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It starts with a groan.
The kind that sounds like it’s been dragged from the depths of Tartarus, frayed at the edges by melodrama and despair. Will pauses mid-sentence, pen hovering over his notes, and waits.
Another groan follows, louder, theatrical. A rustling of blankets. A muffled, miserable curse in Italian.
Will sighs and turns in his desk chair. Across the room—lit only by the gentle grey wash of rain on the window—Nico di Angelo is curled into the fetal position on their bed, cocooned in a black hoodie three sizes too big, one trembling hand draped over his eyes like a dying Victorian poet.
“I’m assuming the end of the world’s been rescheduled for this afternoon?” Will says dryly.
“I have a headache,” Nico announces, voice hoarse with suffering. “An unholy one. Possibly divine punishment. Or a curse.”
“You slept for ten hours.”
“Exactly. Now I’ve woken into torment. It’s unjust. I’m too pretty for this.”
Will bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile. He pushes back from the desk and crosses the room, stopping just beside the bed.
“You’re too something,” he murmurs, brushing Nico’s bangs aside to feel his forehead. No fever, just tension. That kind of coiled pressure that builds behind the eyes and wraps around the temples like a noose.
Nico sighs into the touch, petulant. “I was promised eternal rest and instead I got college. And migraines.”
“You’re not in the Underworld anymore,” Will says gently. “No eternal rest for the living.”
Nico groans again, dramatic as ever, and flops his arm over his face.
Will reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand, uncaps it, and nudges Nico until he sits up enough to take a few sips. He’s grumbling the entire time. Something about sunlight being a personal affront. Something about painkillers being mortal trickery.
And then, softly, with the weight of tragedy behind it: “I don’t deserve this. I should be kissed until it goes away.”
Will arches a brow. “Is that part of the underworld’s official medical policy?”
Nico, eyes closed, whispers, “I read it in an ancient scroll. Or a Buzzfeed article.”
“Ah, peer-reviewed,” Will says, and leans in.
The first kiss is to the center of his forehead. Warm, lingering, laced with quiet power. The kind of kiss that glows faintly gold at the edges—Will’s healing energy laced with something softer, something older. Affection as alchemy.
The second goes to his left temple, then his right. A press of lips to pulse points, easing the pain beneath the skin. Will brushes his fingers along Nico’s hairline, chasing tension like a storm cloud scattering.
Nico melts beneath him like candlewax. His hoodie falls back a little. His lashes flutter.
“You know,” Will murmurs, “scientifically speaking, forehead kisses have a 97% success rate in curing ailments in exceptionally pretty boys.”
Nico cracks one eye open. “Only 97%?”
Will shrugs. “It’s not an exact science. But the placebo effect is incredible.”
Nico snorts—a faint, grudging smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—and leans forward until their foreheads touch.
Will doesn’t move. He lets the silence settle, the rain painting shadows on the floor, the warmth between them drawing slow and steady like breath.
“Do you really think I’m pretty?” Nico mumbles, eyelids heavy again.
Will lifts his hand to the curve of Nico’s jaw and tilts his face gently upward. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He means it. Gods, he means it in a way that aches a little.
Even like this—rumpled and headache-drunk, swimming in a hoodie that swallows his frame—Nico is devastating. Not in the flashy, golden way that people usually expect when they talk about beauty, but in the quiet, ruinous way a storm creeping across a summer sky can stop your breath. The kind of beauty that steals up on you slowly, unrelenting. The kind you don’t survive unchanged.
His skin is warmer now, not the bone-pale shade of the underworld Will first knew him in. There’s color in his cheeks. A summer tan still clings to his skin, deepened by weeks spent sprawled beside Will on sun-hot grass, bare feet touching under picnic blankets, sharing oranges and kisses under half-lidded gazes. His lips are plush, pink, still a little puffy from sleep, and Will can’t help watching them for a beat too long—remembering how they looked stained with strawberries, or parted around his name.
And his eyes. Gods, his eyes. Huge and dark, doe-like, framed by lashes that look entirely too pretty for someone who once commanded legions of ghosts. They blink up at Will now, wide and blinking, dazed—not in pain anymore, but caught off guard by tenderness. Like he’s still waiting to be punished for wanting to be loved.
Will’s heart folds in on itself.
There are lines in Nico’s face that no teenager should have—tension at the brow, hollows beneath the cheekbones from years spent half-starved by grief and duty—but here, in this light, softened by sleep and love and the slow miracle of healing, he looks impossibly young. Almost untouched.
And somehow, all the more sacred for the scars.
Will wants to say all of that. Wants to press it into Nico’s palms like an offering, wants to kiss it into his temples until he believes it. But the words catch somewhere in his throat, thick with the weight of wanting.
So he just says, again, quietly, “You’re beautiful, Nico.”
There’s a beat where Nico doesn’t answer—just stares at him with that stunned, vulnerable gaze, like Will’s cracked open some forgotten door inside him. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the softness. With being seen.
Then he scowls faintly and mutters, “Gross,” and yanks Will down beside him.
Will goes willingly. Lets himself be pulled into the tangle of limbs and blankets, lets Nico hide his face against Will’s shoulder in something like embarrassment. But even curled against him, hiding his blush with a growl, Nico doesn’t pull away.
