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subwillsolace · 1 day ago

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It's not that Will is loud on purpose.

He's not.

He tries his best, okay. He softens his footsteps, watches where he steps. He's not, like, Nico, who could sneak up pandai in clown shoes, but he's not awful. He tries to choke down the awful snorting noise he knows he makes when he laughs and makes a great effort to keep his voice down -- he can't always tell when he's talking too loud, but he tries.

The issue, he reasons, is that Nico is hell fucking bent on -- on making him scream. He scowls whenever he notices Will tamping himself down. Pokes him hard in the stomach when he catches him muffling his laughter in his hands. Squeezes his hands when someone winces when he talks, loudly exclaiming how much he appreciated Will's volume. All this is very sweet. The not-so-sweet part comes in when they're fooling around in Nico's cabin, because it has an obsidian door easily turned solid and impenetrable and no irritating, interrupting siblings, and Nico latches his smart mouth on Will's sensitive neck or ribs or the spot right on the small of his back, between his dimples, and sinks his teeth in like he's trying to -- like he's trying to eat Will, to devour him. Fucks him like he's trying to press Will 2D. Teases him until he's sobbing.

No, Will is not loud on purpose.

But gods above, he is loud.

"Gonna go enjoy yourself, Willy?" says Lou Ellen, eyeing his medical bag with a shit-eating grin.

"I'm going to do a medical examination," he hisses, bright red. "And don't call me Willy!"

"I'm sure you are," adds Cecil. He reaches out a hand and they slap palms without looking, expressions a matching evil.

Will stomps away before he strangles them.

To his great distress, his asshole best friends are not the only campers in a teasing mood. "Enjoy yourself," snickers one counsellor, as he rushes by, "Try not to shatter a window this time," teases another. By the time he reaches his boyfriend's cabin he's pumice. Nico looks up when he slams open the door, off the loveseat in a millisecond, book tumbling to the floor. Eyes wide, hand twitching at his side.

"Will? What --"

"You are at fault," he shouts, and then collapses, face-first, on Nico's unmade bed.

The sheets start to smolder.

There's a low huff of breath and a hand sliding cool and stark up his back, making him twitch. He tries and fails to shrug him off, and the mattress dips on either side of his hips. A weight settles on his tailbone.

"They teasing you?" Nico asks, voice low in his ear. His cold hands trace down his back, this time, lingering right above his waistband. His t-shirt remains bunched up by his deltoids.

"Your fault," Will reiterates, weakly. "It used to -- mean something, me coming in here with my med bag --"

Nico laughs, like motorcycle tires on gravel, and the sound shoots up Will's spine, pooling in his belly.

"Been a long time since you've done a goddamn thing to my heart except set it pounding, Dr. Solace," he whispers. His breath ghosts the shell of Will's ear, and his teeth follow it, pulling gently, carefully. Will buries his face in the blankets and tries not to die. "You bring that stethoscope of yours?" His hands are ice, but his breath is warm, and the conflicting sensations set Will's skin on fire; he can't decide whether to flinch away, to burrow close. Nico seems to enjoy his struggling, tracing circles into his heated flesh, hovering, teasing. "Gonna listen to my heart kick into gear as you bounce on my --"

"That is a gross misuse of medical equipment," Will says, sitting up and shoving him off. He can't quite move quickly enough to cover his flaming face and it sets Nico snickering, low and breathy. He gives Will less than a minute to get his breathing under control, to press his palms to fevered cheeks in a desperate attempt to cool them down, to blink the swirls and stars away. He walks on his knees until he's settled in between Will's thighs, taller than him -- barely -- at this angle, pushing his hair back. He waits until Will meets his eyes.

"You're not usually this bothered," he observes.

"Half the fuckin' camp isn't usually aware I'm about to get stuffed," he grumbles. He feels his ears heat at his own wording. "Feel like I'm -- being watched."

Nico bites his lip. There is a look in his eyes, sparkling and triumphant, that precedes a sentence he knows Will is going to smack him about.

"You, uh. You sure about that."

Will eyes him warily. "Sure about what, di Angelo."

Nico cups both of his cheeks and kisses him squarely between the eyes, which is bad -- he only ever does that when Will is freaking out, and Will is not freaking out, so that means --

"Diletto," he murmurs, and Will can hear the laughter in his voice, "you are not a quiet person."

"I -- know that!"

"And," Nico continues, holding down his straining arms, "you like to leave marks --"

"That could mean anything! That --"

"Scratches on my shoulders," Nico laughs, "bites along my chest, sunburn on my face, luce de sole, you cannot stand the thought that anyone else could claim the look on my face --"

"Blasphemy!" Will cries. "Libel, this is --"

"Will," Nico says, and kisses him to shut him up, but there was no need; there is a voice, he uses, when he wants Will quiet, low and suppressed, steel and challenging. A flash in his eyes. Will couldn't speak even if Nico's tongue wasn't in his mouth -- he uses that voice and the only thought in Will's head is a whimper and a yes, sir. "Stop thinking about everybody else."

"Someone brought up the window incident," he argues, faint and despondent. "I -- how do they even know, I told them --"

"Please tell me you did not think people actually believed you when you said you took up opera."

"I -- could have!"

"Will, you walked out of my cabin the next morning in my shirt and limping."

"Opera is chaotic!"

"Oh my gods."

Nico kisses him again, but there is no teasing in it, not this time. The laughter in his voice disappears down Will's throat, ahead of his tongue; Nico presses him against the pillow, presses into him so hard Will feels the smarting cut of his teeth. He makes quick work of Will's wrinkled shirt, pushing it bunched up past the sun on his chest, resting one frigid palm flat against his areola, one on the side of his neck. There's not even space for Will to make a sound. Everything gets swallows up by Nico's mouth, hungry, lips moving against his so fast and disorienting Will's head spins.

"The stronzelli will believe whatever the hell they want," he says darkly, barely bothering to pull away to say it. He presses his mouth, teeth scraping, to the side of Will's mouth, to the underside of his jaw. "They can come watch, for all I care." His fingers find the barbells on either side of Will's nipple and tugs, just enough force to sting, to make Will drop open his mouth, to make him wrap his legs around the knee Nico has shoved between them, to grind up, and up. Nico grins darkly and tugs harder. "They don't get to have you. They don't get to make you scream."

Will is not at screaming yet, but if there is one thing about Niccolò di Angelo, it is that he puts his money -- often his actual money, when Will is involved -- where his mouth is. He moans, arms up when Nico manhandles him, tugging his shirt up and off his shoulders.

