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The campfire glows like a second sun in the center of the commons, flickering gold and orange over a sprawl of bodies, laughter, and shifting shadows. The air is syrupy with woodsmoke, burnt marshmallow, and the kind of lazy, late-summer heat that clings to skin. Nico hovers on the periphery, half in shadow, feet tangled in the grass, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve.
He shouldn’t be watching Will. Shouldn’t be tracking every glint of gold in that tangle of hair, every careless laugh, every way Will leans into the firelight and turns it into something soft. But it’s impossible not to. Will glows tonight—easy in his skin, legs sprawled out in the grass, blue eyes crinkled at Piper’s teasing as she presses another flower crown into his hands. (“You look like a lost prince of Apollo, just let me—”)
And Will’s hair—gods, Will’s hair. It’s down tonight, long and unbound, curls spilling loose over his shoulders in a wild sunlit wave. It catches every flicker of the flames, each strand glowing as if Apollo himself couldn’t let go. He looks like something half-remembered from a myth: radiant, golden, untouched by anything so mundane as worry.
There’s Lila from Aphrodite cabin, sitting so close her knees brush Will’s, fingers deft as she weaves tiny white daisies into all that tangled gold. She laughs at everything he says, gaze bright, and tucks a stray curl behind his ear with gentle, lingering hands. Will just grins—oblivious, soft, soaking it all in like it’s as natural as sunlight.
Nico forces himself to look away, jaw tight. He focuses on the fire, on the sugar melting from his untouched marshmallow, on the brittle snap of wood. This is what he wanted, he reminds himself—the secrecy, the quiet, something untouched by the world. No one else knows, not Piper, not Will’s siblings, not the girl braiding flowers into his hair. They see only what they’re allowed to see: Will Solace, golden boy, heartbreak in a worn camp t-shirt.
It isn’t her fault. Nico knows that. How could he blame anyone for wanting Will? Will is summer incarnate—bright enough to blind you, soft enough to ruin you, and somehow still so far away you ache for it. What must it be like, Nico wonders, to move through the world with that kind of ease? To be adored just for breathing?
He knows it isn’t really like that. Not for Will. Not always. Nico’s seen him anxious, seen the worry behind the jokes—the moments when the pressure builds and Will goes quiet, knuckles white, eyes darting like he’s looking for the nearest exit. Nico knows every twist and snarl in him, every panicked breath, every sleepless night Will hides beneath his sunny laugh.
But still—when Will is bathed in firelight and crowned with gold, all loose curls and effortless grace, it’s easy to understand why everyone else only ever sees the shine. It’s easy to forget the darkness threaded through his brightness, the gravity that pulls at him when no one’s looking.
Everyone else sees the sun. Nico knows the shadow it casts—and loves both, with a desperation that feels almost holy, a secret ache carved deeper with every laugh that isn’t his to share.
So he sits a little outside the circle, invisible by choice, jealousy curling tight and sour in his chest. He tells himself it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter, that he chose this distance for a reason. But the truth is, watching Will shine for everyone else—even knowing the shadows underneath—makes Nico want more than he’ll let himself reach for.
He risks another glance. Will is laughing again, golden and crowned in white, head tipped back so the fire lights his face. For just a moment, he looks untouched by loneliness—like someone who’s only ever known the easy side of wanting.
Will catches him staring and grins—crooked, blinding, and so easy it makes Nico’s breath stutter. He lifts a hand, beckoning with a tilt of his wrist. “You coming over, or are you planning to brood until someone writes a song about you?”
Nico rolls his eyes, but he’s already moving, unfolding from his shadowed bench. He tries for casual—dusting off his jeans, shoulders squared against the cool night—but his chest is too tight, and he’s sure everyone can hear how hard his heart is pounding. Every step feels like crossing some invisible border he isn’t supposed to touch.
As Nico approaches, Piper calls, “Come sit with us, di Angelo! I promise I’ll only put flowers in your hair if you ask nicely.”
Nico mumbles, “That’ll be the day,” but he drops down next to Will anyway, careful not to touch, careful not to look like he wants to. For a heartbeat, his thigh brushes Will’s, and it sends a jolt up his spine—he’s both craving and dreading the closeness, body alive with nerves.
Will leans in, voice pitched low just for him. “If you’re trying to avoid flower crowns, this was a strategic error.”
Nico shrugs, keeping his eyes on the fire, jaw tight. “I’m not here for the flowers.”
Will’s smile softens, teasing but edged with real concern now. “What are you here for, then?”
Nico glances over, pulse wild in his throat. “Just—didn’t want to be alone.”
Will’s eyes go too gentle—so open Nico almost can’t stand it—and he looks away, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, trying to ground himself. The laughter of the other campers swirls around them; he can feel Lila’s gaze lingering on Will, the whole world pressing close at the edges.
“Hey.” Will nudges his shoulder, gentle, coaxing. “You okay?”
Nico forces something like a smirk, deflecting. “Fine. You look ridiculous, by the way.”
Will bumps his knee, grinning. “You say that now, but wait until you see me with daisies and dandelions. I’ll be irresistible.”