And that, Will thinks as he presses another kiss into messy curls damp with sleep, is the part that kills him.
***
It’s raining the way it only rains in New Rome—light and constant, a whisper of water that lingers all afternoon. The kind of rain that slicks terracotta rooftops and hangs in the air like a secret, never heavy enough to drench, just enough to cling. The sky is an overexposed watercolor, all pale blues and washed-out gold, as if the sun is too tired to burn through the clouds properly.
Will pushes open the apartment door to silence.
That, in itself, isn’t strange. Nico isn’t exactly the kind of boyfriend who greets you at the door with a smile and a kiss and a recount of his day. He’s more of a silently-reading-in-the-dark sort of presence. But this silence feels… different. Heavier. Still, like the air is holding its breath.
The living room is dim, the curtains drawn against the light, the only glow coming from the overcast window and the faint, flickering flame of the scented candle Will lit that morning. The lemon and eucalyptus smell lingers, layered now with the sharper, slightly sour scent of sweat and something medicinal.
Nico is curled on the couch like he’s been trying to disappear into it—blanket pulled tight over his body, hood drawn over his eyes. One hand is fisted in the fabric at his chest. A half-empty mug of tea rests on the coffee table, steam long gone, a ring of condensation darkening the wood beneath it.
Will toes off his shoes. Shrugs off his damp jacket. Doesn’t say a word.
He crosses the room quietly, kneels beside the couch, and rests one arm along the edge of the cushion near Nico’s shoulder.
Nico doesn’t open his eyes. But his lips twitch in something like a wry smile, voice rough and papery. “Before you start—I’m not dying.”
Will hums. “That’s usually the first sign that you are.”
A huff of air. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Headache?” Will asks, eyes scanning Nico’s face beneath the shadow of the hood.
A slight shake of the head.
“Throat?”
A faint noise of agreement, barely a syllable. Nico shifts slightly, the blanket rustling as he moves, but he doesn’t lift his head.
Will reaches up, brushing the edge of the hood back, and presses the back of his hand to Nico’s cheek. Warm. Too warm. His skin is clammy, but flushed. There’s no dramatic flair this time, no muttered curses about divine punishment, no theatrical groaning. Just a quiet kind of stillness. A heavy exhaustion that Will doesn’t like.
“You didn’t IM me,” he says, gently.
“Didn’t want to burden you,” Nico murmurs.
Will exhales through his nose, slow and quiet. His fingers curl lightly around the blanket where it covers Nico’s shoulder. “You’re never a burden, Nico. You couldn’t be. It’s impossible.”
“I know,” Nico replies. But Will hears it—the echo of all the times he didn’t. All the years of silence mistaken for survival. All the parts of him that still flinch at being seen.
Will tucks the blanket back with careful hands and climbs up onto the couch behind him, fitting his body along Nico’s back. Nico doesn’t resist. He leans instinctively into the warmth, into Will’s chest, like it’s the first real comfort he’s been offered all day.
Will wraps an arm around him, resting a hand over Nico’s heart, the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath his palm. He presses a kiss to Nico’s temple, lips soft against the damp skin just beneath his hairline.
“Can I…?” he asks quietly.
Nico nods without speaking.
Will closes his eyes, letting the warmth build in his hands—not the full, blinding burst he uses on battle wounds or poisoned flesh, but a softer kind of healing. Gentle pulses of gold radiating from his palms, sinking into muscle, tissue, breath. He chases the fever back, not erasing it but easing it.
A fever isn’t glamorous. It’s not deadly, not usually. But Will has learned that the small things, if left to fester, are the ones that can hollow you out the slowest.
Nico exhales. It’s shaky. His fingers curl into the fabric of Will’s hoodie like an anchor, clinging with quiet desperation.
“I hate being sick,” he murmurs, voice cracking.
“I know.”
“It makes me feel… fragile.”
Will’s grip tightens just slightly, his thumb stroking the edge of Nico’s ribcage. “You’re not fragile.”
“I feel fragile.”
“That’s allowed.”
Outside, the rain continues to tap softly against the windows, a hush of sound that fills the space between their breaths. The flickering candle flame dances on the edge of vision. The apartment feels small and warm and full of heartbeat.
Slowly, Nico’s tension eases. The heat in his skin cools by degrees. His breath deepens.
After a while, he tilts his head back just enough to look up at Will, hair flattened to one side, eyes a little glassy but clearer than before. He looks soft in a way only Will gets to see—unguarded, and tired, and real.
“You’d tell me if I was gross, right?”
Will smirks, thumb brushing along the curve of Nico’s jaw, where sweat still clings at the temple. “You’re disgusting. Utterly unkissable.”
“Mm,” Nico replies, flat. “Liar.”
Will leans down and kisses his forehead anyway. Slow and warm. Just pressure and promise.
“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers. “Even half-delirious and damp.”
Nico groans and buries his face in Will’s chest. “You’re so embarrassing.”
But he doesn’t pull away.
Will wraps both arms around him now, tucking them in closer, cocooned in warmth and blanket and quiet trust.
***
It starts with a wince.
