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ampa-larra · 1 month

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here is a smol ides of march au

Leo taps Nico’s leg with the flat of his gladius. “Look sharp, di Angelo, the big boss is coming through,” he mutters.

Nico shifts from where he’d been slumped against the wall of the Forum, pulling himself to his full (yes, really) height and tipping up his chin. It’s his least favorite time of day to be on guard; the midday sun is beating down on the stone walls and the gravel at his feet, and the damn helmet isn’t helping matters. He couldn’t find his own this morning, so he’s wearing Reyna’s, and it keeps sliding down his sweaty forehead.

Nico half-listens to the conversation as Caesar and his companions draw nearer.

“Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, to touch Calpurnia; for our elders say the barren, touched in this holy chase, shake off this sterile curse,” Caesar says, characteristically self-important.

Leo quirks an eyebrow at Nico, and Nico tries not to laugh.

Then, “Caesar!” someone calls. The voice is creaky, ethereal. Nico shivers.

The general stops short, his entire entourage grinding to a halt around him. One of them knocks into Leo, then grabs Nico’s shoulder to steady himself. Nico grits his teeth.

“Who is it in the press that calls on me?” Caesar asks, imperious. “I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music cry, ‘Caesar!’ Speak; Caesar is turned to hear.”

Nico lets out a long breath. Why use two words when two dozen will suffice? The longer this exchange takes, the longer he has to stand here, pin-straight in this stupid fucking sweaty tunic.

“Beware the Ides of March,” croons that same spooky-sounding voice, and a tall figure draws forward. It must be a man, Nico supposes, if only from the height. The figure is robed in sky blue, head covered, his back to Leo and Nico.

Nico’s mind wanders to the gnawing hunger in his stomach, the blisters on his sandaled feet. The heat on his armor is starting to make him feel as if he’s being slowly baked. A Nico panini, perhaps.

“He is a dreamer!” Caesar announces suddenly, jolting Nico from his discomfort. “Let us leave him.”

Nico lets out a breath as the group in front of him begins to move once more.

The man in blue - the soothsayer, Nico supposes, lingers. Once Caesar and the others are out of sight, he turns with a shrug.

“They never listen.”

And his voice isn’t spooky, or ethereal. It’s light, easy. Nico blinks, surprised, taking in sparkling blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, a rueful half-smile. A spill of freckles, several blond curls peeking out around the edges of his hood. The young man appears to be right around Nico’s age.

And he’s hot.

Next to Nico, Leo seems to be undergoing a similar journey of revelation. He steps forward, holding out a hand and offering a toothy grin.

“Leo Valdez. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Soothsayer, sir.”

Nico rolls his eyes.

The man in blue quirks a smile and takes the proffered hand. “Will Solace.” He steps back.

“Fucking hot out here, isn’t it?” Will Solace says. He shoves down his hood, revealing a head of tousled blond curls, shining like gold in the sunlight, the blue in his robes reflected in his eyes. Nico feels a bit like he’s been punched in the face. In a really good way.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Will says, fixing his grin on Nico.

“Nico. di Angelo,” Nico manages, extending a sweaty hand. Blue eyes catch on his and linger, curious.

“You sounded… different. Before,” Nico says.

Will’s grin goes wider, a bit sly. “I’ve been trying something new.”

“So it’s all an act, then?” Nico asks, curious, because…

“Oh no,” Will shrugs. “He really does need to beware the Ides of March. I just find folks are more receptive to prophecy if I get a bit spooky with it. You know. Really lean into the drama of it all.” Will wiggles his fingers.

Nico nods. “Caesar does have an… aura of death. A thick possibility of it.”

“Nico,” Leo complains. But Will quirks an eyebrow, regarding Nico with more interest, a quick once-over and a half-step closer.

“You know, I might have a prophecy for you,” he tells Nico.

“Yeah?”