"Off," Will whines, pulling at Nico's, and he grins and complies, tossing it somewhere vaguely behind him. He grabs Will's wrists when Will tries to touch him and gathers them both in one hand, pinning them above his head, using his free hand to dig his nail around the shape of Will's ribs, making him buck, making him gasp.

"Ni-i-co --"

His boyfriend's name is seven broken syllables as he teases, and it's not on purpose, never on purpose, but he's gratified anyway at the shudder that goes down Nico's back, the way his eyes darken. His breathing picks up, anticipating what comes after that darkness, what will follow the controlled set of his jaw and the sudden slowing of his teasing fingers.

"Up," he says, letting go and pulling back. Will hesitates, and Nico takes the time to settle against the headboard, to gesture at the space next to the bed. Will climbs slowly off the bed, skin flushed, marks red and raised, lips buzzing. He clenches his hands into fists to avoid crossing them over his chest, and is rewarded by Nico's dark grin. "Strip."

Will's breath shudders, and his eyes flutter closed; it has been a minute, since Nico has chosen this. Since he has settled against the bed with his own length in his hand and ordered Will to present himself, rather than tearing Will's clothes off of him like some kind of animal. (It certainly wasn't yesterday, when Will came back to him after his volleyball block sweaty and covered in sand, shirtless, and Nico had taken him apart with his tongue. Will didn't even have time to unbutton his shorts. Rest in peace to his fucking zipper.)

His hands shake as he fiddles with his belt, and it takes him longer than usual. He's frustrated by the time he tugs the leather off, and moves to tear his shorts down his legs, but Nico's hum stops him.

"Slower, piccolo. Turn around."

Will groans and has to stop himself from -- bowling over, Christ alive. Little one. Yeah, right, he's damn near twice Nico's size, but he knows -- Nico knows, when he --

One look over to his shithead boyfriend shows him grinning ear to ear, moving a hand slowly up his length, thumbing the precum at the head. He takes his time, noticing Will looking, spreading the thick white almost teasingly, tauntingly. Will's mouth actually waters, which is humiliating, and by Nico's snort he knows it, too.

Piccolo, he says.

Will shivers, stomach twitching. Motherfucker.

He turns around and really takes his time, steeling himself and his pounding heart before fiddling with his button, playing with the zipper. He arches his back as he bends over, dragging his shorts down his legs, and grins something smug himself when he hears the stutter in Nico's breath, the pause and speed-up of his hand. He is slower, still, with his briefs, inching them slow and careful down his ass, pausing just at the line under his cheeks, letting them swell over the elastic.

He jumps, when he feels cool hands on him -- how the hell does he do that, genuinely, it’s not fair he can teleport -- on his hips, on the dip of his back, on the lines up to his ribs. And, finally, on his ass, digging into the fat, sharp and possessive. Will drops his briefs and lets them pool around his ankles, breathing heavy.

"Could fuck you here," Nico offers, pressing his lips to the back of Will's neck. To his shoulder, gentle, lingering. "'F'you want."

But Will shakes his head, turning so he's square in Nico's arms, hunching over to bury his face in his neck. "Bed," he murmurs, squeezing Nico's hips, "please."

And Nico smiles into his hair, kisses his temple, and nods. Guides him over to the bed, lays him down on it. Wraps his mouth and tongue around each nipple until Will is begging for it, tugs on his navel piercing with his teeth. Grins wide and dark as he sinks his teeth into the scar on Will's hip, holding there until blood beads up that he wipes away with his tongue, until Will is crying out, until he is sobbing with it. Stretches him just barely, the way Will likes it, so he's not in any danger but will feel it for days unless he heals it himself. Bends Will and half and kisses the ankle at eye level, tangling their hands together and speeds up until Will is breathless, then slowing until Will has desperate tears in his eyes.

People probably do glance through the one window, just to check that Will is alive -- he feels like he might not be, shouting until his voice is hoarse, scrabbling his nails over Nico's bare shoulders, babbling nonsense between every other thrust, begging. Will is -- a rational and levelheaded person, usually; he's loud, sure, but he has a solid head on his shoulders, he's always known so. He works well under pressure and maybe even better when things are falling apart. He is careful with his words, careful with how he holds himself. Conscientious of how other people see him.

Nico makes him feel like there's a -- like there's a different person inside him, some pleasure-hungry, desperate thing, but can only be unlocked by the key at the end of his cock.

It would be absurd if it wasn't so fucking toe-curling, stomach-coiling, brain-damagingly hot.

"Close," Nico murmurs, some of the steadiness in his voice faltering, and that does it for Will more than anything else; he moans, breath catching in his throat, because he did that, because he shook him, shook Nico.

He pulls his boyfriend impossibly closer to him, trying to bury his face in his neck, and he hears him huff a laugh, feels him slow just enough to push Will back, to readjust. To kiss down Will's neck, to force him out of the hidden spot between them.

"Wanna hear you," Nico murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck that's almost sweet. "Fuck 'em, tesoro. Show me how much you like me."

And it's --

How much Will likes him.

Will gasps and Nico grins and he doubles his efforts, reaching down a hand to wrap around Will's straining cock, and his hands are rough, so rough, always. Sword callused and pen-callused and everything callused, and they drag against the soft, sensitive skin, brush against his hip bones, so gently, and the stretch of his hole drags and burns, a little, and the hammer of Nico's blunt head against his nerves is white-hot and all it takes is the barest hint of Nico's teeth against his nipple, really. Sharp, dangerous.

He cums with a scream, and Nico cums laughing.

"Shut the hell up," Will says, voice raspy. But he is smiling, and Nico is kissing it off his face, again, and again.

"Love you," Nico murmurs, kissing his lips, his philtrum, his cheeks, his chin, until Will is laughing, too, pushing his face away. "You loudmouth."

"Your goddamn fault."

And Nico smiles, and it is crooked as cracked glass, and Will is never in a million years going to manage to be quiet, not in the face of that.

"Always."

-- -- --

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subwillsolace · 3 days ago

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It is past three in the morning and Will is -- up.

Awake.

He isn't, usually. Well, he is, because he's quick to lose time in the OR, in the lab below the Big House. He is quick to lose time staring up at Kayla's bunk, remembering how the springs at the bottom of the mattress would compress every time Leanna moved in her sleep. Often, dancer as she was.

He smiles, at the memory, anticipating the arrow puncture in his heart. He feels along his chest convinced his fingers will be coated in slippery blood. They are not. He wipes them on his shirt, anyway.

The clouds pull back from the full moon, and he sighs, turning his face up to it. It is yellow, tonight, and yesterday; the odd shadows it casts make him think of fireflies and owl hoots, hissing harpies along the common. They were a lot meaner, then. They'd gather, if he caught their eye, and conspire together, dark whispers rising, about how to reach him, how to dig their talons into his dangling ankles and drag him down to devour. They never caught him. He's fast, and better climbers than they are. And the gold tiles of Cabin Seven's roof smart with heat long after the sun kisses the ground.

