them tore across the room, skidding on the floorboards, only to trip spectacularly over the rug beside Geppetto’s bed. Pinocchio went sailing. Dolls clattered to the ground in a dramatic heap. Jiminy let out a shrill scream that could’ve belonged to a cartoon cat.

Geppetto bolted upright. “What was that?!”

“IT’S A GHOST!” Pinocchio shouted, flailing on the ground.

Geppetto turned toward your corner of the room.

You dropped the sheet.

Silence.

“There is no ghost, Pinocchio,” he said calmly, rubbing his eyes and lying back down. “You must’ve imagined it.”

Three seconds later (you counted), he bolted upright again, realization crashing in hard.

“Pinocchio!”

He dove off the bed, scooping the puppet into his arms.

“You’re alive! My son! My wish—oh, my dear boy!”

The scene melted into instant sap. Geppetto sobbed. Pinocchio giggled. They spun around in a slow, clumsy circle that nearly ended in disaster as they stepped on Figaro’s tail. The cat yowled and launched off the bed like a missile.

Eventually, the pair collapsed into the sheets again, Geppetto tucked around the little wooden boy like a security blanket.

“Why do I have to go to bed?” Pinocchio asked, wide-eyed and confused.

“Because you have school in the morning,” Geppetto replied gently.

School? Already? Pinocchio had been alive for, what, fifteen minutes? Was there no puppet pre-K? No wooden toddler phase?

The scene dissolved and reformed around you again.

Now you stood in the sunshine, outside Geppetto’s workshop. The door creaked open behind you as Pinocchio stepped out, a book clutched to his chest.

“Are those real boys?” he asked, watching the group of children pass by.

Geppetto hummed, turning Pinocchio’s head in his direction and fixing his hat. “Yes, those are real boys. They’re your classmates.” You watched as he stood up, urging his son to follow the rest of the kids. “Go on, follow them to school.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Pinocchio ran down the steps of the workshop, cheeks stretched wide in a smile.

Geppetto chuckled as he watched Pinocchio run off, going back inside of the workshop after his son had left his sight.

You followed behind the puppet-boy, not exactly eager but keeping your situation in mind. Just observe the dream. Don’t interfere. Let it play out. Just another weird, nonsensical sequence—like a free movie, if that movie came with zero logic and questionable casting choices.

Pinocchio was closing in on what looked like the schoolhouse now, humming and skipping along the dirt path with all the carefree energy of someone who didn’t notice when he was being preyed on.

You, however, weren’t nearly as oblivious.

You spotted them instantly—two shapes hiding behind a very skinny tree. Big guys. Broad shoulders. Not exactly subtle. Even dream logic couldn’t cover for that terrible camouflage job.

Their backs were turned, but something about the way they moved—especially the one fiddling with a cane—set off alarm bells. Then came the voice.

“And that’s when I told her…”

You narrowed your eyes. That voice. You knew that voice. That smug, irritating tone could only belong to—

Pinocchio, meanwhile, walked right into the cane that had been conveniently “forgotten” in his path and promptly faceplanted.

The two figures gasped in unison—very theatrically, might you add—and scrambled to help him up. One of them nudged the other aside as he reached for Pinocchio’s pockets.

And that’s when you caught a glimpse of his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Travis Stoll. And, of course, where Travis went, Connor was never far behind.

Sure enough, there he was—Connor Stoll—getting knocked back with an exaggerated groan, holding onto his hat.

No surprise here. The Stoll brothers, cast as the con men in Pinocchio. Honestly, dream logic had never been more accurate.

“A man of letters, I see,” Travis said, picking up Pinocchio’s book and holding it upside down like it was a foreign object. Somehow, he managed to sound both impressed and illiterate.

Pinocchio, of course, beamed. “I’m going to school!”

Travis snorted under his breath, but Connor swooped in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Pinocchio like a seasoned salesman who smelled fresh meat. “School? Pfft. Let me guess—you haven’t heard about the easy way to success?”

“Easy way?” Pinocchio echoed, wide-eyed.

Connor spun him around with flair. “A theater!” he declared, throwing his hands into the air. “Bright lights! Music! Applause! Fame!”

“Fame?” Pinocchio repeated again, completely hooked now.

Connor leaned in, smiling wide. “Oh yeah. With that physique and profile? You’re a natural-born star!” Behind him, Travis nodded along like a bobblehead.

“You’re going straight to the top, my little wooden boy! I can already see your name in lights—” Connor paused. “Wait, what is your name?”

“Pinocchio!”

“Pinocchio!” Connor repeated, recovering with a flourish. “In big, bright letters! P-I-N-O-K-I—um... Yeah! A star is born!”

You dragged a hand down your face. This was just embarrassing. Nico would never fall for something this dumb. Pinocchio was single-handedly tanking your new friend’s reputation.