Will touches two fingers to his temple, closes his eyes, a flutter of dark blond eyelashes against freckled cheeks. “Yes. I see you, having dinner with me. Tonight.” Will’s voice has gone spooky again, but it’s edged with something warmer now.

“Good grief,” Leo mutters.

Nico nods. “Interesting. Do you see yourself picking me up at eight, maybe?”

“You know, I do,” Will grins “You’re good at this.”

“Maybe after dinner I can show you what else I’m good at,” Nico counters.

Will waggles his eyebrows. “I foresee that I would enjoy that.”

They exchange details, and Will replaces his hood as he leaves, winking at Nico before turning to stroll away.

“That was disgusting,” Leo says flatly.

“Hey,” Nico shrugs, grinning, wondering if he can convince Jason to take his shift tomorrow morning. “There's no use fighting the power of prophecy.”

~~~~

Many thanks to @anything-thats-rock-and-roll for the quick beta & for enabling this ridiculousness

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ampa-larra · 1 month

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Solangelo Date AU feat Sonadow

My instagram : _haruven.art_

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ampa-larra · 2 months

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“Mine now”

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ampa-larra · 2 months

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Posting a wip without tagging to calm thy self asdkfjbannljdb

#dont reblog plis #just want to post a wipparoony #to appease the solangelo gods

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ampa-larra · 2 months

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thinking about Nico adjusting to letting himself miss and long for the people he loves. based on these bits from the sun and the star:

" As Nico and Will followed the trogs, he thought about how much he missed Hazel. He was learning to make peace with that feeling. It was okay for him to miss people because that meant he wanted them around in his life. That idea was *very* new for him- he was used to either pushing people away or watching them recoil from his presence." *

" That was the most surreal thing of all... Was he happy? Nico wasn't very familiar with the sensation, but he couldn't deny that he felt wonderful in Will's presence. He even longed for the son of Apollo when they were apart. A funny thing had happened as the two grew closer: Nico suddenly understood all those cheesy, sappy love songs he'd always hated."

#THA HAPPY FLAPPING #YESYESYEZ #SO REAL #SO RELATABLE #solangelo #THIS LEVEL OF CUTENESS IS DANGEROUS FOR MY HEART

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ampa-larra · 3 months

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“If you could be be anywhere in the world, Your Highness,” Will asks, lounging sprawled on top of Nico, head somewhere between his knees and long legs hooked over his elbows. His golden hair fans out over the simple bedspread, standing out from the soft pink quilt. “Right now, no constraints, no titles, no boundaries, where would you be?”

Nico grins wolfishly. Will must recognise the expression, because he huffs, rolling his eyes.

“If you say something filthy I shall not touch you for a month.”

“Filthy?” Nico asks, eyes exaggeratedly wide, innocent expression on his face. “Me? Filthy? You should know me better than to assume I would speak in such a way.” He pauses long enough for a tiny smidge of regret to make home in Will’s eyes. “I was only going to say that if I could be anywhere in the world, I would be stuffed inside your —”

“You dog!”

Will’s face is bright red; glowing, really, although he laughs, pleased and embarrassed, shuddering even as he tries to glare. Nico is unrepentant. He wheezes with laughter, knocking his head back on the thin wooden headboard, and in his great offense, Will aims a kick for his shoulder. Nico catches his bare foot, tugging him off balance and pressing a kiss to the ankle. He lingers, lips on soft, warm skin, until the glare on his Will’s face has melted away, and there’s nothing on his face but liquid fondness. He lingers long after, too, listening to the soft echo of their breathing, smelling the incense filling Will’s small quarters, watching out the window as the evening sun begins to disappear down the horizon, casting the room in a soft, orange glow.