It has been a long time, since he sat on the roof. The harpies don't even look at him.

He rests his chin on his knees and stares outward. There is a light on in the Athena cabin as there usually is, but Malcolm, pacing by the open window, is too absorbed to see him. He can hear muttering and footsteps two doors down and chooses, for his own peace of mind, to ignore it. The less he knows the better. But there is no one else out, and if there was, they would be oblivious to him; he sits in the blind spot he discovered, the third or fourth time he climbed up here, tucked against the sculpted chimney. Shroud in shadows, except for his too-bright eyes.

No one is looking, anyway.

He tries not to but ends up, anyway, looking through his curtained hair to the far corner of the odd, mismatched U of the cabins. To the one on the top of the small hill, darker than the rest of them, half-hidden, regal and watchful. This morning -- yesterday morning, rather -- he had been tucked inside it, hiding in the hollow of the antique desk no one but Will ever uses, face burning as Nico leaned shamelessly in the doorway. Lying, bold-faced.

"Haven't seen him," he'd drawled, as if the asker was stupid for bringing up the question. "Busy meeting with Tisiphone."

He hadn't been. He had been playing Mythomagic, actually, kicked it quickly under his bed when Will came pounding, frantic, begging him to hide first and ask questions later. He could see the blue and gold of the cards, low-lying as he was.

Nico hadn't hesitated. Flush fading from his cheeks, eyes hardening instantly.

"Go," he'd said, commanded. "Under the desk. Don't come out until I tell you."

Will shivers, shoving his flaming face in his kneecaps.

Authoritative, he'd sounded. Princely. Ordering Will, easily, like he knew what to do, like he'd figured out a way, already, to protect him. Like he knew Will would listen.

It is stupid and foolish because Nico is friendly, more than anything, and despite what others think. He is kind and quick to smile even if it is a little off-putting and he makes it off-putting on purpose. He is careful with his words and patient with the children he teaches, with the nosy brats doing cartwheels at Will's dinner table. Light with his touches, fleeting hand at the small of his back, on the way into counsellor meetings, on the scarred curve of his wrist, when they tremble. Eyes understanding, and dark, and dark, and dark.

He is friendly with everyone, not just Will. Nodding when people wave and standing guard when frustrated learners cry. Carrying wounded for Will to treat. He sacrifices of himself, and always has, and he has been raised a commander for half his life. Of course he protected Will, when he needed it, of course he knew Will would follow his directions. He will be a king, one day. Already is really. He is good to his subjects and knows how to move them.

And, yet.

Will begs his wretched heart to listen to reason. He is not ten anymore; neither of them are. Nico is not the bright-eyed, hyper mess (crooked, scheming smile is the same, though, isn't it, whispers his traitorous mind) Will met years ago, eyes wide and heart pounding as he wrapped a bandage around his sliced calf. Nico is not the aching soul who hissed when Will knocked hesitantly at his door, who watched him, confused and wary, as he sprinted away, plate of food left behind. Nico is not the dying shadow of two summers ago, even.

Nico is -- handsome. Teasing. Sharp cheekbones and big eyes and fanning eyelashes, rough hands and sharp canines and a wide, knowing smirk. And he has no shortage of chest-puffing, capable swordsmen competing for his attention, challenging him in the amphitheater, keeping up with him. No shortage of tall, striking legionnaires as stunning as statues who slap his shoulders and call him 'ambassador'. No shortage of mortals, even, gangly and clever and quick and who know him as a messenger, of sorts, an intriguing cryptid. Nico has his pick of the litter. Nico can have anyone.

He likes Will, though. Picks him flowers in the spring, to put in his hair. Went canoeing with him last week even though he hates it and they ended up capsizing in the mud, Will laughing so hard he snorted something humiliating and awful and Nico so silent and fuming it made Will's horrid snorting worse.

But Will is not hard to like.

It aches like candlelight in the sensitive edge of his palms and Will can hear his brothers groaning, his sisters cooing; he can hear the teasing over the snooped-in pages of his diary, the he is obsessed, Cassandra and oh, Lee, let him hope. What's the harm.

What's the harm, indeed.

"Neurotic delusions," Will mutters to himself. "Hope-sick hallucinations."

Because that is what they are, really. From his father's own mouth Will has heard it: he is genetically predisposed, as they all are, to hopeless longing, to chasing the Laurel, the Daphne; to inventing proofs that don't exist and loving the scarlet herring more than any other color. Will has had his fair share of pitying handsqueezes and oh, Will, I didn't know you felt that way…, his fair share of strained giggling and you're-such-a-good-friends

.Will knows he is gangly and talks to much and laughs like a drugged-up elephant and can't hold a sword right to save his life. He knows his grit teeth and refusal to shoot gets him nothing but whispers and his hours locked up over salves and vials makes him as strange as intriguing, like a particularly shining stinkbug. He has all of the inept awkwardness of Athena's children with none of their capable charm, none of their swordsure hands and hard, serious faces.

Soft, Silena used to call him. Somethin', alright, Beckendorf would add. Rough hand in his hair and twinkle in his eye.

Will presses his hands to his face and sighs.

The sun his coming up, finally, and he forces himself up to wish his aunt a respectful goodnight, to greet his father. They are silent, both of them, but something eases in his chest at the brief moment of both of them, in yellowed gold, washing him in light. His shadowed hiding spot ebbs away and he climbs down after it, feet finding familiar hold in the soft metal, in the old redwood pillars. His bare heels hit the porch just as he hears Austin's jaw crack as he yawns, as he hears Gracie's reflexive ewwwwww! He slips inside and shuts the door behind him, sliding under his twisted sheets just in time to meet Kayla's accusing eyes.

"You snore," he says, in explanation. She narrows her eyes, waiting for the hives to no doubt dot his lying throat, but it's true, she does. It doesn't wake Will, not anymore, not like the endless image of his palms soaking in blood, like the sound of bridge wire snapping as surely as spine. She can find no fault in his steady gaze and only huffs to herself, stretching. Will exhales in the noise of it, and the rest of his siblings, pressing a dew-crisp hand to his pounding chest. He holds his breath, quick and short, and envisions his own grip on his pounding heart, pressing imaginary palms to the vibrating hum of it. It slows, quickly, and when he can speak without his voice cracking he does, finding his sure feet on the creaking hardwood.

"Morning," he says, soft, aware still of tired ears and pillow-creases on round cheeks. "Everyone sleep okay?" Yan whines and tips forward. Will barely catches him, snorting as the still-warm little ball of him curls into Will's chest and starts again to snore. "I guess not."