Barely noticeable. Nico’s expression doesn’t change—he’s long since mastered the art of pretending pain away—but Will knows his body like he knows his own name. He sees it in the slight hitch of his breath during combat training, in the guarded way he shifts his weight, in the way his left side barely twists when he ducks a blow.
Will says nothing in front of the others, but he files it away like a blade in his boot. Waits. Watches.
Later, in the privacy of their apartment, when Nico yanks off his shirt with a little too much care, Will finally sees it.
The bruises bloom over Nico’s ribcage like storm clouds caught beneath his skin. Violent purples and oil-slick blues, darker near the bone and fading outward into blotchy rust and green. A painter’s palette gone wrong. Will’s breath catches, because gods—they’re deep. Angry. The kind of bruises that throb without touching, the kind that singe under armor and go ignored by idiots who think silence equals strength.
“Di imortales, Nico,” Will says softly.
Nico stiffens, caught. “I didn’t think it was that bad. I got a little carried away at training.”
“You’re walking like you’ve been stabbed in the lung.”
“I’ve been stabbed in the lung.”
“That’s not a defense.”
Will kneels in front of him, hand hovering. “Can I?”
Nico nods once. Stiff. Embarrassed.
Will peels back the hem of Nico’s undershirt fully, exposing the whole constellation. The bruise curves from under his left arm to the base of his ribs, dark and wide and brutal. Will’s fingers ghost along the outer edge, not quite touching yet.
He tries to keep his thoughts clinical. Professional. Healing first. Desire later.
But it’s hard—impossible, maybe—because he knows this body too well. Not just in pain, but in other ways, in other bruises. The ones he’s put there himself, slowly, deliberately—beneath Nico’s jaw, at the top of his inner thigh, across his hipbones. Those had been warm, blooming marks of want and trust and surrender.
These are not that.
And the contrast makes Will’s stomach twist.
“I hate seeing you like this,” he says, voice low.
Nico glances down. “It looks worse than it feels.”
“Liar.”
He lays a hand gently against Nico’s side, just off the worst of the color. His magic comes slowly—warm gold sinking beneath the skin like balm. He traces the wound inward, easing muscle, knitting capillaries, soothing the ache. Nico exhales, shudders faintly, eyes fluttering shut.
Will watches his face soften. Watches the way the bruise fades under his fingers, from violent purple to bruised lilac, to mottled green, to nothing. Skin left clean, unmarred, warm.
The silence between them thickens—not heavy, not tense, but full. Like breath held underwater. Will stays close, his hand still resting lightly against Nico’s ribs. Nico’s skin is warm now, no longer burning with pain, just flushed with the quiet intimacy of being seen.
Nico shifts slightly, the barest movement, his voice rasping low like he’s trying not to disturb the moment. “You’re thinking something dumb.”
Will huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. He dips his head, presses a kiss to the curve of Nico’s ribs—soft, lingering. “Just thinking about all the bruises I’ve left on you.”
A low noise from Nico, not quite a laugh. “That’s unprofessional.”
Will lets the comment hang between them, but he catches the flicker of heat in Nico’s eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He doesn’t argue.
Instead, Nico’s fingers slide into Will’s hair and tug him upward—gently, but with intent. Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s nothing like the ones they shared in moments of urgency or want. It’s slower. Grounded. The kind that says thank you and I’m sorry at once.
When they part, Nico keeps him close. Their foreheads touch, breath mingling.
“I didn’t tell you,” he murmurs, “because I didn’t want you to worry.”
Will doesn’t respond with reprimand. He just runs a thumb along the edge of Nico’s waist, where skin is smooth again, golden light fading from his fingers. “You don’t have to protect me from you.”
There’s a pause. Then Nico sighs—less resistance, more release. He leans in until his nose brushes Will’s cheek.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Noted.”
Will kisses him gently. “Next time you’re hurt, you tell me.”
“Yeah,” Nico murmurs. “Next time.”
Will lets his hand settle at Nico’s waist, fingers sliding along his ribs to rest against bare skin, warm and flushed. Nico is alive beneath his hands. Responsive and real and breathtaking. And Will still can’t stop thinking about the places he’s touched before—places that flushed and bloomed not from harm, but from want. From permission.
“You sure you’re okay?” Will murmurs, voice low, his thumb brushing the ridge of Nico’s hipbone.
Nico hums, the sound vibrating softly in his chest. He lifts a hand to Will’s sternum, fingers spreading over his heartbeat. “You’re doing that thing again.”
Will leans in, smile curling against Nico’s jaw. “What thing?”
“Looking at me like you want to kiss me and cry about it at the same time.”
Will huffs out a laugh, breath warm where their skin meets. “It’s because you’re absurdly hot when you’re injured.”
“That’s messed up.”
“You know I have a type.”
Before Nico can roll his eyes, Will’s mouth is on his again—soft at first, careful, like he’s still checking for tenderness. But Nico doesn’t flinch. He tilts his chin up, opens for him, and pulls him in with fingers curled in the front of Will’s shirt. And Will goes—gladly, fully, without hesitation.