You sighed heavily, watching as Pinocchio lit up like he’d just been handed a trophy. He practically skipped into the arms of the con artists, swept away in their fantasy of stardom without so much as a second thought.

Part of becoming a real boy should include developing basic common sense, you thought grimly, trailing after them as the trio disappeared down the road.

This was when you noticed something—or rather, someone—was missing.

Where was that deranged cricket? Jiminy should’ve been hovering somewhere nearby, nagging Pinocchio about responsibility and school bells. In the original story, he’d followed the puppet all the way to class. So where was he now?

Weird. But you didn’t have time to dwell on the bug’s mysterious absence.

That now-familiar pull returned, the world dimming like a spotlight fading to black. When your vision cleared, you were somewhere new—facing a large, looming stage.

Right away, you could tell something was off.

The audience was packed, but they sat in perfect, eerie stillness. Rigid spines, unmoving heads. Their faces looked blank—smooth, expressionless, like porcelain masks staring forward without focus. Not a blink. Not a breath.

A big, bulky man stood in front of the stage, mic in hand. Unlike other characters, you knew who this was as soon as you saw him. It was Stromboli, the puppeteer. He wasn’t someone you knew in reality. Strangely, he was the same person he was in the original story.

Although it was weird seeing your friends throughout your dream, it was fun. You couldn’t help but frown when you saw his face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show so far!” His voice boomed, a thick Italian accent going into the crowd. His words caused a chain reaction of cheers and clapping.

Looking around, your brows furrowed at the lack of movement from the surrounding images. There was noise—music, cheers, the hum of stage lights—but none of the audience members moved. They were just still images. Photos with sound. Which, yeah, okay, dreams were weird, but this was weird even for dreams.

It didn’t seem to bother Stromboli. He stepped into the spotlight like nothing was wrong, his shadow stretching long behind him. “Today,” he boomed, sweeping his arms wide, “to conclude this magnificent show, I present a miracle! The only puppet who can sing and dance without strings—PINOCCHIO!”

The red curtains peeled back like they were alive, and there was Pinocchio, standing stiffly on a narrow staircase set in the middle of the stage. He blinked at the frozen crowd, visibly uncertain—but when the music started, he forced a smile and took his first step down.

And immediately missed it.

He tumbled in a clatter of limbs and painted wood. You winced, secondhand embarrassment .heating up your cheeks.

Stromboli was on him in an instant, yanking him up by the collar like a dog that had peed on the rug. His face turned tomato-red as he launched into a tirade in angry, rapid Italian—words you couldn’t understand but didn’t need to. His spit practically steamed.

Then someone in the audience let out a snort.

And just like that, the tone flipped. Stromboli froze, dollar signs practically reflected in his eyes. His face smoothed into a grin like someone had pulled a lever. “Such a cute kid,” he laughed, patting Pinocchio��s head with sudden affection, like the tantrum had never happened.

The music swelled, and Pinocchio—ever the good puppet—bounced back into a dance, eyes glittering like painted glass.

Now this was more your speed. A performance. Something to actually enjoy. No scamming, no sappy father-son bonding—just a musical number. You could vibe with that. You even caught yourself humming along. And, well… Pinocchio did look like Nico. That alone made it hard to look away.

“Oh, I love music. Don’t you?”

You jolted as a hand brushed yours. You nearly punched whoever it was out of pure instinct—but they caught your arm gently, before contact was made.

“Was that your attempt at assault?”

Your heart sank.

Of course. Him again.

Phantasos lounged next to you like he’d always been there, one leg hooked over the other, wild eyes aglow with unreadable delight. He was smiling—not maliciously, but with the loose, unpredictable air of someone who might gift you a rose or set your house on fire, depending on how bored they were.

You snatched your arm back. The skin tingled where he’d touched you. “You scared me.”

His smile dipped, just a little. “I’m not Phobetor,” he said softly. “I’d never scare you.”

You stared at him. “I’d rather him than you.”

He clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Truly, you wound me, young one. Such a tragic little attitude, wasted on such a beautiful face. But I suppose that’s puberty for you.”

With a long, dramatic sigh, he melted into the seat beside you. Then crossed his ankles and clasped his hands. His gaze slid back to the stage, where Pinocchio was dancing under golden light.

“I meant what I said before,” he said. “About music. Especially when the lyrics wear two faces.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean… double meanings?”

Phantasos grinned, nodding slowly. “Exactly. Hidden truths. Wrapped in melody. The best lies always sing sweetly.”

Onstage, Pinocchio twirled as the lights started to glow brighter around him.

“I’ve got no strings

To hold me down

To make me fret

Or make me frown…”

“Pretty literal,” you muttered. “He’s a puppet. No strings. That’s kind of the whole thing.”

Phantasos made a tsk sound, wagging a finger an inch from your face. “Are you sure? This is a dream, sweetheart. Nothing is ever just what it seems.”