"Austin's fault," Gracie pouts, glaring at him. He sputters. "I had nightmares!"

"It was not that scary!" Austin defends. "It's ghost week, you little twerp, you could have just plugged your ears --"

"You were loud on purpose!"

"I was not! You're such a --"

"Alright," Will warns, holding Yan a little tighter. "Enough, you two. Austin, I talked to you already about the horror stories before bed." Austin scowls, shrinking in on himself. "And -- Gracie, dude, you ask him for them. I am not a defense attorney. I can only do so much." She picks at a scab on her elbow. It is silent, for a moment, except for the laughter Kayla muffles in her pajama shirt.

"Sorry," Gracie mumbles, eventually. "Mostly I'm sorry that you're such a worm-faced stinkhead, but also I'm sorry for telling on you."

Austin opens his mouth in outrage. Will shoots him another warning look, and he bites it back, although Will catches the mouthed favoritism and injustice!!! thrown his way.

"I am sorry too," Austin says, begrudgingly. He opens his mouth to insult in kind and then remembers he is having a genuine argument with a seven-year-old, and sighs. "I fu -- freaking guess."

Will sighs and lets it pass. It is -- it is five fifteen in the morning, and he slept approximately seventeen non-consecutive minutes last night, so.

"Alright," he says tiredly. "All of you, get your caddies. Let's beat Hermes to the bathrooms so we can have warm showers, hm?"

This motivates them. Gracie and Austin even work together to find her lost caddy -- tucked in the corner past the rafters, for some reason -- to get to the precious warm water faster, all animosity forgotten.

There are four working shower stalls -- nine total, three broken, two rigged to spit acid -- and Will walks right to the sink to brush his teeth. He hears the rest of them start up, snorts around his toothbrush as someone starts is this a reeealll world -- and OR JUST A FANTASSYYYYYY follows immediately after. There are several added verses not cleared by Mr. Mercury. They work, somehow. Someone should consult the man.

When the rock ballad is finished Will gathers his things, tucking his lavender shampoo in his towel and bothering with little else. He turns the water on and does not bother waiting for heat he knows will not come, gritting his teeth and speeding through detangling his ridiculous curls. He spent approximately no time on a pillow last night. There should be no matts. And yet.

"Hurry up," whines someone, possibly Jerry, who has now had enough time to recover human speech, "I want to get to the dining hall before the good fruit is gone and --"

"All fruit is good fruit," calls Will on reflex, and he scowls when he realizes he is echoed by four, mocking voices, breaking immediately into giggles. "I'm almost done, you insolent brats."

There is giggling still when he is done, rubbing soap out of a reddened eye and sliding a shirt over his still-wet torso. He winces. Gods, that is the worst of all feelings. He would never wear a shirt if it were socially acceptable and not unjust.

"Woah," says Austin, eyes wide. His eyes fixate on Will's belly. "What's that?"

"What?" Will frowns, tugging at the neon orange. Shoot, did he grab the wrong shirt? He should have gotten rid of them, he knows, but the non-head-medic shirts are in the back of his drawer and he rarely ever --

"You got pierced?!"

This time it is Kayla's voice, shrill and disbelieving. Will freezes.

"No," he lies, and is immediately punished for it. His throat swells, and he wheezes, trying in vain to choke it back but it is no use.

"You did!" his oldest sister shrieks. "You did, you pierced yourself in the belly button oh my gods --"

With every word Will gets more and more red, and not from the hives he can already feel fading. Kayla's volume ups with every repetition and there is a light flicker, in the nearby Hypnos cabin -- in the Hypnos cabin, Jesus fuck -- and he lunges forward and slaps his hand over her mouth, clamping her jaw shut.

"Not a word," he orders, sweeping his gaze to meet four pairs of wide eyes. "I mean it, not a word --"

"You're going to get in so much trouble," says Gracie, solemn. Austin, who does not share her sorrow for Will's fate, cackles. "When your Mama finds out -- when Chiron finds out --"

"Don't tell them, how's that," Will hisses, but he is reddening quickly, because it is ridiculous, isn't it, that he is allowed to sew people up and attach heads back to bodies but an illicit piercing in a barely suggestive area is the limit, somehow. People die in this stupid camp.

"You asked and they said no," Kayla adds gleefully. "They said no, and you went and got it done --"

"They said I was not to set foot in a parlor," Will says hotly. "I didn't break a single rule."

Will's implication hits Kayla first and she looks about ready to murder him. Keloids, her eyes say, infections and reactions --

But it occurs to them, or maybe it is reflected in Will's eyes: he has sanitized suture needles with a touch and put beating hearts back in cavities. It took nothing at all to slip a hypodermic needle in his pocket, to clamp his shirt between his teeth in the empty on-call room and stab it through his navel, to pull the glittering stud in right after it. Will holds their gaze and tries not to let it show in his eyes: the sun on his chest, now, too, from the tattoo gun Cecil 'borrowed' for him (and returned, he checked) or the tiny, curling vine of Asphodel flowers between the dimples on his back. The three silver studs he has waiting in the seams of his mattress, one for his tongue, the other two for…uh, the only place besides his ears he would need a matching set. The less they know the better. Always.

"I don't say a word about the --" he sweeps his gaze down to the kids, before meeting Kayla and Austin's eyes again -- "the, uh, oregano you two enjoy, so maybe peel it back some."

Will may be the only one allergic, but none of them are particularly fantastic liars. Will catches the guilty look they exchange and the red the appears quite suddenly on both their faces.

"We, uh." Austin clears his throat. Kayla kicks her foot in the packed dirt, hiding behind her hair. "Didn't realize you knew about that."

"I've borrowed it," Will says drily. He meets their outrage with a lazy grin. "Older brother tax."

He's got them square any they know it, judging by their scowl. It is one thing to hide it from Chiron -- duh -- but from their Head Counsellor…who are they going to snitch to?

No one, that's who.

"What's oregano?" asks Yan.

"Ask Nico," says Will brusquely, clamping a hand on their shoulders. "Let's go to breakfast. And, uh." He glances at the younger kids in order. "Y'all keep quiet and I'll do your chores for a month."

"Deal," say three voices immediately -- gleefully, Will has far overpromised -- and all of his siblings follow him quickly and easily to the dining hall.

They miss the good fruit.

But there is fruit, still, and a raised eyebrow or two at their lateness, but really, they are late for the sun god's children. It is still early enough to be frigid. Most of the camp coalesces in the limited showers, now, screaming and shoving and begging. There is the telltale sign of someone risking the acid stalls. Will sighs. That will be his mess to clean up, later.