Will looks beautiful in the sun’s rays. He always has. Radiant, in the most traditional senses; the sunlight makes him glow, softens him as to appear molten. His edges blur and he becomes almost dreamlike, unreal; divinely beautiful. He is everything. Even in his simple clothes, plain-faced and loose-haired, he is so obviously ethereal that it leaves a lump in Nico’s throat. Will should be revered by every person who passes him. Worshipped. It disturbs Nico, almost, that he isn’t, except like this he has Will all to himself, in his chambers, in the farthest corner of House Apollo, where no one will come find them.

“If I could be anywhere in the world,” Nico murmurs, Will twitching as Nico’s lips tickle his sensitive skin, “free of constraints or titles or boundaries, I would be here.” He traces a finger down Will’s calf, and this time he makes a sound as he shudders, low and deep and blissful, eyes half-lidded. “Touching you. Holding you. Watching you, in awe of you.” He drags his lips up to the base of Will’s shin, kissing the smattering of freckles there, and follows their discordant pattern up the strong, lithe swell of his calf, across the raised scar on the side of his leg, lingering on the side of his knee. “Worshiping you, my beloved, in your beauty.”

“Flatterer,” Will gasps. His hands slide themselves into Nico’s hair, as they so often do, tightening around the only locks, looping curls around his fingers like black iron rings. “You just want into my bed.”

Nico grins against his skin. “I am in your bed already.”

Will huffs. He tugs harder on the hair, causing a sting of pain that makes Nico jolt, liquid heat zapping up his spine. He ignores Will’s snickering in favour for resuming his travel up his long, strong legs, nipping the meat of his thighs and sucking a mark on the softest part of it.

“In my — ah — pants, then.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re alluding to.”

“You are insatiable, Your Highness, truly — o-oh, Nico, please, don’t tease me —”

Nico grins, relishing the use of his given name. “Tease you?” He leans down so he’s hovering over Will, his legs falling down to wrap around his waist. “Whatever do you mean, tease you?”

“Your Hi-ighness,” Will keens, voice breaking as Nico quietly slides up his shirt, following the receding hem with kisses, lingering especially on the thin, sensitive skin stretched over his ribs. Will’s grip in his hair has not loosened, and he feels it every time Will has to physically force himself not to squeeze Nico’s skull too tightly, wound up by Nico’s affections. “Please, Nico, you know what you’re —”

Nico kisses the dead centre of Will’s sternum, close enough to his heart that he can feel it pounding. Will’s words die in his throat as he inhales sharply, but as Nico stays where he is, just breathing against his skin, he relaxes, fingers loosening, heartbeat slowing. In a few moments, his fingers deftly comb through Nico’s fine hair, and Nico himself rests against his chest, cheek pressed to his skin, listening to the steady pound of his heart, the even pattern in his breathing. The steam in his veins — the ‘teasing’, as Will had (accurately) called it — has dissipated, leaving his limbs feeling leaden, his eyelids heavy. He stares, lethargic, at the softly flexing muscles in Will’s arms, head rising and falling with the easy swell of his chest. Sometime when the last few rays of sunlight recede, Will reaches for the end of the quilt and tugs it over both of them; upside down, as they lie in the bed the wrong way, Nico’s feet brushing the headboard and Will’s hanging off the sides of the small bed. Will’s hands are warm on his temples.

“Do you know the story of Peithos?” Nico asks suddenly, words slow and quiet and half-slurred. The candle burning on the rickety desk in the corner of the room flickers.

“No.”

Nico smiles into his chest. He didn’t expect him to. Sometimes he’s convinced Will requested stories of surgeons’ triumphs before bed as a child, rather than heroes. The image is endearing.

“He was a god,” Nico begins, voice hushed. “The god of pride.”

“Was he very proud?” Will teases. There is no greater sound than the laughter in his voice. Not on Earth, not beyond. It is joy. It is love. It is everything that matters.

“He was,” Nico answers, amused and besotted in equal measure. “To the point of unkindness, truly. He could not see past his own ability and achievements; all others were inferior.”