Nico snorts, but his cheeks are warm, jealousy gnawing at the edge of his words. He wishes—just for a moment—he could say it out loud. That Will is his. That he wants the world to know.
Lila fusses over a stray curl by Will’s ear, her hand lingering as she tucks a daisy behind it. She laughs a little too loudly at something Will barely says, but Will’s attention never really lingers on her—he keeps glancing at Nico, like he’s the only person in the room who really matters.
Piper scoots closer, already reaching for the mess of gold tumbling down Will’s back—longer than Nico ever realized, so long it brushes his waist when he sits up straight, wild and shining in the firelight. Nico’s never seen it like this before. Will always has his hair tightly braided, neat and sensible for the infirmary, nothing to distract from his sharp hands or his quick, focused movements. But tonight, it’s loose and impossible to ignore, and Nico can’t stop looking.
“You are a menace, Solace,” Piper says, grinning as she gathers up handfuls of shining gold. “This is like trying to braid Rapunzel—seriously, how do you even have this much hair? Does it glow if you use your healing powers, or is that just a rumor?”
Will ducks his head, a little shy, curls falling into his eyes. “Only if you sing the right song,” he teases. “But if it starts glowing, that probably means I’ve spent too many nights in the infirmary. Or it’s a side effect of campfire lighting, maybe.” He shifts so Piper can get a better angle, grinning. “If you see any actual magic, let me know. Otherwise, it’s just genetics and way too much sun.”
He’s blushing, Nico notices, color blooming high in his cheeks—and it makes something sharp and achy twist in Nico’s chest. He’d never realized how beautiful Will could look when he lets his guard down.
Lila, threading tiny pink wildflowers into one of the curls, rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “Seriously, Will, you have more volume than the Apollo cabin’s sound system. If you ever get tired of healing, you’d make a fortune just doing shampoo commercials.”
Kayla leans over, eyebrow raised, smirking. “And someone’s been admiring it for, like, half an hour.” She nods toward Nico, the grin growing sly. “What’s up, di Angelo? Counting every curl? Or just wishing you could pull off the flower-child aesthetic?”
Austin chimes in, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe he’s taking notes for a new business—‘Grim & Gorgeous: For When Your Funeral Needs a Little More Flair.’”
Nico chokes, nearly dropping his marshmallow in the fire. He glares at the flames, ears burning. “I wasn’t—I mean, it’s not—”
Will’s cheeks flush pink as he tries to cut through the teasing. “Guys, lay off. Maybe Nico’s just zoning out. Happens to everyone, right?” He gives Nico a tiny, almost apologetic smile. “Campfires are hypnotic. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
Piper, chaos embodied, smirks over her shoulder. “Yeah, but you don’t need to look that intense to be antisocial, Nico. We get it, Will’s pretty, but you’re acting like you’re about to start reciting poetry.”
That does it—Nico’s flush goes scarlet, all the way to the tips of his ears. He shoots Piper a murderous glare that just makes her laugh. “Whatever. I was just—yeah. Zoning out. Like Will said.”
Kayla and Austin snicker, trading a look. “Sure, ‘zoning out.’ Next you’ll be writing an ode to Will’s hair. ‘Ode to a Sunlit Tangle: An Epic in Three Braids.’”
Will can’t help it—a smile sneaks out, but he tries to hide it behind his hand. “Guys, seriously, you’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”
Nico shrugs, glancing at the fire instead of Will. “Sorry. Didn’t realize it was a crime to look at someone.” There’s a faint, nervous smile at the edge of his mouth.
Piper snorts, but lets it go, and the conversation drifts on. The secret between them simmers quietly—every petal and touch, every accidental brush of fingers, is loaded; Will’s braid heavy with flowers and Nico’s chest heavy with wanting.
Eventually, Piper sits back to admire her handiwork, and the others let out a chorus of dramatic applause. Will looks more than a little sheepish, but he can’t hide the way his fingers keep drifting up to touch the flowers woven all through the thick, shining braid that trails halfway down his back. In the firelight, he looks almost mythic—something golden and half-untouchable, like the kind of boy people write songs about. Nico feels the wanting rise in his throat, sharp and bright.
The fire’s nothing but glowing embers now, laughter drifting into soft, sleepy murmurs. Kayla and Austin are yawning as they gather up marshmallow wrappers, promising breakfast plans nobody will remember in the morning. Most of the cabin lights are flickering out, the stars sharp above the treeline, and Nico can feel the camp settling into the hush that comes before dreams.
Will sits close, hands in his lap, hair tangled with daisies and the last shreds of sunlight. His blinks are getting longer, lashes dusting his cheeks, and every time he rubs at his eyes or hides a yawn behind the back of his hand, Nico’s chest aches. He looks utterly content, lazy and soft, flowers glowing gold and pink in his braid, cheeks flushed with firelight and fatigue. It’s almost unfair—how beautiful he is like this, how easy he is to want.
Nico knows he should say something, should break the moment before he does something stupid like reach for Will’s hand in front of everyone. But Will is looking at him—really looking, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved in a sleepy smile so full of private hope it nearly undoes him. There’s a magnetism to the space between them: a secret tug, a wish, a promise that neither of them can voice out loud.