"You're picking," observes a voice, followed quickly by a cool, sure press of arms. Nico slides next to him on the bench, carrying his own breakfast -- sashimi that looks to be genuinely from Japan, Will sighs, having long given up, and Nico grins -- and letting it clatter on the weathered lumber. "You sleep okay?"

"Coming from you," Will teases, instead of answering. He pushes his breakfast away, tucking his shaking hands under his thigh. "What time'd you get back last night?"

"Oh, early." Nico waves a hand. "I got this in the morning. Wanted it fresh."

"I still think he should be taxed," Austin says, eyeing the fish hungrily. "This is not his table."

"Twenty percent," Kayla agrees. She reaches for a slice of salmon and scowls when Nico slaps her hand away. "He has his own table and ours is squished."

People used to have to stand, Will thinks, and is saved from speaking around the choking grip of his throat when Nico waves his hand and a skeletal arm shoots out from the earth, gripping Kayla's ankle. She shrieks, and then lets loose a string of cuss words so creative and jaw-dropping it gives Will an excuse to put his head in his hands until the hyperventilation stops.

"Rounds," Will says tiredly, when he surfaces. He feels every minute of his near-eighteen years, only squared. And then doubled, for good measure. "From noon until dinner, Kayla, Christ alive."

She cusses some more under her breath, because she knows that Will is not going to punish her more, but stops when he glares at her.

The little kids are giggling and Will, uselessly, prays that they will learn from their sister's punishment and not repeat her mistakes. He watches Yan experimentally mouth a word that begins with c and ends in t and knows this is futile.

By the time the rest of camp staggers in, they are near finished. Will stays, anyway, because he knows the kids like to socialize, and so long as they are actually eating at their own tables -- lone doctor's note exempt, of course -- their directors tend to turn a blind eye.

"So," Nico says, when it is just the two of them. "What kept you up?"

Will pauses.

Nico has him pinned, with those huge, knowing eyes, eyebrows raised just enough to say the he knows Will is full of it and is not as easily deflected as his siblings. Will slumps.

"Oh, you know," he says lightly, tracing the woodgrain with his fingers, "same old, same old."

"Ah," Nico says, face softening. "You know you can come to me, if you have nightmares."

Will works hard to keep the relief from his face. Nightmares. Good. He nods, squeezing Nico's hand to show he understands, and they spend the rest of the breakfast block in companionable silence.

It is better, if Nico thinks that's all it is.

It's not that Will doesn't get nightmares. Of course he does. No one who has failed as many times as he does isn't haunted by the faces he has killed before their time. Will knows them all and has memorized the sound of his name in their hatred. But he has had these nightmares almost as long as he has been alive, or at least as long as he remembers. He is used to the disruption they cause, the weight they have on his soul. Like the frog in the slowly heating pot, he has a few more degrees before this kills him.

It is the -- heart pounding, painfully ridiculous hope that robs his remaining hours from him.

There is no way to explain without choking on it, so he doesn't. How the curve of Nico's mouth when he laughs -- truly laughs -- lays imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, to replay over and over when he tries to sleep, how the brand of Nico's hands on him, any way he allows, burns hotter than any healing hymn, than any stray campfire spark. Will has had his share of fleeting crushes and lusts and infatuations, but Nico has been constant and bruising since they first time he skipped into camp, blunt and endlessly, endlessly curious. He doesn't remember what it feels like not to be crushed by him.

He guides his siblings to their scheduled blocks in between his infirmary shifts. He schedules them specially, so his breaks -- when he can afford them -- coincide with their transitions, so he can be the one to bring them to Arts n Crafts, to archery. It is spring still but the Southern campers have already made their way up, finished school crisply by the first week of June, and it is busy enough that full cots hog Will's attention. They will have the rest of their siblings here soon -- there have been no country children in Cabin Seven since Will, who had, then, been the youngest of five who migrated up from the sweltering heat -- along with others who have practiced, and there will be more of a balance in time spent within the infirmary and outside of it. But Will has forgotten a time when they were not short-staffed and for now they have half their summer numbers with only the winter healers to treat them, and it is tiring.

Nico brings him lunch, a little past 2. It is good enough that it cannot be from the dining hall. Will smiles, and tries desperately to convince himself that not all kind gestures have ribbons attached.

By the campfire Will is dead on his feet. He spent longer than intended in his white coat, treating an arterial tear, and there was some kind of archery competition for him to referee in the the late afternoon. He might have participated only it was camp-wide, and it is more than a little embarrassing to be half the shot your baby sister is. He was happy to watch, anyway. Kayla and Gracie look almost nothing alike, but their faces crease in the exact same way when they are focused, and he had an excellent view of it from behind the targets. He tries to memorize Kayla's rolled eyes alongside her pleased huff at his quiet congratulations, tries to save the dig of Gracie's sneakers as she climbed her way up his legs, cheering.

The campfire is warm, although the air is not. Kayla and Austin both slump on his shoulders, halfway to snoring, and he is careful not to move, to keep them steady; Yan curls up small in the center of his lap and Jerry and Gracie claim either side of his legs, passed out on each knee. Other cabins leave, one by one, and Will knows he will have to wake them, soon -- he is close to passing out himself, only he doesn't want to slump in his sleep and leave them all on the floor -- but he lets himself linger, for a moment. Lets his eyes unfocus on the gentle orange swirl of the flames, and the heat of his siblings leech into him, almost all the way to his heart.

There is a click, to his left. He blinks, and -- careful to move only his head -- turns to face the noise, where Nico is smiling in that particular way of his. Dead-faced, except his eyes, which sparkle like skylight.

"Got a little something on you," he jokes, gesturing to Will's little ducklings, voice as flickering as flame.

Will smiles tiredly back. "Did I? I hadn't notice."

Nico snorts, letting his camera, one Hazel bought him for his fifteenth birthday, and for which everyone quietly supplies him film throughout the years since, rest against his chest, hanging from its straps. He shakes the photo, inspecting it carefully, and tucks it in his pocket before Will can see. He stands and nods to Lady Hestia, who hums at them both, and then pokes at the flames until they are embers. When there is nothing but burning coal and long shadows, Nico crouches so that he looms, barely, over Will's shoulder, and slides his hand over his waist. Will shivers.

"Brace yourself," he murmurs. "You get dizzy easily."

Will squeezes his eyes shut, although it does nothing. All he can smell is woodsmoke, from more than the fire, and petrichor, and, ironically, the slightest touch of oregano, and he is dizzy with it already. He hardly feels it as Nico drags them all into shadows and pulls them into the darkened Cabin Seven, where they never bother with anything but the lights from the window, except maybe the odd fairy light.