Will hums, scratching a particularly sensitive part of his scalp. Nico makes an appreciative sound in the back of his throat, reaching down to gently squeeze his hip.

“He did not…rule, per se, but he had sway in the make of things. He ruled over mortals, most surely. Pride has always plagued us.”

He feels the impression of Will’s smirk more than sees it. “Is this a more personal story, Your Highness?”

“I will cease, William.”

“I only jest. Please go on.”

Unable to remain stubborn for too long in the throes of Will’s affection (everywhere, everywhere, all encompassing; the gentleness of his hold and steady thunk of his heart), Nico does.

“He often escalated fights, encouraged rivalries and mistrust. He kept the gods from unity. It had long since stopped eating at him, any guilt for his bitterness. Peithos felt passion only when he incensed that of others.”

“Why do you tell me his story?”

“Because.” The next time Will adjusts his hands, Nico turns his face to kiss the centre of his palm. He twitches, then shifts to cradle his palm against Nico’s cheek, rubbing his roughened thumb gently against his cheekbone. “The other gods grew tired of his ire. On the eve of the longest day of the year, they fashioned with molten sand a glass vase, and trapped within it the setting evening sun.”

“…That is not how the sun works, Your Majesty.”

“Hush. Indulge me.”

Will’s hand squeezes. “Always.”

“Flatterer,” Nico says, smiling. His cheeks burn ever so slightly, a ridiculous reaction that only Will can manage from him. “Let me finish.”

“Finish! I shall no longer interrupt.”

“You lie.”

“The story, Your Highness. The jar?”

“Yes, the jar. The light, when trapped, began to grow somewhat panicked. Pure light had never been caught before. It pulsed and squirmed as the gods watched, uncertain. The molten sand was enchanted, and so the light could not escape it, but it was not immune to effect. Eventually, the light grew hot enough to mold the jar into the shape of a man — tall, and golden haired, who glowed with the incandescence of his rage. Without even sparing a glance for the gods who trapped him, he stormed off to find Peithos — to find the reason for his predicament.”

“How did he know Peithos was to blame?”

“Interruptions!” Nico scolds, although his voice is too fond to sound anything close to irate. “You are so impatient.”

Will pouts. “This is a valid interruption. You’ve not explained yourself! The sun-man has no reason to direct his anger towards Peithos; they’ve not met.”

“But the sun watches over the world, you forget. He is observant. Peithos’ pride cannot hide from the daylight.”

“…I suppose.”

“Heretic.”

Will reaches down to pinch Nico’s side, grumbling. Nico nips his skin in response, although it does little more than make his breath hitch. He smiles fondly. He should know better.

“I’m going to continue, now.”

“Please, Your Highness, do not let me stop you.”

Nico ignores the sarcasm, continuing on.

“Peithos had never been challenged before — not so brazenly, anyway, and not so directly. The Sunlight burned away all pretences; he was stubborn and illuminated all the good and the bad at once. Peithos could no longer blindly insist on the inferiority of others; nor could he convince others to do the same. The light humbled him — the light was humility. Humitos.”

Feeling a tug at his shoulders, Nico shakes off his lethargy and sleepiness and heaves himself level with Will, hands planted next to his head, hovering just high enough so that his kisses are light, fleeting. Will trails his hands down Nico’s sides, up and down, three times before coming finally to rest on his cheeks, pulling him closer, kissing him harder.

“Peithos and Humitos were married,” murmurs Nico, lips wet from the press of Will’s tongue. “He loved his Light like no one had loved before. Enviously. Endlessly. Entirely. Devotion was borne of his love for him, of the desperate intensity of it. A perfect mix of pride and piety, the result of fearless challenge.”

“Why,” Will gasps, arching into Nico’s body, kisses growing messier, less coordinated. “Why have you told me this, Your Highness, why this story in particular —”