You sighed, exhausted already. “So I’m supposed to interpret it like a riddle?”

“You’re supposed to see, not just look,” he said, smiling again. “It’s not that hard, really.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

You rubbed your face, deciding, against your better judgment, to actually try. The song kept playing as the lights flickered. The audience was still frozen, masks grinning wider than before.

“I had strings

But now I’m free

There are no strings on me…”

You frowned. The word free didn’t sound triumphant—it sounded forced. Like someone had shoved the line into his mouth and told him to mean it.

That’s when things got… stranger.

The stage began to stretch, the floorboards curling upward like paper caught in wind. The stairs behind Pinocchio multiplied, spiraling upward into nowhere. A second Pinocchio appeared. Then a third. All dancing in sync. One blinked wrong. One smiled too wide.

The music sped up.

Then slowed.

Then reversed.

You recoiled. “What—” you choked out, clutching the edge of your seat.

Then reversed—violins shrieking backward like they were screaming in a language you couldn’t understand. The beat stuttered, repeating the same broken bar of melody over and over until it felt like your brain was skipping like a scratched record.

The spotlight split. A thousand tiny beams like a thousand tiny eyes—all blinking, all watching. They swept the crowd like searchlights, but the crowd didn’t move. They weren’t even people anymore. Porcelain masks shattered under the light, leaking nothing but black ink and static.

The confetti stars above began melting, dripping into the stage and sizzling on contact.

Stromboli laughed—but his face was gone. A blank void with teeth. A soundless howl beneath the music.

The curtain behind him bled ink.

You stumbled out of your seat, breath catching in your throat. Your body wanted to run—but the floor was soft now, too soft, like foam or carpet underwater. You wobbled, knees buckling, balance tilting with the shifting geometry of the room.

One of the audience’s masks slid off, clattering to the ground.

Behind it: a mirror.

Another fell off.

It showed your face.

Then another—blank. No face at all. Just smooth flesh, like clay waiting for a sculptor. Your stomach dropped.

“I—I don’t—what is this?” you gasped, your voice small, barely heard over the distorted music. The air was too thick. Everything felt wrong.

He looked at you like a teacher waiting for a student to finally get it. “You poor, precious thing,” he said, with something almost like fondness. “Still clinging to the idea that freedom means no rules.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

But Phantasos only sighed and leaned in, tapping you lightly on the nose. “I’m not here to carry you. I’m here to nudge.”

“No wonder demigods die young,” you muttered. “The gods talk in riddles when they could just warn us.”

That, at least, seemed to amuse him. His smile curved, dark and knowing. “Oh, I have warned you. You just weren’t listening.”

Then his expression dimmed, snuffed out like a candle in wind. “Farewell,” he said quietly. “Maybe one of my brothers will get through to you.”

He raised a hand. Snap. Gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was empty. Pressing. Like something had been yanked out from under you. A warmth, a presence, a thread you hadn’t realized was holding you steady until it vanished.

You stood there, alone on the surreal stage, surrounded by melting stars and blank-eyed audience members—if they were even still there at all.

Were you supposed to be relieved?

Or was this sense of dread—tight, gnawing, like a pulled string on the verge of snapping—your sign that you’d just missed something important?

Your head spun. This didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt like a message with most of the letters blacked out.

The song. Was that the key? A warning hidden in a child’s lullaby?

You didn’t want to think about it too hard. If you did, you'd start spiraling—and once you fell, you weren’t sure you could climb back out.

Luckily—or maybe not—something small and green hopped past your feet.

Jiminy Cricket.

He came to a halt and looked toward the stage with an unimpressed glare. “This kid gave up school for fame. How cheap.”

His frown deepened when he saw Pinocchio basking in the applause.

“I guess the bobblehead doesn’t need me anymore,” Jiminy muttered, deflated. “Time to exit stage left, I suppose.”

He turned solemnly and began hopping away, shoulders slumped.

You stared after him, baffled. “Seriously? You’re ditching him because he can sing?”

The applause on stage faded as Pinocchio took his final bow. Then the scene melted.

When it reformed, you were somewhere else: inside a lavish carriage. Velvet-lined walls. Gilded trim. The heavy scent of wine and sweat. A table overflowing with coins.

Stromboli hunched over it, counting money like it was oxygen.

“Two hundred…”

Across from him, Pinocchio beamed, eyes wide as he held open a sack. Stromboli shoveled coins inside, muttering feverishly.

“People love me!” he barked, ecstatic. “Three hundred!”

“You were amazing, Pinocchio!” he shouted, half to the puppet, half to the heavens. “A natural! An icon! A goldmine!”

Pinocchio lit up. “Does that mean I’m an actor?”

“Yes! A star! Your name—on every tongue!” Stromboli crowed, puffing out his chest.

Then, with theatrical flair, he pulled a fake gold coin from behind his ear and dropped it into Pinocchio’s hands. “For you, my boy!”

