Will usually wakes up in the dark.
Head Counsellor — and Head Medic — duties, you see. And, moreso, representative of his father (or so the man claims). He must be up to greet the sun, and so he must be awake before it rises.
Pitch black, though.
That’s unusual.
“Do you want to go look at the stars with me,” says the pair of eyes hovering above his bed, which Will assumes are attached to a face, and particularly the face of his best friend.
And Will blinks. And squints. And glances outside, where there is not even the barest hint of sunrise — he can feel, in his chest, that the sun is presently as physically far away from him as it can get at this point in the season.
“Nico,” he croaks, eyes sliding shut again, “It’s two in the morning.”
His eyelids reflect the flash of Nico’s grin. “You sound like a cowboy.”
Will’s eyes pop open, and his face burns. He rockets straight up, shoving his best friend, who is laughing. Crosses his arms.
“I damn well do —” He stops, catching himself. Nico snickers. He scowls, and enunciates his words carefully. “No, I don’t.”
“Like Johnny Cash,” Nico says sagely, because he’s a jerk. “Didja just roll in from town, pardner?”
Will scowls and goes back to sleep.
Except, he doesn’t. Because Nico’s laugh is low and raspy, and the mattress dips by Will’s hip, where he leans against it. Where he rubs his palm over Will’s blanket-covered arm, making him shiver. Where he presses in close. Where the warm puff of his toothpaste-scented breath tickles the curve of Will’s ear.
“C’mon,” he murmurs pleadingly, and without looking Will can see his pout, the roundness of his wide brown eyes. “Please? I’m trying to listen to you. You said I’m not allowed out of camp by myself.” Nico lingers at the curve of Will’s wrist, pressing a cool finger deliberately on his pulse point. Will prays he doesn’t feel it quicken, but he can tell by the smirk in Nico’s voice that he does. “C’mon, Sunshine. I want to watch the stars with you.”
Will practically springs out of bed, he jumps away from that low voice so fast. Nico laughs, muffling it with his hands, and it does nothing for the burn of Will’s face, the writhing and churning in his stomach.
“Nice boxers,” Nico observes, as Will bends over his dresser, muttering to himself. Will freezes, and Nico carries on, voice deliberately controlled. “The Ninja Turtles is a really good look for you.”
Will’s face burns so hotly he ceases to feel anything but his own heartbeat in every square nanometer of skin, and then, to add insult to injury, he begins to glow. In his cheeks, at first, but it spreads quickly to the rest of his face, to his neck, down his chest.
Right down, humiliatingly, past his hips, where it shines through the worn-thin fabric.
“I didn’t know I would have company,” Will hisses, stumbling into the first pair of bottoms he finds. He misses the leg holes four times. The glowing gets worse. “What kind of — sick bastard — drags a man from sleep — and then mocks his sleeping attire —”
“Brave of you to call it attire,” says Nico, seeing as you’re covering much of nothing.”
Will misses the leg holes, again. This time he goes careening forward and lands flat on his face.
He’s still glowing, by the time they finally make it out of the Apollo cabin, and Nico is still snickering. Will is still furious with him. Or trying to be. But he gives up, when Nico offers his hand, because the harpies don’t avoid him like they do Nico, and he has suffered enough. No need for avoidable gauging.
Even if the icy cool of of Nico’s sword-callused hands feels good rubbing against his own sweaty palms, and Nico smells, vaguely, like churned dirt and smoke and a little bit of something fresh, herbal. Something good.
“Okay,” Nico says, somewhere past a row of darkened cabins. Will blinks, dazed. Disoriented, in the pitch-black, except the sheen of Nico’s eyes. “Don’t get mad.”
“About what,” Will asks dumbly, a second too late, too quiet. Because Nico’s teeth flash as he smiles, guilty and daring, and then he loses his footing, and the shadows swirl.
Will throws up the second his feet are on solid ground again.
“There, there,” says Nico after a moment, sounding a little shakey himself. He pats Will’s back. “It’ll fade, so long as you brought all your organs with you.”
“What,” Will croaks, and then after a brief, panicked check — “oh my gods…my spleen…”
Nico pauses.
“Well,” he says, and then is silent. He clears his throat. “Well, that’s not an important one, right?”
Will wheezes instead of answering.
His spleen.
His beautiful spleen…
“It’s okay,” Nico assures quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll ask the shadows to be nice on the way back. They should let you keep up to ninety-nine point four percent of your organry this time so it’ll all be fine and dandy.”
He pretends not to hear the mumbled I hope.
Gods help him.
“Where even are we,” he manages, finally. “Stars not good enough in New York?”