“I love you.” Nico presses back into him, kissing him like he can only draw breath from his lungs. “I was drowning in pride and anger and fear, and you challenged me, changed me, and I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Kiss me,” Will demands, and when Nico says, “I am,” Will only pulls him impossibly closer, kissing him impossibly harder, murmuring I love you into his skin more times than Nico can count. Nico can taste salt, and there is a wetness on his cheeks; whose tears, he doesn’t know. But he holds Will as tightly as he can, even as his grip goes slack and he falls asleep, and in the flickering, dying light of the candle, in Will’s upside-down bed, in the forgotten corner of the castle hundreds of miles away from his home, he thinks: you are my Sun.

And he means it.

#solangelo #YoOOOOOO WHAT THE HEEL????#OH MYGOAH #GIVE THIS FIC THE WHOLE GRAMMYS #I AM SOBBING

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ampa-larra · 3 months

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let me be your shelter, let me be your light

#solangelo #and let me be in heaven BECAUSE THIS IIIIS HEAVEN

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ampa-larra · 3 months

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My PowerPoint presentation on why Nico di Angelo should never get a gaming PC. (If the randos on his team that kept spamming the “need healing” button don’t wake up the next morning… well that’s not his problem.)

The real question is: What games would Nico waste his life away playing? Will is definitely a Stardew Valley boy.

#solangelo #LMAO

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ampa-larra · 3 months

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“Oh, gods, it’s late.”

It’s the movement rather than the words that draw Nico’s attention; Will has been muttering to himself for hours. He usually does. It’s odd for him to stay quiet.

“Hm?”

“Curfew,” Will says shortly, strained as he flips upside down to store his book with the others under his bed. Nico grips his ankle, grinning, the dozens of times his boyfriend has landed sprawled on the creaky floorboards flashing through his mind. (He’s always so whiny after, embarrassment making his cheeks flush. Sometimes Nico just wants to — squeeze him. He’s such a klutz.)

“I could stay here,” Nico offers once he’s upright again. He tries for his most casual expression, leaning back onto Will’s pillows like it’s nothing, no big deal. He hears Austin’s snickering from the bottom bunk and subtly stretches down to kick him in the shoulder. “Might be easier.”

“I’ll walk you to your cabin. C’mon.”

Nico sighs, flipping his DS shut and climbing down ladder after him. Austin sticks his tongue out as Nico passes, so Nico flicks him on the head. Will watches them with a roll of his eyes.

“Teenagers,” he huffs.

Nico slips his hand in his. “You are fifteen years old.”

“In body. In spirit I am leagues beyond you. Sagacious. Wise. Enlightened. Uh —”

“Full of himself?” Nico offers. “Pigheaded? Conceited, perhaps.”

Will pouts. Nico laughs, slowing them down and leaning up to kiss it. He’s warm, even in the cool, late summer night, and he shudders when Nico slides his hand in his hair. His palms rest — hesitantly, as they always do, waiting for Nico’s hum of approval, waiting for him to set the pace — on his hips, fingers curling.

“Harpies,” Will mumbles against his lips. “Bad.”

“They’re afraid of me,” Nico dismisses. (It’s true. They are. It’s one of the many perks of being the son of Hades, he supposes, along with his knack for finding dark, private corners to drag Will into.)

“Yeah, but —”

“William. Può esso. Kiss me, before I lose my mind.”

He can feel Will’s smile against his mouth, feel his willpower — ha — dissolving.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

As much as Will indulges Nico’s bossiness, grinning and saluting and letting Nico get away with things no one else would even push, he’s still Will. And after a few more minutes of Nico pushing the envelope, he sighs, pulling away, ignoring Nico’s huff and rolled eyes.

“C’mon,” he says softly.

Nico lets him tug them down the path to the Hades cabin, only dragging his feet a little bit. He resists the urge to sigh again — he doesn’t want Will getting guilty. He doesn’t actually mind Will’s whole thing about meeting curfew every night, despite his complete disregard for almost every other camp rule. He knows it has something to do with the example he tries so hard to set for his siblings, and besides — on nights where Nico really can’t sleep by himself, Will doesn’t hesitate. If he showed up pounding on the door of the Apollo cabin in two hours, wide eyed and wired, Will would have him ushered inside and layered in his lavender wash-scented blankets in minutes.