The kiss deepens, slow and building like heat under glass. Will kisses him like he’s memorizing him. Like he’s tasting the line between tenderness and hunger and deliberately stepping over it.
Nico tastes like mint and something sharper. The bitterness of tea. The edge of a dare. Will groans into his mouth, and his hands roam freely now—across Nico’s waist, his ribs, the curve of his back.
They stumble back toward the bed, not breaking the kiss, bodies flush and clumsy in the way only urgency can be. Nico’s legs hit the mattress first. Will catches him, one hand braced on his lower back, the other at his jaw, and kisses him like gravity has given up.
When Will pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe. To look. Nico’s cheeks are flushed, lips kissed raw, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. He dips his head to Nico’s throat, pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw. Then another, lower, to the hollow of his neck. Then lower still, to the curve where neck meets shoulder, and then to the dip of his collarbone. Each kiss lingers longer than the last. Each touch of lips is softer, warmer, hungrier.
Then, a bite. Deliberate. Possessive. Enough to leave color.
Nico exhales sharply, his breath catching on the edge of a sound. “Will—”
Will grins against his skin. “What? I’m checking for residual trauma.”
“You’re the trauma,” Nico mutters, but it comes out breathless.
Still, he’s pulling Will closer—hands threading into Will’s hair, lips finding his again, deeper this time, hungrier. Like he’s done waiting.
And Will gives in. Gladly. He mouths at Nico’s throat again, teeth grazing skin, and then down to the curve of his shoulder, leaving another mark, then another—just above his heart.
By the time he makes it back to Nico’s mouth, both of them are breathing hard. Skin flushed, fingers trembling, sweat cooling between where their bodies touch.
Nico’s eyes flutter open—stormy and smoldering and wide—and Will kisses him again like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
***
It’s past midnight when Will jolts awake to the sound of someone gasping for air.
His heart lurches. It takes him half a second to realize the sound didn’t come from a dream. The sheets beside him are cold.
Nico’s not in bed.
Will is already moving before his mind catches up. The room is dark, the soft glow of the hallway spilling like water through the open door. Another sound cuts through the stillness—a sharp rustle, a thud, something fragile cracking underneath weight, and then—
A noise Will knows too well. Half-gasp, half-choke. The sound of someone drowning on dry land.
He finds him crumpled on the floor in the living room, caught between the couch and the far wall like he was trying to run and forgot how to stop. The shadows gather around him thickly, hoodie sleeves clenched tight in both fists like he’s trying to rip the panic out of his body by force. He’s rocking just barely, breath ragged and rapid, eyes wide and unfocused.
He’s not here. Not really.
“Nico,” Will says, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the fog. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
But Nico doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch or blink or register the words. His chest rises in quick, shallow bursts. One arm is clutched around his middle, as if holding his ribs together. The other trembles in the air—reaching for something that isn’t there, or maybe trying to push something away.
Will crouches slowly, hands lifted in front of him. “I’m coming closer, alright? Just me. Just Will.”
Still no response.
He moves forward carefully and sinks onto his knees, then edges closer behind him. No sudden movements. No grabbing. He’s done this before—knows the steps like a ritual. Will wraps his arms around Nico’s torso, gentle but firm, loose enough not to trap him, steady enough to hold him together.
Then, palm to sternum, he lets his magic trickle out.
His fingertips glow faintly, warmth radiating into Nico’s chest, coaxing his heartbeat into something steadier. Smoothing out the ragged spikes of adrenaline that make his body feel like it’s shaking itself apart. He can ease the symptoms—the tremors, the breathlessness, the ache—but not the memory. Not the weight.
Nico exhales—sharply, like it hurts—and slumps back into Will’s chest, the fight beginning to ebb from his limbs.
“I’ve got you,” Will murmurs against the crown of his head. “You’re safe. You’re here. Breathe with me.”
He starts to count. Soft and steady.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Will’s breath syncs with Nico’s, slow and even, until the shuddering rhythm begins to smooth out beneath him. Nico’s body stays tense, but the tremors dull to a faint aftershock. His hands loosen. His fists uncurl.
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy—thick with the weight of what almost was. What Nico escaped from only by clawing his way out of the dark.
Will rests his cheek against damp, tangled curls. His hands remain steady, but inside he feels raw. Useless.
This is the part he hates. The part his healing can’t touch.
He can mend broken bones, kickstart a failing heart, drive venom from a wound—but not this. Not the echo of screams in a boy’s chest. Not the god-shaped shadow that still stalks Nico through his dreams. Not the years he spent learning to survive by disappearing.
“I wish I could take it away,” Will whispers into Nico’s hair. “Piece by piece. I’d pull it out of you if I could.”
But Nico doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His breathing is slower now. His body slack against Will’s, like the worst of the storm has passed, and he’s driftwood left behind by the tide.
Will holds him tighter.
There are things he knows better than to say in moments like this.
I love you is too loud. Too heavy. It would echo strangely in this kind of quiet—fragile, suspended, not meant to bear that kind of weight.
So instead, he leans in, his voice barely more than breath.
“You’re okay. You’re not alone.”
That’s what he can offer.
Not a cure. Not a fix.
Because healing Nico has never really been about power—not the glowing hands, not the ambrosia, not the impossible gifts passed down from gods. Not really.