“Correct,” Nico says primly. But maybe he catches sight of Will’s still-green face, or maybe he’s just feeling benevolent. Because he smiles, and cups Will’s cheek. Strokes his thumb over Will’s cheekbone. Graciously ignores how Will’s throat closes. “Too polluted, azzurro. I wanted to bring you somewhere worth your time.”
Will feels his breath catch, his heart thump. Azzurro. He doesn’t know that one. And for a moment there is a flash in Nico’s eyes, something like panic, and his hand twitches — like he moves to snatch it away, but aborts at the last second. Draws it back slowly, instead. Lingers.
“Always worth my time,” Will says, before he can stop himself. “You, I mean.”
Nico’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.
“You’re such a cheeseball.”
He is. But Nico looks down as he says it. Kicks his shoe in the grass. Will exhales, and brings up a hand, wraps it around his wrist.
His pulse races.
“Hike,” Nico says when Will frowns. “Uh, the best view around? Up high. Let’s move.”
He stalks off before Will can say anything, tripping over roots and rocks. They’re in a — forest, maybe, of some kind, a trail; Will stumbles over after him and snags the back of his hoodie, when his outstretched hand grasps it, trying to keep in sight.
“Hey,” he says, quiet. “Slow down. I can’t see like you can.”
Nico slows down, so Will can walk next to him. Swallows. Keeps pace, for a moment. Between them their knuckles brush.
After a moment, Nico turns his palm. Will exhales, long and shakey, and matches it, curling their fingers together.
The walk is — good.
They come to the top of a rocky hill and sit heavily. Nico’s breath comes out in cool mist, and were Will not keeping his locked in his lungs, his would, too. Instead he watched the swirl of the steam, as he crosses Nico’s full lips, traces the dark shape of him in the low light. In the thick, night-heavy air.
“You’re not looking,” Nico says, eventually. He swallows heavy, eyes trained on the sky. “Stargaze with me, Will. Look at the heavens.”
Will swallows, dry. He’s not like Nico but his eyes have adjusted, in the dark, and he can see the dark on his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. He can see the small, shy smile fighting onto his lips. Can see the careful shine of his hair, brushed, for once. The sheen of his silk dress shirt.
“You planned this,” Will says, not a question. “Being — here.”
Slowly, Nico nods.
“Why?”
“I can’t ask my friend to appreciate space with me?” he defends, but it is halfhearted at best, and he picks at his fingernails. “Just ‘cause, I guess.” He shrugs. “Wanted to sit with you.”
It’s not the truth. Or at least not the full truth. Will can feel it like you can taste rain coming in the air, like you can smell the sea before you hear the waves.
“I thought —” It’s harder, than he imagined, to say it. To put the words, and all they imply, into the wavering space between them, above their still-joined hands. But he swallows, and makes himself. Voice quiet. Voice low. “I thought this might be a date.”
Nico doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then he squeezes Will’s hand, and nods.
“…I hoped.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Nico’s flush darkens in the starlight. “I did so.” He breathes. Quick. Inandout. “Kind of.”
Will inches closer, a little. “When you ask,” he says, quiet. “The word ‘date’. In involved.”
For a long moment Nico says nothing. Nods. Gnaws on his lip. Picks at a loose thread, and another.
“Will,” he says, looking away. “Do you want to go on a —” he stumbles on his words — “date. With me.”
Will nods, once, eyes not leaving his face.
“Yes.”
“Cool. Groovy.” Nico nods, once, and again. Will’s lips quirk up. “Good. Glad to hear it.”
Will leans closer, still. He can feel Nico’s body heat, at this distance. Feel his breathing.
“I’m here,” he says. “We’re under the starlight.”
He doesn’t know how to say anymore. He stares, only, eyes half-lidded. Breathing slow. Close. Waiting, for Nico to look back.
He does.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, quiet. “But I’m nervous.”
Will nods. Squeezes his hand. They’re both sweaty, now, too warm.
“Me, too.”
Nico nods. Will does, too, and he bites his lip, because it is ridiculous, because there is a lot of nodding. But he doesn’t know what else to do.
Nico does, maybe.
He slips his hand free. Wipes them on his jeans. And then, fingers shaking, breathing trembling, eyes drawn close together, he rests his palm on Will’s cheek. Slides his fingers in his hair, around the back of his neck. Angela his head down.
“Stop me, if it isn’t good.”
Will exhales, and nods again. Nico leans in close, and then closer. And there is the brush of his lips. Chapped. Gentle.
There is a spark, passing from his skin to Will’s. It makes them both jump.
Nico presses in, suddenly. Surges. Like live wire, like if he doesn’t touch, he will die. Like he needs the taste of Will’s breath in his lungs.
“Will,” he sighs, and kisses him again. And again.
Will closes his eyes and sees stars.
———
@willsolaceweek day 4 — will in love