“Hey,” Will murmurs, sliding his hand down Nico’s arms to rest on his wrists, squeezing gently. “I love you.”

Nico smiles tiredly. “And I you, tesoro.”

He stands on his tiptoes and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth, smiling at his shiver, squeezing his hands twice before walking through the heavy stone doors. He watches out the one-way windows as Will lingers, grinning, hand pressed to the spot Nico kissed, before turning back and practically skipping to his own cabin.

Nico shakes his head. “Dweeb.”

His own smile makes his cheeks ache.

#solangelo #so sweeeeet

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ampa-larra · 3 months

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The message comes from the constantly-running humidifier in the darkest corner of his cabin.

(It’s an eyesore. That’s why it’s there. It’s a bright, shiny pink, decorated with painted yellow suns and silver stars and random other doodles. At the bottom, there’s a messily painted signature next to a black heart. Will presented it to him proudly one random day, beaming that stupidly wide grin of his: “I made it in Arts and Crafts! It’ll help with your lungs, swearsies.”)

(It works wonders. When he breathes and feels like the air won’t settle in his chest, he stands close to it and clears up. When he’s hacking up a lung and smelling the phantom scent of acrid, monster air and the bronze staleness of his own recycled breath, it clears his throat. When he wakes up hyperventilating, eyes wide and unseeing, the soft bubbling of the steaming water and rhythmic pulsing of the glowing light gives him something to focus on.)

(If anyone asks, Nico threw it out the day he got it.)

He startles when his name is called, dropping the breastplate he was polishing with a clang. The sound makes him wince, and the Iris message flicker.

“This a good time, kiddo?”

Nico’s tongue feels like lead. Sally Jackson watches him carefully from the projection, small smile on her face, greying hair curling around her temples. Her brown eyes remind him of Bianca and how she would sometimes look at him, when he was fidgety and overwhelmed. Patient. It doesn’t help with the ache slowly spreading from his chest.

“Hi, Mrs. Jackson,” he manages, finally. His voice is more of a croak than anything.

Her smile widens, even as her face turns chastising.

“Sally, Nico.”

“…Mrs. Sally.”

She laughs, although Nico hadn’t meant it as a joke. Her laughter is twinkling and calming, like the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. Nico’s shoulders relax without him realising, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in too long.”

Nico winces. The last time he’d seen her was an Iris message similar to this, only her eyes had been red-rimmed, and she hadn’t been smiling. Nico had pushed past the lump in his throat to report that he hadn’t heard anything about her missing son, either, although he’d promised he was looking, and then a few weeks later he felt like the worst person ever when Percy showed up in the Little Tiber and he said nothing. He’d clenched a drachma in his hands for hours after, guilt eating him alive.

Sally looks fine, now. He fights the urge to apologise — it would only upset her. His guilt is something he simply gets to live with.

“I’ve been okay,” he says finally. She hums. “Uh, busy.”

“Saving the world again, I hear,” she replies, grin turning wry. “Carrying a forty-foot statue across the world.”

Nico flushes. He wonders who told her, Percy or Annabeth. Or both, or maybe someone else, even. He knows the Jacksons’ place is something of a refuge, in this day and age. He’s not sure how he feels about other people talking about him like he’s a hero or something. He had a job to do, and he barely managed still.

“That was Reyna’s quest.”

Sally hums again. Her eyes never leave him, piercing and soft as they are.

“Happy Birthday, Nico.”

For the second time in ten minutes, he jumps out of his skin. It’s been a while since he’s heard those words — he forgot that Sally is one of the few people who knows his birthday, that he told her, two years ago, when he’d crawled through Percy’s window when he was sure the boy was at school because he was bleeding and half-delirious and didn’t know where else to go, so soon after the Titan War. So soon after ditching camp, skin crawling at the stares of the other demigods, knowing how strange he was to them. Sally hadn’t asked questions. She’d cleaned the empousa scratch and wrestled him into staying for lunch, soft voice and kind, calloused hand prying answers out of him he hadn’t expected to give.