It’s quieter than that, gentler.
It lives in the warmth of being held through a fever, in the steadiness of breath against his spine, in the quiet promise folded into every touch: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Eventually, Nico shifts, just a little. Not frozen anymore, not shaking. His hand finds Will’s, and their fingers thread together—slow, deliberate.
That’s all.
That’s everything.
Later, when they lie back down, Nico presses against Will like a heartbeat, as if anchoring himself to something living. Will stays awake, eyes on the ceiling, watching the rain snake down the window in silver streaks. The apartment is silent but for the hum of breath and the soft rustle of sheets.
***
Will wakes up early, makes coffee, stretches like a functional adult, and enjoys a quiet moment of morning light spilling through the window. It’s golden and soft, painting the kitchen in warm stripes and hitting the countertop just right. The apartment smells like coffee and calm responsibility.
Then the bathroom emits the unmistakable, pitiful groan of a man suffering a completely self-inflicted death.
Nico di Angelo is dying.
Not dramatically. Not hypothetically. Not in the poetic “my soul is shattered and the shadows call for me” way he usually invokes when someone (Will) asks him to fold laundry.
No—today, Nico is deeply, viscerally, comically hungover.
Will finds him sprawled on the cold bathroom floor like a defeated mythic hero post-epic, one arm flung across his face, the other clutching a throw pillow like it’s the last buoy keeping him from drifting into the River Lethe. His hoodie is backwards. His hair looks like it lost a fight with both a wind tunnel and gravity. He’s wearing one sock and one combat boot.
Will leans against the doorframe and sips his coffee. “You good?”
A muffled groan. Then: “Kill me.”
“Nope.” Will takes another sip, deliberately loud. “That’s literally the opposite of my job.”
Nico lifts his head half an inch, just enough to glare at Will like he’s responsible for the state of the world. “You’re not even hungover.”
“I drank water between drinks. And I stopped at a reasonable limit. Like someone else could’ve .”
Nico lets his head thunk dramatically against the tile. “You’re smug and I hate you.”
Will grins as he steps into the room and crouches beside him . “Only one of those statements are true.”
“I told you five shots of that blue stuff was a bad idea,” Will says, brushing a suspicious stain off Nico’s sleeve. “And mixing it with tequila? Are you actively seeking a divine intervention?”
“I didn’t mix it,” Nico mumbles into the floor. “I layered it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?.”
Nico groans again—long, operatic, like an abandoned ghost moaning about the tragedy of hangovers past.
Will sets his coffee down on the sink and leans over him, tilting his head thoughtfully. “So here’s the question: do you want me to heal you?”
Nico squints at him with one crusty, bloodshot eye, “what’s the catch?”
“No catch.” Will says. “Just a simple, verbal acknowledgment that I was right when I told you to take it easy.”
“Hard pass.”
Will shrugs. “Okay. Enjoy your mortal hangover.”
He stands, grabbing his coffee again.
“Wait— wait! ” Nico scrambles upright too fast, immediately regrets it, and clutches his head with a hiss. He wobbles dangerously, blinking like a baby deer learning gravity exists. “Ow. Oh gods. My brain is sloshing. ”
Will pauses. “You good?”
Nico blinks up at him. Big brown eyes, ridiculously long lashes, lips puffy from sleep and poor decisions. His hoodie has slipped off one shoulder. There’s an unidentifiable club stamp on his neck and a glimmer of purple at his jaw that Will really hopes isn’t a hickey from that cursed game of truth or dare.
He looks like hell. He also looks unfairly, sinfully pretty.
“Please,” Nico whispers hoarsely, weaponizing every ounce of his bedraggled beauty. “I’m too pretty to suffer this much.”
Will exhales through his nose. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet... so pretty,” Nico croaks, eyes wide and glistening like a tragic watercolor painting. His lower lip juts out just slightly. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
This is the same boy who knows how weak Will is for his prettiness—because Will tells him. Constantly. Usually when Nico has his mouth pressed to Will’s neck, or when he’s just woken up, hair a mess, lashes heavy, looking like some sulky Renaissance angel. Sometimes when he’s sweaty from training, jaw set and shirt clinging to him like a sin. Once while Nico was making dinner and did nothing more than lick a spoon.
Will had nearly dropped dead on the spot.
So yeah. Nico knows. Nico uses it.
Will glares, but it’s half-hearted at best. “You are a menace.”
Nico blinks up at him, all lashes and shamelessness. “A beautiful one.”
Will groans, defeated. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Golden light hums to life in his fingertips, spreading slowly through Nico’s chest and stomach. He works carefully—soothing the dehydration first, dulling the headache, easing the nausea that lingers like a curse from Dionysus himself. Nico exhales, boneless, eyes fluttering shut. And despite everything, despite the glitter, the whining, the combat boot and single sock, Will feels his heart thud traitorously in his chest.
Gods help him, he really is weak for the pretty ones.
When Will finishes, Nico slumps against him like a smug, well-fed cat. “You’re a miracle.”
“I’m a fool,” Will mutters, guiding him upright.
“Same thing,” Nico mumbles.