Pinocchio clutched it like a sacred relic. “Gee, thanks! I’ll go straight home and tell my father!”

Stromboli, mid-swig of wine, choked.

He spat everywhere. (You recoiled. Gross.)

“Home?” he wheezed, wiping his chin. Then he started laughing. Loud. Booming. Mean. “You are a comedian, too!”

Pinocchio blinked. “You mean it’s funny?”

“Hilarious!”

Pinocchio laughed along, still trying to read the room, still trying to fit in—like a kid mimicking emotions he didn’t fully understand.

And suddenly, it hit you.

Maybe you and Pinocchio weren’t so different.

He thought he was free. No strings. No rules. Just applause and promises. But his conscience had already walked out. And he didn’t even realize he was trading one master for another

You, too, were following something you couldn’t quite name. Something older, deeper, harder to untangle. Dreams, omens, gods in half-shadow. You told yourself you were in control—but were you? Or were you just dancing, too?

The song hadn’t been about freedom.

It had been about illusion.

No strings didn’t mean no control. Sometimes, it meant the control was invisible. The hand pulling the strings was just clever enough to hide.

And before Pinocchio could even process his so-called triumph, Stromboli grabbed him.

The man’s grin had vanished.

He held the puppet tightly by the collar, muttering something low and venomous, then threw him—hard—into a small iron cage bolted to the corner of the carriage.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

“This will be your home!” Stromboli bellowed.

Pinocchio scrambled to his feet, clutching the bars. “No!”

Stromboli didn’t flinch. His voice only grew more triumphant. “We’ll tour the world—Paris, London, Moscow! Your name on every billboard, every tongue.” He swept a bag of coins off the table, turning with a glint of greed in his eyes. “You’re mine now, little puppet. The show goes on.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Pinocchio rattled the cage, frantic—but it was no use.

“Let me out!” he cried. “I want to go home! I don’t want to be famous!”

No answer.

He rattled the cage harder, calling out for Geppetto, for Jiminy, for anyone—but the only thing that answered was the muffled creak of the carriage rocking slightly with movement. The wheels were already turning. They were leaving.

He slumped back, wooden knees hitting the floor with a hollow clack. His hands fell from the bars, limp and trembling.

The reality sank in.

No cheers. No spotlight. No applause. Just four walls of cold iron and the echo of a promise he hadn’t understood.

And then, finally, he wept.

Not like a puppet. Like a child.

Sympathy was such a pain in the butt. You wanted to be mad at him—call him stupid, yell “you should’ve known better!”—but he was just a kid. A wooden, naive, hopeful kid who trusted the wrong people. He didn’t know any better.

While Pinocchio cried, a faint rustling came from the carriage door. His head shot up, eyes wide with hope. “Jiminy!”

“Oh, you wooden idiot,” the little cricket huffed, running to the cage. “What did he do to you?!”

“He locked me up! He said he won’t let me go home to my father!”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, and he said he’d put my name on everyone’s tongue!”

“Really?” Jiminy deadpanned.

“Uh-huh!” Pinocchio pointed desperately at the lock. “Please, Jiminy, please help me!”

Jiminy let out a long-suffering sigh and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I’d love to strangle that fairy right now.” He launched himself at the lock.

From inside came muffled mumbling, the occasional metallic clank, and a few PG-rated curses. Eventually, Jiminy popped back out, covered in soot, antennae frazzled.

He glared at the lock. “Must be one of the old ones.”

“You mean you can’t open it?” Pinocchio asked, horrified.

Jiminy shook his head, brushing ash from his coat. “It’ll take a miracle to get us out of here.”

“Gee…” Pinocchio deflated. He sank down again, his wooden shoulders drooping.

The two of them sat in silence, the carriage wheels clattering beneath them, hope bleeding out like sunlight through a cracked window.

“Wow,” you muttered, arms crossed as you watched them mope. “They give up faster than I do during capture the flag.”

Still, you weren’t that worried. This was the part of the story where the Blue Fairy showed up, right? All sparkles and salvation. That was the pattern—Pinocchio cries, Jiminy whines, and then poof: wish-granting lady descends.

...But what if she didn’t come?

The thought slipped into your mind like a drop of ink in water, slowly spreading. You blinked, suddenly less sure. What if the story didn’t unfold like it used to? What if the dream wasn’t just a retelling, but a test?

What if you were meant to be the one who saved him?

Your gaze drifted back to Pinocchio, his wooden hands gripping the bars like they might bend if he just believed hard enough. Yes, he was a dumb kid—naive, unlucky, easily led—but that didn’t mean he deserved this. And Jiminy, annoying as he was, clearly cared.

You straightened up, a new energy building in your chest.

This had to be it. The reason the dream spirits brought you here. Not to be an observer. Not to be some passive background character. You weren’t here to follow the script. You were here to rewrite it.

