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an epic, in thirds (jason/nico)

Nico fights with Greek fire and appeals to his father’s softer side, recovering what never should have been lost.

Nico scrambled on top of the ornate wood of the coffin and cleared his throat to sing.

He met his father’s eyes across the throne room. The pallbearers, fallen soldiers--heroes, it was only appropriate--held the casket high, and Nico forced his chin up all the same. He did not hold the same tenor as his mother or sister, but it’s the one weapon he had against his father.

By his side stood Apollo, strumming his ukelele and humming softly, trying to catch onto Nico’s tune. He had a bunch of flowers tucked under his arm. Reyna was opposite the mortal god, harmonizing quietly to support Nico’s vocal efforts.

Nico was just a humble boy who wants his best friend back.

Jason’s not someone he wanted to lose. Jason, who had no time, Jason, who lost everything, Jason, who emptied himself for the sake of others. His first kind hand. His first hug. His first reassurance. His first trust. His first, his favorite, his everything.

Nico conveyed all this through breaking notes and an earthquake vibrato. His voice was worn with disuse. He didn’t sing, and never this much. But maybe the glint in Hades’ eyes was a stray tear. Reyna and Apollo certainly had enough, and the former squeezed Nico’s hand for support, stifling a noise into her hand before joining his chorus again.

Nico sang every song he knew. Every hymn, every Italian lullaby, every radio rock song, every new tune that camp infected him with. And when he ran out of ideas, he reverted to autobiography. His life, the events that matter the most. Jason’s consolation in Split. Jason’s open arms at Camp Half-Blood. Jason’s kind eyes, genuine smile, heartfelt attitude. It’s awkward, it’s painful, but Apollo’s strumming smooths over the rougher melodies.

Nico’s trembling voice carried through the fields of Asphodel, the plains of Elysium, and perhaps to the depths of Tartarus. Ghosts wandered outside the palace, collecting near the hunger for life, the hunger for love that resides in Hades’ throne room. They chorus, they chant. They knew not what they thirsted for. But it was palpable, and their ghost matter became flesh, pressing the walls and gates of the palace and demanding justice.

He was thirty-eight hours in, refusing a drink from Reyna, when his father finally raised his hand.

“I have a headache.”

Nico’s last note faded into the air.

“You’ve managed to gather quite a crowd.”

Nico looked at all the ghosts behind him. Gray, stretching far beyond the scope of his vision.

“Your stepmother was moved.”

The crease where the casket closes began to glow and Nico jumped off. The skeletons let the casket down and crumbled soon after. Apollo’s incessant strumming stilled. He met Nico’s eyes and tears dripped down to the bouquet, which he now held for comfort. He remembered Split, wandering the streets with his mother and sister, and Favonius’ kind smile.

I knew you’d return to look upon my master’s face one day.

Reyna grasped her friend’s hand as the casket turned open. Perhaps all the pain to which he’s been subjugated is worthy of the fate picked for him. Nico would fight it either way, and he’ll keep fighting, until Jason was alive and safe and warm again.

Nico plucked one of the hyacinth and tossed it into the light of the coffin.

The underworld eventually shrouded himself in darkness again. The ghosts returned to their homes and Hades’ palace was quiet once more. The only evidence left was the well-meaning casket.

Nico di Angelo turned through the black gates and left, Jason’s fading hand in his, clarity returning to his mind and body. Apollo and Reyna trailed behind.

He didn’t open his eyes and Nico didn’t dare look back. “Nico?” Jason asked. Blind to the empty air until he became full again. He traced the back of his hand with a loving thumb. “It’s you, right?”

Nico squeezed his hand in turn.

The west wind ruffled his hair as he emerged from the underworld and witnessed blinding light. Jason, blinding, teeth, tears, hands. All of which Nico clung to. All of which he promised not to lose again.