They end up on the couch. Nico collapses dramatically across Will’s lap, still clutching the throw pillow like a comfort animal, and is now sipping a rehydration potion with all the exaggerated misery of someone recovering from battle. Will hands him dry toast and begins a very calm lecture on the dangers of outdrinking Annabeth Chase, moderation, and the importance of knowing one’s limits.
Mid-rant, Nico blinks up at him. “Wait. Did I actually... dance on the bar last night?”
Will pauses. “You tried. You got halfway up, fell off, and told the barstool it had insulted your family.”
Nico stares into the middle distance, clearly reviewing his life choices. “I’m never drinking again.”
Will kisses the top of his head. “Sure.”
They both know he absolutely will.
And Will?
Will will be there. Every time.
***
Will wakes up in hell.
Not the Underworld kind, with fields of punishment and screaming shades. No, this hell is far more insidious: the kind with a pounding head, a throat made of sandpaper, and sinuses so swollen he feels like his skull is full of bees.
He blinks blearily at the ceiling. Tries to sit up. Regrets everything.
“Oh gods,” he groans, dragging the comforter over his face like a shroud. “I’m dying. This is it. Goodbye, cruel, flu-ridden world.”
He’s never been sick before. Not like this. Sure, he’s gotten scraped and bruised, drained from overuse of his healing magic—but illness? This is uncharted territory. Apollo’s kids just… don’t get sick. That’s the deal. Immune systems blessed by sunlight and celestial genetics.
So why does he feel like his organs are trying to secede?
Between sneezes and dramatic whimpering, he manages to Iris Message Kayla with red eyes and a tissue shoved in one nostril.
“You’re not dying,” she says flatly. “You probably caught an immortal strain. They’re weird. It’ll pass.”
“But I’ve never been sick.”
“Congratulations. You’re finally human.”
Austin appears in the background. “Tell him to stop emailing us every five minutes with ‘farewell messages.’ I swear to the gods, I’m blocking him.”
Will coughs wetly in reply. “If I die, tell Nico he was the sexiest shadow I ever kissed.”
“Absolutely not,” Kayla says. “Go lie down.”
He does. He skips all his classes, curls up in a pathetic, sweaty pile of tissues and blankets, and begins to seriously question if he’s being punished for making fun of Nico’s hangover.
By the time Nico comes home, Will is past the bargaining stage and deep into the existential crisis portion of his flu.
“Babe?” Nico calls, dropping his bag by the door. “Why does the apartment smell like mint tea, fever, and despair?”
Will croaks from the couch, “Don’t look at me. I’m hideous.”
Nico walks into the living room, takes one look at him—pale, puffy-eyed, surrounded by used tissues and half-drunk tea—and smirks.
“Oh,” he says. “You are hideous.”
“Rude,” Will sniffs. “I have a vulnerable immune system now.”
“You are the most dramatic patient I’ve ever seen.”
“Am not.”
“I heard you sent Kayla a will.”
Will coughs into his elbow. “A Will’s will. It was a pun.”
Nico pinches the bridge of his nose. “You need fluids and silence.”
To Will’s mild horror and deep, somewhat fevered awe, Nico immediately shifts into caretaker mode. Not begrudgingly, not with his usual snark-first, affection-later energy—but efficiently. Calmly. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s instinct.
Will watches from the couch—half-delirious under a mountain of blankets—as Nico moves around the kitchen with tight-lipped focus, filling a glass of water, clattering around in the cabinet until he finds a canister of instant soup, and rummaging through the first aid drawer for a small vial of ambrosia. His hoodie sleeves are shoved to the elbows, curls falling in front of his eyes as he scowls at the microwave.
He returns a few minutes later with the sort of expression normally reserved for hostile underworld spirits. Will accepts the mug like it’s holy.
“You know this isn’t how ambrosia’s supposed to be used,” Nico mutters, placing it carefully in Will’s hands. “But whatever. Die dramatically, see if I care.”
Will sips, blinks. “You made soup?”
“I heated soup. Don’t get excited.”
Still, the warmth seeps through the ceramic and into his palms. The steam curls up, herby and salty and vaguely medicinal. Nico even adjusts the pillows behind Will’s head with one hand, grumbling under his breath but fluffing them just the same.
Will’s heart does something stupid in his chest.
“You’re like a sexy, angry nurse,” he says, congested but sincere. “Do you have one of those little white hats?”
Nico stares at him flatly, then deadpans, “I will end you.”
“You’re so nurturing.”
“Shut up and drink.”
Will does. Carefully. His throat’s raw, his body aching in ways that feel personal, like his immune system is staging a mutiny, but the soup helps. So does Nico, sitting beside him on the couch now, pretending to read a book. His knee presses against Will’s under the blanket—not hard, not even consciously, but enough to remind Will he’s there.
His presence is warm. Solid. The same way Will’s always tried to be for him.
It’s weirdly comforting. Reassuring. Even though Will still feels like a walking petri dish.
He glances sideways at him, voice quiet. “You’re good at this.”
Nico doesn’t look up. “At what?”
“Taking care of people.”
Nico scoffs. But his ears—traitorous, honest things—go a little pink.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I just followed the instructions on the box,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound dismissive.