This was your moment—your chance to do something.

To be a hero.

With new resolve, you scanned the carriage. It wasn’t much—just old boxes, rotting wood, and the smell of something sour—but you weren’t the one stuck in a cage. You could make something happen.

As you paced, ideas forming, you remembered what happened next in the original story. Geppetto should be nearby, calling for Pinocchio—just barely missing the carriage as it passed.

Unless… you changed that.

“[Name], you genius,” you whispered, already heading to the door.

You swung it open and jumped out, completely missing the wide-eyed stares of Jiminy and Pinocchio as the door moved seemingly on its own.

“Ew, ew, ew!” you yelped, hopping around the mud. “Not the shoes, not the shoes!”

Amid your panicked dance, you caught the distant sound of Geppetto’s voice, calling for his son. Your head snapped up, heart racing. There—just at the crossroads.

You ran, boots squelching, until you were close enough to shove him—not gently—right in front of the moving carriage.

“Whoa!!”

The carriage screeched to a halt. Stromboli leapt down, livid.

“Are you blind, old man?! You trying to get yourself killed?!”

Geppetto raised his hands defensively, scrambling to his feet. “I—I didn’t mean to! My apologies, sir. I want no trouble.”

Stromboli sneered, looming like a villain. “You look weak.”

“I’m looking for my son. He’s gone missing.”

“Your son?” Stromboli’s eyes narrowed, a wicked gleam flickering to life. “You mean… Pinocchio?”

Geppetto stepped forward, hope lighting up his face like dawn. “Yes! Have you seen him?! Is he alright?”

Stromboli threw his head back and laughed, a dark, booming sound that shook the air like thunder. “Seen him? He’s mine now! My little puppet star!”

“He is not a puppet!” Geppetto shouted, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “He’s my son! Give him back, you twisted monster!”

Stromboli sneered. “Son? He’s made of wood, old man. He’s not meant to be free. He’s meant to be controlled. That’s all puppets are good for.”

Something inside you snapped.

Who the heck did this guy think he was? Who gave him the right to decide what Pinocchio could be? He wasn’t a guardian or a father. He wasn’t kind or wise or even decent. He was just a big, hairy tyrant with a god complex and no heart.

And you were done watching him get away with it.

Without even thinking, your hand closed around a rock on the ground. It was rough, cold, and solid—exactly what you needed.

You hurled it.

The rock soared through the air and smacked Stromboli square in the temple.His eyes bulged in surprise—then rolled back like curtains closing. One beat passed. Then he crumpled like a sack of potatoes, hitting the dirt with a satisfying thud.

You let out a breath. “Take that, loser.”

Unable to help yourself, you stuck your tongue out at his unconscious body and did a little victory shuffle. “Gods, I’m amazing.”

Geppetto flinched at the sound of Stromboli’s fall but quickly shook off the shock and bolted toward the carriage. You followed close behind, pausing only to dig through Stromboli’s pockets. (Ugh. Greasy and linty. Gross.) Still, you managed to snag a set of rusted keys. Score.

“Pinocchio!” Geppetto’s voice rang out, breathless and panicked.

“Father!” Pinocchio’s face lit up behind the bars, eyes wide and glistening.

Geppetto rushed forward, clutching the iron cage. “I’m here now, my boy. I’m here. Let’s get you out of there.”

“We tried!” Pinocchio said, voice high with urgency. “There’s no way without a key!”

“We?”

“Me and my friend Jiminy! He’s really nice!”

Jiminy, now perched proudly on Pinocchio’s shoulder, gave a shy little wave, his cheeks tinged pink. “Aw, go on…”

Geppetto gave a grateful nod, his eyes warm and full of relief. “Thank you for looking after him, Jiminy.”

The cricket rubbed the back of his neck with mock humility. “Ah, just doin’ my job.”

You rolled your eyes. Doing his job? Please. He only showed up after things hit rock bottom. More like the world’s tiniest supervisor.

“Father, the key!” Pinocchio reminded, practically bouncing inside the cage.

“Ah—right, right…”

You “accidentally” tossed the keys in Geppetto’s direction. They nailed him in the forehead with a solid clonk.

“Papa, the sky is falling!” Pinocchio yelped, hands to his cheeks.

Oops. Wrong story

Geppetto blinked, rubbing his scalp with a frown as he glanced suspiciously at the ceiling. “Must’ve fallen from one of the hooks,” he muttered, scooping the keys off the floor like this kind of thing happened to him regularly.

He turned his attention to the lock. It took some fiddling, the keys scraping and jamming a few times, but then—click. The metal creaked, and the cage door slowly swung open.

Pinocchio didn’t wait a second. He threw himself into Geppetto’s arms, wooden limbs wrapping around him with surprising force.

Geppetto let out a breathy laugh, holding him close. “It’s okay, Pinocchio. I’ve got you now.”