"There," Nico murmurs, dragging his thumb over Will's softened shirt, over the bend of his ribs. He fights back a gasp. "Give it a minute, the vertigo will start to fade."

Only it doesn't, because Nico does not move his hand. It only gets worse, until Will feels like he is swimming, like he is floating; he can feel Nico's calluses, even through his shirt. He does not often fall apart like this.

Nico does not often caress his waist.

It is the only free spot, he begs his mind to consider. There is literally not a single other area of me that is free to touch, and he cannot shadow travel on vibes alone.

But his traitorous heart only swells. Your head, it offers, gleefully. Your back, or your neck.

Nevermind that two of those three options would be worse. That it might be easier, either way, to get a grip on his waist, since Will is, as Kayla loves to tease, approximately the width of a green bean. Nico could probably touch thumb to thumb if he put both hands around his waist, although he does not have particularly big hands. Will shivers.

"You okay?" Nico whispers. Will wracks his brain for an answer that is not 'yes' or 'no'. He left his Epi-Pen in the Big House a week ago and continues to forget it there; he cannot afford a second episode in one day and knows better than to answer the question honestly.

"Peachy," he squeaks, which means nothing so he is safe. Nico snorts, and squeezes, and Will tries not to die.

"I'll get the big kids, you the little ones?"

This Will can focus on, so he nods, shifting. Nico is quick to gather Kayla in his arms, who is smaller than him, still -- especially since he shot up a good half a foot when he was seventeen and she certainly didn't -- and asleep enough not to act as if he is contagious. Nico tucks her in gently enough that Will smiles -- he cannot pretend, either, and even in daylight has trouble hiding how fond of her he is. It often makes Will's heart ache.

Austin is harder because he is taller than Nico, actually. Bulkier too. But Nico is strong, and Austin is so out of it, and Austin is something of a cuddler -- Nico moves him off Will's shoulder and the sleeping teenager has no trouble curling into Nico's hold, snoring, not so much as twitching as Nico half-drags half-carries him to bed. He presses a kiss to his grinning lips and to Austin's hair. Will looks away quickly before his hernia acts up again.

The kids -- except Jerry, but he is the heaviest sleeper of all of them so it is not such an issue -- are much easier. Will only scoops them up in either arm and deposits them each on their bunk, managing to only near die once when trying to both hold Gracie in his left hand and climb the bunk ladder. Nico muffles a snort in his hand and does not bother apologizing when Will glares at him.

"Feel free to help," he huffs, praying the dark hides his flaming face.

"I'm good observing," Nico says coolly. His eyes sparkle like moonstone or -- agate, or quartz, or any other precious stone. Will looks away before he voices these thoughts out loud. "I'm kind of hoping you fall on your face."

"That's because you hate me."

Jerry is the last to be tucked in, lifted gently from his sprawl on the floor. Will brings the blankets up past his chin like he likes them. Will, firefly, you are going to suffocate. Take the blankets off your head! Will presses his lips to tween-scowling forehead and stays until the knots untwist from his chest.

"No," says Nico, startling him. When Will looks over his sharp smile has gone melty and soft around the edges, and Will watches, wide-eyed, heart pounding. Nico is bleeding fondness, this much is obvious. But he is not looking at the kids. "I don't hate you, Sunshine." He must hear the great pound of Will's heart, because he grins wider. "Not by a longshot."

He does not bother shadow travelling back to his cabin -- good, honestly, that's twice today already -- and instead slips out the door, unafraid of the harpies. They don't bother him, either, and he walks, whistling, to Cabin Thirteen.

Will makes a face at them, rushing to close the door when they lunge. Softened, indeed.

He tries to go to bed. Honest. He walks over to the bunk he shares with Kayla and stares at the neatly made sheets. He crawls onto the mattress that has learned, over the years, his shape. He stares at the stretch and bend of the springs above him.

He blinks and goosebumps burst all over his body. For a moment he feels the phantom hum of the too-cold AC unit, and his mother snoring across the room from him, and cars sounding alien like they do in a foreign city. For a moment, he is in a hotel. That is how detached he feels.

He stumbles out of bed and manages not to crash to the floor, lying flat, instead, on the cool concrete. There are no rugs on the floor. There used to be.

The smell is different in the cabin, now, too. It smells like hyacinth and lavender and the dozens of other flowers that grow. Like peppermint, faintly, although Will tries not to dwell on that. Will no longer grows herbs in the sill pots, or dangles pots of Curse of Delos from the ceiling. Whatever he cannot gather in the forest he grows in the infirmary, instead, where the scent cannot invade his subconscious and wake him with dried salt on his face. The wallpaper is -- gone from the walls, the only remains of stained glass lamps is the shard that he leaves blinking at him in the far corner under the dressers. New dressers, or new to him, bought at a nearby Ikea when the rest of the cabins where renovated. He destroyed the old ones, he thinks. He doesn't remember yanking the old wood from the walls but he remembers screaming, remembers his fingers bleeding. Remembers how the crash of them shook the floors and, he thinks, finally sent Chiron running. Mr. D, even.

Suddenly he cannot stand to be in this room.

He cannot bring himself to climb to the roof, though. The roof where Nico might see him, if he is still awake, ask tomorrow morning if he slept, again. There are only so many times he can deflect and if Nico asks if it is nightmares, when this time it is, or it will be, Will is going to crack, and end up sobbing, again, in his arms, as he panics, as he asks him what to do and Will cannot answer. Because Nico didn't know them. Not like Will did. No one knew them like Will did. In fact everyone on Camp grounds now seems to have completely forgotten them, and it is better that way, maybe, because for them it does not seem to sting. The warriors of camp are strong in more ways to one and the strum of certain chords on guitar does not seem to make them choke, the sound of chatter and laughter does not paralyze them into remembering how much louder it used to be, so much so that Will never could stand it, that he'd clutch his ears and turn down his aids and hide behind the fifth washing machine in the Big House laundry room, because that one had a spider's nest in the corner that bothered everyone but him.

Will grits his teeth. The walls of his cabin are slick with blood and bone marrow, and he has never been the strongest swimmer. His chest feels tight, and he knows, objectively, it is because he has not taken a breath in minutes, and all that he has has been quick and short and shallow. He knows what is happening. He has memorized enough medical textbooks to know the symptoms, lived with himself long enough to recognize them.