(She was aghast when she found out he was walking the streets on his own birthday, celebrations not even crossing his mind. Even more so when she noticed his cold-chapped hands and thin, ripped jeans. “Thirteen, you know, is a big deal,” she’d said, and when he’d insisted on leaving before Percy got home she sent him out with snacks and a pair of gloves.)

He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“How’d you celebrate, today?” Her grin is wide and creases her forehead, eyes nearly shut. Her smile is identical to her son’s, only with less of the trouble attached. “First year at camp as a full timer! Annabeth has told me that Chiron usually brings you all to the city to celebrate, it must have been fun.”

Nico avoids her gaze, shrugging. He picks at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt.

“I didn’t — um, we didn’t do that.”

He can practically feel the face she makes, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned.

“…Something else, then? How did you spend your day?”

Nico shrugs. “Stayed in the infirmary.”

He looks up just in time to see her face crease in alarm.

“You’re hurt?”

“Oh, no, I’m — I’m not —” He stumbles over his words, rushing to assure her. “I’m not hurt. I was just cutting bandages, helping out. My friend —” his face glows, he knows it does, he pretends it doesn’t — “my friend says I have a magic touch. He’s full of it, because he actually does have a magic touch and does not need my help organizing nectar bottles, but. He’s stubborn. And annoying. And too lazy to organize it himself, probably.”

Sally’s grinning again. This time, the expression has just as much mischief as her son’s does, and despite himself Nico flushes darker.

“Sounds like your friend just wants your company.”

“Or something.”

She watches him for a moment longer. Nico fidgets. He wonders what he’s supposed to say, if there’s an etiquette to talking to ex-crushes’ mothers who kind of mother you a little bit, too. Then he wonders who the hell he’s supposed to ask about that.

“Why didn’t you tell your friends about your birthday?”

It’s an odd thing for Nico to hear. ‘Your friends’. He has those now, he supposes. Will, and Nico, and Lou Ellen. Kayla. Austin. Cecil. Percy and Annabeth, even, and of course Hazel and Reyna and Jason. Maybe even Piper and Leo and Hedge. Mellie, too, ruffles his hair when she breezes by him, and Grover grins and waves when he catches his eye. Tyson beams at him when he visits camp. Sometimes Rachel picks the lock of his cabin for no reason and sighs dramatically in a corner until Nico snaps at her, then she grins and drags him off to do something stupid. If Nico thinks about it, about the list of people who insert themselves in his life, now, his head starts to hurt. When did he become so social?

Nico shrugs. “They’re gonna — make a big deal out of it. Will’ll probably try to — sing to me, or something.” He snorts just thinking about it. “He’ll break my ear drums. He’s a horrible singer.”

“I see.”

“Or, worse, he’ll write a poem or something. And it will be bad. The worst part about it, actually, is that he’s really quite good at poetry, but he thinks it’s funnier to write bad poetry, so he does and he recites it all the time and drives everybody crazy. One time I read a good one he wrote and he got all embarrassed because he is a walking indovinello, that’s what he is, let me tell you —”

“Hm.”

“— and Cecil, gods, don’t even get me started, Cecil would do something stupid like — like — steal me a car, or something. Even though I’m not even old enough to drive! And Lou Ellen would probably help him. And who even knows what ridiculous thing Kayla and Austin would plan, and, Zeus’ beard, I know Jason would start crying about something —”

“Nico,” Sally interrupts, gently, grinning, “it sounds like your friends would be very happy to celebrate with you.”

“They would be — overbearing,” he huffs. “Well — not Reyna. Or Hazel. Maybe a little Hazel, but mostly not.”

“Have you told them?”

“…No.”

“Why not?”

“It just seems — off, I guess,” he admits softly. “I didn’t have to tell Bianca about my birthday. She knew. She —”