It would’ve been a perfectly sweet moment.

If the world hadn’t gone pitch-black.

Another shift.

The world flickered.

Light returned—but colder now, flatter. Like it had passed through frostbitten glass. You blinked, squinting against the dimness, heart ticking in your chest like the rows of clocks around you.

Geppetto’s shop.

But not quite.

The wooden walls leaned inward, warped and sagging like they were made of wax. The floorboards groaned with every shift, like the house itself was holding its breath. Shelves drooped, their contents slouched and slumping: puppets missing eyes, tools rusted in place, spools of thread tangled in impossible knots.

The clocks ticked on, but not together. Some sped up. Some lagged. One let out a soft, high-pitched chime—just one note, sharp and flat—then fell dead silent.

You frowned. No. You’d done everything right. You freed him. Stromboli was gone, the cage was open, the boy was safe.

So why were you still here?

“Good morning, son!”

You turned, startled.

Geppetto sat at the table, smile painted on like a mask. His eyes gleamed with artificial warmth.

“Morning!” Pinocchio chirped from across the room, bright and sunny, as if the last hour of terror had never happened.

Geppetto handed him an apple. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday? Why didn’t you go to school?”

Pinocchio hesitated. His small hands turned the apple over and over—it glistened wetly, redder than any fruit had a right to be. Too shiny. Too perfect.

“I… I met somebody,” he began. “Two enormous monsters.”

SNAP.

His nose shot forward like a spring-loaded blade. You flinched. Jiminy gasped. Pinocchio froze, hand flying to his face.

Geppetto leaned in, concern creasing his brow. Gently, he tilted his son’s chin to examine the growing wood.

“Oh no… your nose,” he said softly. “Did they do this to you?”

“I wasn’t scared!” Pinocchio blurted—rushed and shaky, the words tumbling out in a panic. “But they tied me up in a big sack!”

CRACK.

His nose jerked forward again—longer, thinner now, curling faintly at the end like a creeping vine. The tension in the room twisted tighter. The clocks ticked faster.

“What about Sir Jiminy?” Geppetto asked.

Jiminy raised both hands and started inching back. “Oh no. Don’t drag me into this—”

“They tied him up in a little sack,” Pinocchio added, wide-eyed with forced sincerity.

SNAP.

The nose lengthened again. It stretched past the edge of the table now, an awkward wooden bridge he couldn’t undo. The room seemed to lean into it, shadows gathering around its base like mold creeping along a wall.

“My nose!!” Pinocchio wailed, gripping the length of it like it might detach. “Make it stop!”

Geppetto stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. “Don’t worry, my boy! We’ll get the doctor. Just sit tight.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door opened with a low creak—less like hinges, more like something groaning and alive—and then he was gone.

As the door shut, Jiminy hopped down, arms crossed.

“Why did you lie, Pinocchio?”

A new voice answered.

“That’s an interesting question. Why did he lie?”

You froze. That voice—smooth, cold, curling out from the shadows like smoke.

Phobetor.

Great. Another dream spirit. At this point, their surprise entrances were starting to feel less like divine intervention and more like bad customer service.

Without turning around, you kept your eyes on the puppet and the cricket. “What do you want?”

He strolled up beside you, arms folded behind his back and chin tilted slightly upward.

“To torment you,” he said breezily. “But, unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to”—he gagged, visibly repulsed—“help you.”

You didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll. “You sound very enthusiastic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The excitement’s just radiating off you.”

He chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Well, I have been working on my temperament.”

You squinted at him. “Right. Anyyyway. What are you actually here for? Because—no offense—you guys suck at your job.”

His expression twitched—just for a second. A flicker of irritation cracked through his polished facade, his jaw tensing like he wanted to smite you into next week.

He muttered to himself through clenched teeth, “Patience, Phobetor. Patience…”

With a sharp exhale, he refocused on you, eyes narrowed but voice still smooth.

“Why did he lie?” he repeated, nodding toward Pinocchio, who was now quietly sobbing over his grotesquely lengthened nose.

Then he began to circle you—slow, deliberate steps, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Why do people lie, do you think?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was this a test? Did he think you were stupid?

Please. Everyone knew why people lied.

“Because they’re scared,” you said.

Phobetor paused in front of Pinocchio, thoughtful. “True.”

He raised a hand and laid his fingers gently—almost tenderly—on Pinocchio’s wooden shoulders. Time froze. Jiminy hung mid-gesture, face locked in worry. Pinocchio’s eyes stayed wide and glassy, caught between guilt and confusion.

Phobetor’s voice dropped—low and cold.

“Do you know what most people fear?”

Your first instinct was to say you, but you bit it back. Snarking your way into Tartarus wasn’t on your to-do list.

And truthfully… you weren’t sure anymore.