Will coughs into his elbow, grimaces, then smiles. “Still sexy.”
Nico finally looks at him. His expression is unimpressed, but his eyes soften just a little at the edges.
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re dying,” he says, voice dry as toast.
Will leans back into the cushions with a wheeze-laugh and murmurs, “You’re lucky I’m too weak to jump you right now.”
Nico tosses a tissue box at his head
Nico stays close all night. He doesn’t glow golden or magically extract germs, but he doesn’t need to. He keeps Will warm, fed, hydrated, and mildly bullied—the perfect cocktail of healing. Will lies with his head in Nico’s lap, a cold washcloth on his forehead, and Nico’s fingers running through his curls like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And Will thinks, foggy and fevered but certain:
This is what it feels like to be loved.
Sleep creeps in slowly, like a tide washing over the edges of his awareness. Will doesn’t fight it. He lets himself drift, lulled by the warmth of Nico pressed against him and the soft hush of the room around them. The world begins to blur at the edges, thoughts unraveling into quiet, shapeless calm—until, just as gently and just as suddenly, sleep turns strange.
It doesn’t feel like floating anymore.
It feels like being plucked from somewhere safe and dropped into something… brighter. Louder. Vaguely musical.
Not quite a dream. Not quite a vision. More like a cosmically unwanted intervention.
He’s standing in the middle of an absurdly golden field—an endless, rippling stretch of sunflowers tall enough to brush his shoulders, their heads turned unnaturally in unison to face him. The sky above is blue in that uncanny, high-saturation way that looks like a filter applied by someone with poor impulse control, and the sun is a little too big. A little too smiley . Somewhere, birds are chirping in aggressively cheerful pentatonic scales, and harp music swirls faintly on the breeze like someone cranked the volume on a spa playlist. The air smells like sandalwood, sunscreen, and narcissism.
Will groans, already exhausted. “No.”
“Oh yes ,” comes a voice—smooth as silk, smug enough to curdle milk.
From behind a sparkling chariot that seems to be floating on a bed of golden mist, Apollo appears with all the flair of a man who has never known shame. His arms are flung wide in dramatic welcome, golden robes billowing in a self-generated breeze. His shirt—if it could be called that—is open to the navel in a way that feels both divine and criminal, chest gleaming like it’s been oiled specifically for the occasion.
“My favorite son!” Apollo announces like a man introducing a headliner at Coachella.
Will stares, eyes full of betrayal. “You gave me the flu?”
Apollo beams. Beams. “Technically, it was a 24-hour mortal-grade respiratory experience. Let’s not be dramatic.”
“You infected me!”
“With love ,” Apollo says, placing one glittering hand to his chest. “And mild sinus pressure. You’ll feel fantastic in the morning. Think of it as a cleanse.”
Will rubs his temples, which is difficult because in the dream they feel extra floaty and vaguely echoing. “ Why would you do this?”
Apollo clicks his tongue and strolls closer, sunflowers bending politely out of his path. “Because I’ve been watching you.”
Will freezes. “Oh gods.”
Apollo smirks like he’s been waiting all century for that exact reaction. “Watching you heal , of course. All those tender little moments. The forehead kisses, the emotional validation, the unspoken devotion—very parental-approval-core .”
Will, already sweating and slightly vibrating with secondhand shame, stammers, “How long have you been—?”
“Oh, I always tune out before it gets risqué, don’t worry,” Apollo says breezily, waving a hand.
Will swears loudly—in Ancient Greek, then Latin, and then something that might be Etruscan but probably just means oh no .
Apollo is completely unfazed. “You’ve grown into such a passionate , well-rounded demigod. Honestly, I was so proud watching you dote on your shadowy little boyfriend. Thought it’d be hilarious to flip the script.”
Will squints at him. “You made me sick as a joke ?”
Apollo shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “What is parenting ,” he says, “if not the divine right to humiliate your children with love and seasonal upper respiratory afflictions?”
Will glares. “You’re a menace.”
“True,” Apollo agrees with no shame whatsoever. “But admit it—it was nice to be the one cared for. Nico was adorable , by the way. Smug. Nurturing. Emotionally available— who knew? ”
Will groans and covers his face with both hands. “Can you just go ?”
But Apollo’s not finished. Of course he’s not finished.
“Oh, before I forget!” He leans in, stage-whispers like it’s the world’s worst secret. “You two should absolutely try the doctor/patient thing. It’s a classic. Did wonders for me and Hyacinthus. And that satyr in Thessaly—”
Will bolts upright. “I’m waking up now. ”
“Remember to wear the lab coat with nothing underneath !—” Apollo’s voice calls, just as the field of sunflowers begins to blur and fold in on itself, like someone’s changing the channel on Mount Olympus' Worst Dream Ever™.
Will sits bolt upright in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat and betrayal. His curls are plastered to his forehead, his heart galloping as though he’s just sprinted out of Tartarus, and there’s a wild look in his eyes like he’s seen something truly unholy.
Next to him, Nico startles awake, instantly alert in that deadly, assassin-trained sort of way. He blinks at Will, bleary-eyed and shirtless, sleep-flattened curls haloing his face. “What the—? Are you okay?”