His voice breaks, and he looks down, embarrassed. He swipes the tear from his eye and hopes Sally doesn’t see, even though he knows she does. Sometimes he feels like the record his mother has that was so thin and played-out that it skipped on every track and always made the needle get stuck. She was too attached to throw it away and get a new one. Nico is that track, he thinks, worn out and bumpy and always making the needle stick, always coming back to the same thing. He used to complain every time his mother brought it out. He wonders how many people must roll their eyes at his own skipping, repeating track.

“Maybe you don’t tell them, then,” Sally says, hushed. Nico finally gathers the courage to look back up at her, and she doesn’t look annoyed at all — kind, only, and determined. “You mentioned your friend in the infirmary. Do they still have patient files?”

He tilts his head, confused. “Yes? I think so.”

“Do you have one?”

Nico grimaces, remembering his first stay in the infirmary where Will left forms out for him to fill and Nico balled them up and chucked them at him. Will had chucked them back on reflex before remembering Nico was his patient, blurting out a red-faced “Sorry! Gods, I’m so sorry!” that had Nico laughing until he cried, as Will cussed him out, practically glowing a bright tomato-red. They never did get back around to filling those out, despite the numerous times Nico has landed himself back under Will’s dorky stethoscope. The medic must be stuffing the injury reports in a random file somewhere.

“I. Will definitely get one.”

“Put your information in,” Sally suggests. “Percy’s told me about the head medic in passing — Will, I think? He mentioned he’s quite thorough, I imagine he checks the files regularly.”

Nico nods. He does. They get messy and cluttered fast, what with the sheer number of maimings and stabbings et cetera, so once a month Will sits on the floor in the middle of the room and organizes everything in some inane system that only makes sense to him. If Nico fills out a form and stuffs it in his file, Will will definitely notice.

“That’s — doable.”

Sally smiles. It’s kind of radiant and hard to look at, and Nico feels himself smiling back on reflex, if a little shyer.

“Good! Oh, Nico, I’m so glad. I’ve worried about you, kiddo. I’m sure Percy’s tired of me asking.”

Nico whips his head back up to stare at her, jaw dropping.

“You…ask about me?”

“Of course.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’d have to do it less if you visited more than once or twice a year.“

Nico opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t quite know how to say that he had no idea that he was welcome — that she wanted his visits, rather than dreaded them.

“I made cake,” she says casually, like she can sense his turmoil. “Blue, of course. The best kind.”

Nico snorts. She winks at him.

“I’d hoped I would see you today. But cake lasts, you know. It will still be good tomorrow, if you don’t have any other plans.”

He imagines asking Argus to drive him into town — Will has still banned him from shadow travel, although he has begrudgingly allowed other “less draining” magic, not that Nico has to listen to him or anything — and pulling up to the apartment in Manhattan. Climbing up the rickety fire escape; or, this time, knocking on the door. He imagines Sally’s wide smile, maybe even Paul Blofis’ charming grin, her kiss on both cheeks and strong hand guiding him into the warm kitchen.

He swallows roughly. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Consider it done,” she says lightly. “Come over when you have time, I’ll be home all day. I look forward to seeing you, Nico.”

Nico smiles at her. Some of the ever-present ache in his chest lessens. “Me, too.”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.”

He swipes through the message, dissolving the connection. The billowing steam from the humidifier returns to its usual soft plumes, and Nico stands there for a few moments, breathing deeply, imagining it settling in his lungs, clearing out the lingering smoke he imagines has taken home in them. He breathes in, breathes out, and walks, trance-like, to his dresser, tugging on his PJs and feeling like he’s floating.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of sweet blue cake and sweeter laughter ringing through a small kitchen.

#nico di angelo #fanfic #good stuff im aaaaaaahhh SALLY #sally jackson #i cry for good nico and sally interaction

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