You thought about answering seriously. You tried to picture it—other people’s fears. But the only fears you truly knew were your own: the fear of being left behind, of never being enough, of loving too much or not at all. The fear of being forgotten. The fear of knowing exactly what you are.

You stayed silent.

Phobetor didn’t seem surprised.

“Most people,” he continued, circling slowly, “fear the truth. Not the monsters. Not the dark. The truth. The shame it carries. The way it strips you bare and leaves you exposed. It changes how people look at you. How you look at yourself. Truth doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reassure. It takes, and it leaves.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough to make your skin prickle. His hand reached for yours before you could flinch away.

“When you’re afraid,” he said softly, “fear starts making your choices for you. It whispers in your ear, changes the shape of the world. You doubt your memories. You doubt the people you love. You lie—not to protect yourself, but to preserve the illusion that you’re still in control.”

His grip tightened just enough to sting. “You start to believe that lie. And then… you live by it.”

You yanked your hand back. His cold lingered, like winter buried in your skin.

“Why are you telling me this?” you snapped. “Pinocchio’s the liar, not me.”

Phobetor didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head, eyes sharp as glass. “Oh, child. There are liars all around you.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only a kind of ancient pity.

“One day, you’ll see the truth: the bravest ones...”

He leaned in, breath cold against your cheek.

“...are often the biggest cowards.”

Then he stepped back and turned you gently toward the frozen scene—toward the unmoving boy, the trembling nose, the ticking silence.

“Heads up,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Wait—what does that—”

But he was gone.

Just when you might’ve actually needed him.

Seriously, what were these gods good for? Besides showing up uninvited, speaking in riddles, and spinning your brain like a carousel powered by dread?

The dream resumed.

Pinocchio and Jiminy picked up mid-conversation like nothing had happened. But before Pinocchio could answer, the front bell chimed—a tinny, broken sound, like windchimes underwater.

In stepped a man. Or something like a man.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black, movements too smooth, limbs just slightly too long. His face was hidden by a ski mask, but the eyeholes were wide, dark. Deep. Not just shadows—depthless. Like staring into the mouth of a cave and hearing it breathe back.

Classic robber, you told yourself. But it felt wrong.

“Father—?” Pinocchio began brightly, still beaming with naïve hope. Then he paused, tilting his head at the newcomer. “Oh, hello! I thought you were my father.”

The figure didn’t answer immediately. His stare bored into the boy like he was measuring something inside him. His voice, when it came, was as flat and cold as polished marble.

“Your father?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation wearing the mask of curiosity.

He wasn’t from the story. Not Stromboli. Not Connor or Travis. This man—this presence—was something else entirely. An intruder.

Pinocchio gestured innocently to the empty coat rack. “He went to get the doctor. My nose won’t go down.”

The figure gave no indication he’d heard. He was already moving, gliding across the warped wooden floor, fingers dragging over the counter. Wherever he touched, the wood darkened, warped—like his touch was spoiling it.

You took a step forward instinctively, but didn’t intervene. Not yet. Something about the scene rooted you in place. But it wasn’t real—it was performance, with stakes that felt all too personal.

“I’m an old friend,” he said smoothly. “Your father owes me.”

“Owes you what?” Jiminy asked sharply, stepping forward.

The man ignored him.

He crouched to Pinocchio’s eye level, and suddenly, the walls seemed closer, the room too small. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“He took something. Something precious. A name, maybe. A promise.”

Pinocchio shifted uncomfortably. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he lies.” The man rose again, drifting toward the cluttered shelves. “Not with words. With love. That’s the most dangerous kind.”

You felt your own pulse falter. The shadows behind him seemed to breathe.

Pinocchio tilted his head. “But… he loves me.”

The masked man laughed—low and almost pitying. “Does he?”

He reached for the register and pried it open. The drawer coughed out coins and bills like it wanted to be rid of them.

Jiminy flailed. “Hey, hey! Hands off the till!”

“Just collecting what I’m owed,” the man said, slipping the money into a black bag that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “But I can offer something in return.”

He turned, stepping forward again. A glint in his palm.

A diamond.

Huge. Flawless. Not shining—glowing, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

“Here,” he said. “For your honesty.”

Pinocchio stared, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s truth,” the man replied. “And it’s heavy, isn’t it? Isn’t it strange, how you’ve never received anything so lovely… from him?”

Pinocchio’s expression dimmed.

“He makes toys for everyone else. Repairs clocks for strangers. But when was the last time he carved something just for you?”

Jiminy’s voice cracked. “Kid, don’t listen to him. He’s twisting you around.”

“Is it twisted,” the man asked softly, “to notice when you’re not wanted?”

Pinocchio flinched. His nose grew another inch with a jolt that made him wince. But he didn’t respond.

The masked man kneeled again, that pale stare burning through the holes in his mask. “You are made of lies,” he whispered. “And every time you try to be good, you only become more false. Do you know why?”