Will clutches the blanket to his chest like it might shield him from divine trauma. “I just had a nightmare.”
“Monsters?”
“Worse.”
Nico frowns, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Your dad again?”
Will shudders, full-body and involuntary. “He talked about roleplay .”
Nico stares. “…Did he recommend costumes ?”
“ HE DID. ”
Nico hums, slow and wicked. “Well, I do still have the stethoscope from Halloween—”
“Don’t you dare .”
But Nico just smirks, unbothered and beautiful, leaning in until he can press a slow, deliberate kiss to Will’s overheated cheek. His lips are cool from the pillow, soft against Will’s skin, and the contact sends a shiver down Will’s spine.
He lingers close, eyes scanning Will’s face with the unsettling calm of a man who knows exactly how dangerous he is. “Hmm,” he says, voice low, far too pleased. “Color’s returning to your cheeks. Eyes are clearer. Sweating less.”
Will glares weakly, still recovering. “Gee, thanks.”
Nico taps his chin in faux consideration. “You might actually be healed.”
Will groans, flopping back onto the mattress. “I feel better,” he admits. “Tired. But not… end-of-days flu.”
Nico watches him for a moment longer, then raises an eyebrow. “So technically, I saved your life.”
Will glances up at him through his lashes, a slow, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I guess you did.”
Nico hums again, this time softer. “Should probably be rewarded ,” he murmurs, already leaning down.
Nico’s mouth brushes over Will’s lips—soft, fleeting, a promise with sharp edges. Will’s breath stutters. His body is still heavy with recovery, but his nerves are crackling, blood rushing, heat rising.
Will slides his hand into Nico’s hair, curls soft under his fingers, and tugs gently. Nico hums into his mouth, lazy and dangerous, and his fingers find Will’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as he angles his face just so—deepening the kiss until Will feels it everywhere. Until his lungs forget how to function and his spine arches instinctively, desperate for more.
Nico pulls back only enough to whisper, breath warm against Will’s lips, “Call me Doctor di Angelo .”
Will exhales a laugh, half-choked. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re not saying no.”
Will groans, fingers tightening in Nico’s hair. “Gods, fine. Doctor di Angelo , please—”
Nico kisses him again—harder this time, with heat that blooms instantly between them. His body presses down, pinning Will to the mattress, a slow slide of chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Every point of contact sparks like a live wire.
Will lets himself fall. Into the heat. Into Nico. Into the strange, perfect reversal of being the one laid bare beneath it all.
“Hmm,” Nico murmurs against his throat now, voice like velvet dragging over skin. “Your heart rate’s elevated.”
Will pants, breath hot and uneven. “Wonder why.”
“I might need to do a full examination.”
Will’s eyes flutter shut, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “Take your time, doctor.”
There’s a pause—just long enough to make Will’s stomach flip.
Then Nico adds, voice dry and full of evil, “Hope you’re ready for your prostate exam.”
Will chokes on a laugh, half-horrified, half-aroused. “You’re the worst medical professional I’ve ever met.”
“Mm,” Nico hums, all teeth as he kisses down Will’s neck. “And yet, here you are—fully consenting and very, very invested .”
Will groans. “I hate how hot that is.”
“You’re welcome.”
And then Nico keeps going—deliberate, thorough, and utterly smug.
***
High above New Rome, in that golden, overdesigned corner of the heavens where gods lounge and meddle, Apollo reclines dramatically on a cloud shaped like a velvet chaise longue. He’s draped in something silk and offensively open-chested, sipping nectar from a wine glass shaped like a lyre—because of course it is.
Below him, the mortal realm unfurls like a stage, and on that stage: shirtless makeouts, flushed cheeks, far-too-intimate medical jokes, and the distinct suggestion of an imminent divine-themed hookup.
Apollo sighs, long and theatrical. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs, beaming. “Perfect posture. Excellent hand placement. Smooth transition from care to carnality. I taught him that.”
An arrow thunks into the cloud six inches from his head, humming with celestial force.
Apollo yelps and flails, nearly spilling his drink.
Artemis steps out of the shadows behind him, bow in hand, a second arrow already nocked. She looks every inch the Huntress, silver-eyed and absolutely done. “You are watching your son make out with his boyfriend. Again. ”
“It’s not weird—it’s parental support!”
“It’s voyeurism, and it’s gross. ”
Apollo scowls. “But it was romantic ! Tender! There were roleplay implications! I tuned out before it got spicy!”
Artemis doesn’t bother replying. She simply draws the bow tighter, aiming somewhere in the vicinity of his very golden, very punchable face.
Apollo raises both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! No need to go full Wrath of the Moon. I’m leaving!”
She herds him off the cloud with pointed gestures and her bow tip at his spine, muttering something about dignity and restraining orders.
“They deserve privacy,” Artemis says firmly, already calculating wind speed and trajectory. “And you? You’re going to be my moving target for the next three days.”
Apollo groans. “But I bruise —”
“Cry about it, Doctor Daddy Issues .”
The sky rumbles faintly with their bickering as it fades, leaving behind nothing but starlight, silence—and two boys tangled in each other, far below, and unaware that even the gods envy their warmth.