part one
———
Nico’s memory is…screwy.
The Lethe warped things, but the body stores memory in strange ways. The only image he has of his mother is the gentle swish of her skirts as Zeus incinerated her, the echo of her fond scoff and curled r’s. Even that memory was shown to him. Most of his childhood memories are from the Lotus Casino, really, running after Bianca through the flashing games and then running away from her, laughing, when she forbid him from driving on the racetrack. His sister is the centre of his memories. He keeps them under lock and key, buried in the same place he keeps Mythomagic stats and his constant string of fear.
(The key is rusted and the lock is loose. He sees her in every mirror, now, in every mirror. She was pretty. Beautiful. He always thought so. She hid herself in too-large sweaters and shapeless skirts, crooked stockings and her floppy green hat. Kept her hand curled around his, turned away from the boys who smiled at her, touched her shoulders. She was his entire world, and he is beginning to realize that he was her world, too, only she had no one to care for her. It makes Nico ache to think about, the tears he sometimes saw welling up in her dark eyes, the creases in her angular, beautiful face. Her pain is as familiar in his reflection as the shape of her nose, identical to his.)
(Gorgeous, Will called him.)
Warped as his memories are, Nico isn’t completely stranded — he has dreams.
His dreams, although rare, are clear. He is a spectator of himself, and voyeur of his own life. He does not remember Venice, does not remember his bedroom, the country side, the kitchen table. But he remembers every dream he has.
Including, embarrassingly, a lecture that had both him and Bianca red-cheeked and scowling.
“You-a smart, bambina,” Maria had said to Bianca, squeezing her chin with flour-covered hands. “Una belladonna giovane, si, Niccolò?”
Nico had snickered into his hands, legs kicking, looking at his sister cross-eyed with his tongue sticking out.
“Bianca è una picchia,” Nico had teased, repeating his mother’s words from the last time she’d been scolded. “Una piantagrane!”
Bianca’s eyes had flashed. “Nico, I’m gonna sell your stupido toys —”
“Sonno worries forra my Bianca,” Maria had interrupted, eyebrows raised. “Ragazzi comma running. But you, Niccolò.” She dragged him back by the cuff of his shirt, cutting off his escape attempts. ““È importante, capisci? Lookame. Niccolò. Lookame.”
He spent a lot of time fidgeting, he remembers. Bouncing off the walls.
His mother was patient.
“You gonna be uno marito, un giorno. Gonna marry a nice-a girl. You gotta sai come fate.”
He wakes up from the dream embarrassed.
He knows why it was brought from the depths of his subconscious. He’s not dense. But he wishes, as he rips the sheets off his sweaty body, that it had stayed in those stupid trenches.
His mother’s raspy, cigarette-smoker voice twists with Will’s smooth rumble: You gonna be uno marito, one day. I’ve had a crush on you for forever.
He buries his burning face in his knees. What is Will’s problem. Who says that?
Nico has had crushes before. Telling Percy made him nauseous for three days. And Will just — said it. Said it!
He rolls onto the floor, refusing to think about it any longer. He has things to do today. Children to humble. He cannot afford — distractions.
Of course, he is distracted anyway.
He hears the kids in his sword fighting class whisper to themselves. They usually do, but there’s an audible difference to it; they sound more like the giggling naiads than nervous kids. Nico spends all three of his classes tense as a rod, stiffer than he usually is a suffering for it.
He dismisses each one of his classes early.
By lunchtime, he’s exhausted. He’s tempted to skip all together, but yesterday he ran out of snacks, and if he skips two days in a row Will’ll come marching, which is the last thing he needs. He lingers in the amphitheatre, biting the inside of his thumb, weighing his options. Eat with a crowd of people, go hungry.
In the end, the choice is made for him.
He startled when his name is called by a group of people, each with similar levels of enthusiasm. Leo, Piper, Jason, and Annabeth — Percy is with his mom this week, Nico recalls — approach him, waving.
“We are flagrantly breaking the rules and eating at Jason’s table,” Piper says, smiling. “Sit with us.”
She says it like an offer, but Nico has a feeling it’s more of a command. He nods, hesitantly falling in step with Annabeth.
(His friendship with her startled him. So many years seething with jealousy, simmering with misplaced hate and pain; only to find out she’s stubborn, like he is, and kinda cagey. She knows what it’s like growing up glancing over your shoulder. They stand the same, shoulders loose but knees locked; and eat the same, like they’ll never see food again. She knows when to let him have his silence. He knows when to let her have her space.)
She nods at him, smiling slightly. Her grey hairs are dyed with pink, today. It clashes horribly with her camp shirt. It suits her.
“Kids do alright today?”
“Yeah.”
“Harley blow anything up?”
“Yeah.”
“Impressive, that one.”
Nico smiles. “Yeah.”
They’re the last ones to the dining pavilion. Most tables are already full, conversations rising and lulling, food disappearing from plates. Several people duck close to their friends as they walk by, whispering. Nico pretends not to notice, pretends not to see Annabeth’s frown.
“Nico! Hey! I was just about to come find ya!”
Tripping in his haste to get up from his table — or maybe over his snickering sister’s extended foot — Will bounds up to meet him, hair flopping into his eyes, grin wide and blinding.
Nico’s palms begin to sweat.
“Will,” he acknowledges, after a beat too long.
Will doesn’t seem to notice.
(Everyone else does.)
“Just wanted to let you know that I was up last night digging through the records, and I found a hymn that’ll fix up your face faster. Not that it needs fixing.” He winks, or maybe tries to. What he really does is blink both eyes, beam so bright it forces smile lines. Nico goes bright red. “So just drop by whenever! I’m not on duty today, but it’s cool, just come find me. Better sooner than later, right?”
He doesn’t wait for Nico’s response, already half turned away by the end of his sentence. “See ya!” he shouts, too loud for the limited size of the dining pavilion, already stumbling back to his table, halfway through a new conversation with Austin. He watches him, amused, indulging.
“So,” says a teasing voice, dragging out the vowel, gleeful. Nico turns to find four identical smirks. “He sounded eager.”
“Nope,” Nico says immediately, turning back the way he came. His face continues to grow exponentially more red, which at this point must be some kind of hazard. “Food is overrated. I’m gonna —”
“Oh, no you don’t,” and then there’s a hand clenched in the back of his jacket, pulling, and four echoing cackles, and he’s dragged over to Jason’s table kicking and hissing. “Time for you to spill.”
———
part three
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