Pinocchio shook his head.

“Because he made you in his image.”

Silence.

Then: a snap—the long, hanging clocks on the wall all jerked to midnight at once. They rang with no chime. Just dull, metallic thuds, like teeth snapping shut.

“I should go,” the man said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ve already said too much.”

“But—” Pinocchio clutched the diamond. “Wait. Was it true?”

The man tilted his head as if listening to something far away. Then, with the faintest smile, he murmured:

“Truth is just a beautiful lie we all agreed to believe.”

The man turned to leave out through the door—but it didn’t open normally this time. It simply folded away, like paper curling in firelight. Halfway through the threshold of that flickering, flame-eaten doorway, the man paused.

Your breath caught.

It had already been a nightmare.

But now the nightmare saw you.

He turned.

Right toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

No one in these dreams was supposed to see you. Not the characters. Not the illusions. Only the dream spirits.

You were a visitor. An observer. A ghost moving through someone else’s grief.

But this man didn’t just see you.

He looked through you.

His pale eyes locked with yours, and in them—something powerful stirred.

Something that reminded you, with chilling clarity, of your age.

Small.

Powerless.

Exposed.

The air in the room shifted—grew sharp, like it had been threaded with glass. He tilted his head. Then—slow, deliberate—raised a hand and waved.

Not friendly. Not mocking.

Intimate. Like he knew you.

Something cold unspooled in your gut. But he was gone in the next second. He stepped through the burning-paper door, vanishing like smoke behind a candle. The world didn’t ripple. It twitched.

And that’s when you realized— You weren’t breathing. You drew in air slowly, carefully, like it might cut going down. Around you, the dream had resumed, unbothered. Pinocchio sobbed quietly, his nose curling like a brittle vine. Jiminy trembled, visibly shaken, his antennae twitching like nerves in a lightning storm. But you stood apart. Frozen.

Because he had seen you. He knew you didn’t belong here.

And he’d acknowledged it.

Which meant one thing: This wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t stitched together by your subconscious.

It was pointed. You were being watched. You wiped your palms on your pants, but they were still clammy. Your mouth felt full of ash. Like a fire had been lit inside you.

Pinocchio turned to Jiminy. His voice was small, cracked.

“Jiminy… was he right?”

“Of course not!” Jiminy barked—but his voice wavered. “He was just trying to scare you. Twist your strings.”

Pinocchio nodded slowly, but his eyes didn’t follow.

“I never know who to believe. I try. But it’s always wrong. I’m always wrong. I’ll never be the boy he wants.”

The diamond shimmered in his lap like it was listening.

He sobbed—harder than before. His nose hung down past the table’s edge now, curling like a dead branch. The clocks ticked again, but none in rhythm. One bled ink. Another spat sawdust.

Then the door creaked open, stuttering like a skipping heartbeat.

“Pinocchio, I’m home—”

Geppetto stopped cold at the sight of his son crumpled in tears.

He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside him.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Pinocchio looked up through the veil of his own crying. His voice came out cracked and distant, as if spoken through water.

“Father… are you a liar?”

Geppetto blinked. “What? Of course not—!”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“He… couldn’t make it—”

“You went to give toys to other kids, didn’t you?”

“What? Now, Pinocchio—”

“No!” Pinocchio shoved his hand away and stood, fists balled at his sides.

“You lied! You said you’d get a doctor, and you didn’t!”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

The word struck like glass each time.

Even the house reacted—lights dimming, walls groaning, a chair leg snapping under invisible weight.

Wow. Who knew Pinocchio had it in him?

Even Figaro peeked out from the stairs and darted back immediately, tail low.

“I hate you!”

You could almost hear Geppetto’s heart crack.

And honestly? Pinocchio was seriously starting to get on your nerves.

You stepped forward, half-tempted to snap him out of it—

when a knock echoed from the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The room shivered.

Geppetto sighed and stood. He looked older. Dimmer.

He opened the door.

“Officer?” he asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

The man on the threshold wore a uniform, sure. But it didn’t fit right. Too crisp. Too still. Like it had been cut from paper and folded onto him.

“There was a robbery at the jewelry store down the street,” he said. His voice was monotone. Unnatural. “We received a tip. Said the stolen diamond is here. With you.”

Geppetto chuckled nervously. “Me? That’s ridiculous. There’s no diamond here.”

“I’m going to have to search the shop.”

Geppetto stepped in front of the door. “You’ll need a warrant.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. They didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

#perserverance #nico diangelo x reader #nico diangelo x male reader

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reynaisbetterthananyman · 19 days ago

Text

Star Light, Star Bright.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 18.6k

warning: kinda graphic descriptions

a/n: i recommend reading this chapter on a03. It’s so long that the whole thing doesn’t fit on here (oopsies?) most of the chapter is written here but the ending is on a03!

previous, orginal version here, masterlist, ao3, next