But he is -- furious, with himself, with his weakness, because there is a limit of what is and is not acceptable. And it is one thing for Will to refuse to shoot past a stagnant target and it is one thing for him to sit on his hands when it is their block in the amphitheater and it is one thing for him to hide in the infirmary during Capture the Flag and it is one thing for him to trip over air and it is one thing for him to sound better on the clarinet and any other woodwind without the reed and it is one thing for him to fail and fail and fail. But things add up so quickly. And Will is approaching his limit, already, and in fact has far exceeded it, of what people will expect of him. Only, for all his incompetence, he is not stupid. And he is careful to learn what can be shared and what can be made into a joke and what must be done in private or in secret. What must be his, to have and to bear.

When he had foolishly asked the camp director, and then his mother, if he could have one thing -- the mark of his father, on his bicep, something besides hymns to prove he belonged, and been denied, he'd been seething and sulky. Demanding.

Will, you are more than a camper, said Chiron, tiredly. You are a counsellor. And the Head Medic besides. You are a role model, Will, you set an example. He had tried to catch Will's eye in a smile and Will had not allowed it, pretending to fix the bandages on his arms. More than most here. You have a responsibility to uphold good standards and judgement. For you it will be one tattoo, but of all of them you are the least driven by your impulses.

And boy, had that stung. Straight from Chiron's mouth. Of all demigods, you are the least affected. The slowest battle reflexes. The slowest, period, the least godly among us.

It is not you I don't trust, continued the centaur, oblivious. It is the dozens of less-controlled campers who will see what you've done and assume that means they may ink their eyeballs that give me pause, Will.

He had paused in Will's silence. It was as good as compliance, but he tacked on, still, as if he knew Will needed the gentleness, the eased consciousness:

I wouldn't have let Annabeth at your age, either, if she asked. I wouldn't have let anybody.

Yes, you would have, Will had thought privately. You would have let her stab someone through the ocular nerve in front of you if she asked nicely enough.

But that was unhelpful and unkind. So Will had bitten clean through his tongue to keep it back. And he repeated it, when Chiron made him promise, and then his mother soon after: I will not set foot in a tattoo parlor.

And then he had gotten the gun from Cecil, immediately after. Drawn the sun on his heart, instead, with twelve careful rays, in the dim lighting of the empty Poseidon cabin in the dead of night, where he knew there was a mirror in the corner and an outlet in the wall and a fountain to wash away the blood. And then, breathless, a week later, the Asphodel flowers, in a neat swirl at the small of his back, where his shorts where sure to cover. And then he handed the gun with shaking hands back to Cecil, letting his friend think he chickened out, before he did something stupid like draw ROLE MODEL THIS right across his forehead.

The piercing is new.

He knows it is stupid. He knows that Chiron is right, and he is and was impulsive; he knows because there is genuine terror, now, that Kayla is going to tattoo eyeliner on herself like a fool, that Austin is going to stick a diamond directly between his forehead. Worse, that the little kids will follow, will run their sticky fingers over sharp objects and do as he's done. He can only hope the terror of getting caught outweighs the thrill of -- of marking yourself, of owning yourself. Of being the one behind the needles. Behind the pain, the pierce, the give of flesh and drag of muscle.

A breeze blows through the open window, and he exhales. He bites his lip and cannot drag his eyes away from his mattress, from the busted seam he knows lies under the fitted sheet. His skin burns. His trembling hands still.

There's a mirror, by the dressers.

And the cat's already out of the bag.

It's stupid and he knows it is. It is one thing to pierce himself under his shirt, where he can, for the most part, keep it hidden, it is even not so damning to pierce his navel. There is nothing necessarily meant. It was a fad, once.

There is no hiding piercing his tongue. Anyone looking will see. Everyone looking will see.

Who will see?

Will turns the stud around in his hands, considering. His siblings will, probably. At least the older kids who are observant enough to, but this can easily be implied to be an older mistake. Hidden, with a clear stud, before they noticed. Cecil would notice, and would not care. Lou Ellen may notice to congratulate him. Chiron is tall enough that Will should be able to avoid anything damning, Mr. D. will be too drunk to so much as glance, not that this has ever been his problem. Annabeth, probably, when she gets back, but to her eternal credit she tends to mind her business. Especially after the pit. He can think of no one else who would be looking enough to care.

His throat spasms slightly, and his face burns. He can think of someone else, actually, but just because he thinks of him does not mean it is a genuine risk. He has to remember that most people do not default to reading lips. Most people are comfortable to meet other's eyes, to speak easily and plainly. Most people can control their staring and do not have to think about where they look. Most people will not be looking.

He stabs himself through before he can think any further.

It freaking hurts, more than his navel did; for a moment he stands there, tongue out like a fool, thick needle right through to the bottom. The pain is sharp and pointed and forces everything else away from the centerfold -- there is only his aching, pierced muscle, the pinned silence, and the blood oozing sluggishly and dribbling copper onto his teeth. He blinks, dazed, fascinated, a little, by the miasma of colors. Pink on silver, like a skewer of barbeque. Liquid crimson, staining white. Staining dotted tan, as blood drips past his lips, down his chin.

Step two, says his mind, gentler than it usually is. Breaking through the haze of pierce and pain and peace. Pull the stud through, come on now.

He does, and that stings, too. Like running your finger on the inside of a wound, it hurts, and before Will can stop himself he is pulling it out just to push it through again, and again. He hears warnings of infections but he has already killed any microbes even considering living on the glinting metal, and he cannot remember the last time he got sick, besides. The blood gushes and it is salty, like broth, and he pushes it against his teeth, swallows just to feel the sharp ache in the dead center of the mouth. Speaking will hurt, if he's not healed by morning. Maybe he can let people think he has laryngitis.

He will be healed by morning. In fact he is healing now, already, he can feel the blood slowing, feel his white blood cells sigh, hands on their little hips and tiny steel-toed boots tapping, OSHA hard hats shaking. He giggles to himself, slightly, at the ridiculous thought of it, and stops when he catches a full glimpse of himself -- his face, as it is, not his tongue on a silver spike -- with the glint of gold in the core of his mouth.

He smiles, just to test.

He looks -- good.

He blinks and checks again. It is true. With the quick, almost invisible flash of metal in his mouth, he looks…mysterious; intriguing, even. The flash is short enough that it is easily questioned: is there something metal in his mouth, in the bed of his tongue; something that would drag over whatever he wrapped it around, something that would be a shock of icy cool in the press of heated muscle…

Or is it just imagination?

It makes him flush, around the ears, to picture himself as a point of imagination. Someone speaking to him, anyone, and the sun catches on the metal. Just enough to flash, to blind, barely. Did he….did Will….surely not Will….

He bites his fist to keep from giggling outright, to keep the snorting buried. It helps that there is no flash of pain, already healed. The disappointment drags away some of the giddiness as quickly as water on a hot pan.

Two more, he thinks.

This time he does not hesitate. He checks and double checks to make sure the kids are asleep -- they are, and deeply -- and digs through the first aid kit by the door for more needles. He could probably reuse the one he has. He can sanitize better than any ethanol. But the medic inside him screams at the thought, and he does not. There are extra needles, beside. He takes one in each hand and his breathing gets heavy as he walks back over to the mirror, shrugs off his shirt. He has enough wherewithal to think: these will probably not be even. He is fool enough to think back: oh, who cares.

These will hurt more, and he will have to do it twice. It should be sobering, this thought; there are hundreds more nerve endings in either areola than in his tongue, but instead his breath gets heavier, the flush on his cheeks darker. It will hurt. Hurt like picking your gums, like biting a hole through your lips, like pressing a bruise. Only more, and sharper, and then, like his tongue, there will be a glint. A triangle of glinting; his navel, where a diamond skull chain glitters, and two isosceles points centering his hollowed sternum. The image of it, even only in his head, makes him breathless. There is no shake in his hands as he braces the browned flesh, pulls it taut; the needle is pinched between his left thumb and forefinger so tightly it hurts more, for a second, than the slide of metal through meat and blood and nerve. It takes that second for the pain to hit, and he wonders, vaguely, if it would be less of a sharp, hammered nail if he went quickly. But he doesn't go quickly, he watches the silver pierce the nub pebbled in the dead center like an arrow through a bullseye. And he gasps, a long, shuddering thing, because this pain is loud, and it is louder than anything else that lives in his head. Loud like a window shattered, like a door kicked in. He understands, for a moment, how addicts feel; how the slide of the needle might feel as good or more than the high of the drugs, how the sharp, grounding pain might be a better high than the weightlessness.

He is even slower on the right side, and only partially for use of his non-dominant hands.

The actual studs are barbells, he thinks. Long, thin pieces of cylindrical metal with tiny sphere on either side, tucked snug against mound of his nipple.

They glint, too.

He slides his shirt back on and shivers at the way the fabric drags over the soreness, shivers at the way he…disappears. There is an indent, in the heavy cotton, if you look, if you scrutinize; otherwise there is nothing but the maybe-shine flashing between his teeth. There is no stylized sun, stretching its rays across his chest, there is no wreath of remembrance flowers curled around the small of his back, tucked into a belt. There is no inverted triangle shining over the stretch of him. For someone to see, to witness this…this part of him, this version of him, the bad role model, the impulsive, addictive fool…

They'd have to strip him, to see that.

He whimpers, brushing his hand over his chest.

He practically runs back to his bed, diving between the covers. He pulls the sheets all the way over his head and chokes on his own body heat, his own exhaled air; he squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his thighs, but this only makes it worse. Only makes it clearer. He feels calluses dragging down the sides of his ribs, rough from handling swords, spirits. Breath, warm and spiced on his neck, low voice in his ear…

You're glittering, Sunshine. This all for me?

Will exhales and he's hot at the thought of it. The humiliation. He cannot decide what burns more, the fantasy or the fantasy; the foolishness he is entertaining or the burn of Nico's imaginary eyes of him, drinking in his marred skin. Shoving aside the arms he would use to try to cover himself. Tugging the barbells until Will shouts, moans; dragging his teeth along the dangling charm until the strength of his jaw pulls the sensitive skin so hard it hurts. He slides his own scarred hands down his heated skin, his fluttering stomach, and it should knock him out of the fantasy, the difference, but it doesn't. He only imagines Nico's hands around his wrists, instead, forcing his own hands to caress, to trace the imperfect circle of the sun, to tug on his still-stinging nipples, to circle his navel until his abdomen is twitching, until he trails his own hands down the path of curly hair right down past his waistband.

Oh, Nico is so gentle with him, usually; kind and careful when correcting his awful stances in the amphitheater, absentminded at mealtimes, dragged over his shoulders, light -- so light, so infuriatingly light -- and dead center on the stamen of the yellow asphodel between his dimples. On his waist, to guide him careful through the shadows, to hold him through the dizziness. Nico would never hurt him.

Will imagines his hand around his throat so hard he sees stars, his fingertips pressed so harshly into his hips they leave bruises that never fade. Callused fingers up and down his length so carelessly he chafes, raked nails down his ribs. Stretched, even, with only the barest amount of anything the ease the way, until he is burning and sobbing into his pillow.

No, Nico would never hurt him.

But he would never touch him, either.

So Will can think what he likes.

It is the thought of his teeth sunk deep into his shoulder that sends him over the edge. Will imagines those too-sharp canines, pointed and gleaming, and imagines the little pop of them driving through his flesh, puncturing his shoulder and digging in so Will is stuck, no matter how hard he wrenches, crying under his clamped teeth. Scarred, permanently. A ring in the shape of his mouth. For Nico to trace with his tongue, blood glinting from his teeth, grinning. For him to trace with his rough fingers, lean close. Lick it clean,

Whisper: "Mine."

Will muffles his moans in his pillow, dizzy in his own heat, tense as live wire and then looser than sand. He waits for the shame to sink in, the embarrassment of thinking of his -- of his friend in this way. But he is too tired, and it is too ridiculous, aside; Will no more feels shame for imagining Nico in his bed than he does imagining a celebrity, or even a particularly striking deity. What use is the shame? It is so far from reality that it is nothing more than a fantasy. Nico smiles when he sees him and waits for him at campfires, happy to share a blanket and a secret, sometimes, under the stars. He looks at him with fondness and concern, Will knows that much. Quiet sighs when Will is disarmed the fiftieth time they try the same maneuver, if Will was willing to try at all. When the only way Will can identify a monster is by the damage it leaves behind. When the Ares boys challenge him to a wrestling match and he throws it on purpose. When he takes the punch and walks out of the ring.

There is nothing about him that would leave a warrior -- hungry.

Wanting.

Will drifts, a little. He is buzzing still, a layer under his skin, and he can feel the wounds healing right around the new holes but they sting, still, like mosquito bites itch, and he shifts against the mattress to press himself flat, to feel them sting more. It loosens his chest, and he exhales, breath evening, eyes closing. Warm, from the humidity under the tent of his sheets, from the sweat in between his shoulder blades, from the swirling in his stomach, from the storm in his chest. And eventually from the sun, bleeding in through the windows.

He is first to rise, again. He is quiet.

No one seems to notice.

#putting this here bc i didn’t mean to write anything explicit but i did bc #it’s character work it’s character work it’s CHARACTER WORK how am i meant to write about the body without writing about sex #genuinely how #how am i supposed to write about only one kind of piercing when they are all connected #the stab of grief of the needle of the sexes #they are one and the same #we are made to be penetrated in more ways than one i’m sorry

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