Everyone else is drifting away, voices fading into the dark. Will lingers, as if he can’t quite bring himself to leave. He’s so close Nico can count the petals in his hair. “You ready to head back? I can walk you to your cabin,” Will says, voice dropped so low Nico almost misses it. There’s something in his eyes—something aching, open, and so full of want it makes Nico’s throat go tight.
Nico looks away, cursing himself. “Actually, I… I have to talk to Piper about something. Camp business.” It’s a stupid lie, but it slips out easy, a habit grown from fear. He hates how Will’s face falls, just for a second—how Will swallows down disappointment, replaces it with that crooked, gentle grin Nico loves so much.
“Alright,” Will says, pushing to his feet and blinking sleepily, hair shining wild down his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
Nico nods, and the longing in his chest is almost unbearable. “Yeah. Goodnight, Solace.”
Will smiles—tired, radiant, soft enough to ruin him. “Goodnight, di Angelo. Sweet dreams.” For one heartbeat, they just look at each other, a kiss hovering unspoken between them, the whole world holding its breath. But then Kayla calls Will’s name, and he turns away, his braid swinging like a comet-tail, wildflowers and starlight fading into the dark.
Nico watches him go, something burning and desperate inside him. He hates himself, a little, for making Will hide this. For keeping their love small, secret, when he knows—he knows—Will would shout it from the rooftops if he asked. But Will has never once made him feel guilty. Not for being scared. Not for needing time. He just keeps loving Nico, steady as gravity, no matter how long the night lasts.
He’s so caught up in watching Will’s retreating form that he nearly jumps when Piper slides up beside him, all effortless mischief and quiet certainty. She doesn’t speak at first, just gives him a look—one eyebrow arched, lips quirking, eyes too knowing by half. Nico suddenly wishes he was anywhere else.
She folds her arms, waiting for him to crack. “You know, you’re terrible at hiding things,” she murmurs, voice pitched low, almost gentle. “You look at him like he hung the stars.”
Nico scowls, heat rising in his cheeks, mortified by how transparent he must be. “There’s nothing going on,” he mumbles, not meeting her eyes. “We’re just… friends.”
“Mm-hmm.” Piper’s smirk widens, but there’s nothing mean in it—just affection. “Right. And I just happened to sense a soul-shattering crush sitting between you two all night. Daughter of Aphrodite, remember? It’s kind of my thing.”
He glowers at the dirt, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Are you going to be annoying about this forever?”
She shrugs, softening, her smile going almost fond. “It’s a hobby. But hey, did you want something, or are you just here for free relationship advice?”
Nico hesitates, throat tight, but the words come out before he can second-guess himself. “Actually… yeah. Could you, um—teach me how to braid hair?” He rushes it, as if saying it quickly will make it less embarrassing. “Not tonight or anything. Just… sometime?”
Piper’s eyes light up, her grin going wide and delighted. “That’s adorable. Practicing for a certain sunshine boy, are we?”
He tries to glare, but it’s no use—she’s already seen straight through him. “Just say yes or no, McLean.”
“Relax,” she laughs, bumping his shoulder with hers, soft as moonlight. “I’ll come by your cabin tomorrow after breakfast. We’ll start with the basics—no judgment, no blackmail. Unless you want advice, in which case I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly.”
Nico ducks his head, flustered but relieved—a real smile sneaking out despite himself. “Fine. But if you tell anyone, I’ll—”
“Summon a legion of skeletons to steal all my lip balm?” Piper supplies, eyes sparkling.
“Exactly,” Nico mutters, but he already feels lighter.
She laughs again, quieter this time. “Good night, Nico. For what it’s worth—you’re braver than you think.”
He glances up, startled, but she just winks and slips off toward her own cabin, leaving Nico standing in the firelight, heart a little steadier, wondering if maybe having a friend who understands isn’t so scary after all.
***
The morning finds Will at the breakfast table, haloed in sunlight, his hair still perfectly braided down his back—long, gold, thick enough to make even the Aphrodite kids stare. The braid is still flawless, not a single curl out of place. It’s almost unfair, how he looks so put together after a night’s sleep, like even dreams know not to mess with Will Solace.
Nico tries not to stare. He slides onto the bench at the end of the table, aiming for casual, but his eyes keep drifting back to Will—so golden, so good, laughing about something Kayla said. The memory of last night burns under Nico’s skin, secret and sweet and impossible to hold all at once.
Will catches his eye, half-grin breaking through. “You coming to the infirmary after breakfast? It’s inventory day. Austin’s banned from touching the syringes until someone responsible shows up.”
Nico shakes his head, trying for nonchalance. But then his gaze narrows on Will’s braid, eyes flicking over every sunlit twist. “You took the flowers out.”
Will’s face lights up with righteous indignation. “Obviously! Did you know marigolds are notorious for harboring pollen, and pollen plus open wounds is basically a medical nightmare? And don’t get me started on baby’s breath—an allergic reaction just waiting to happen. Plus, cross-contamination between flowers and medical equipment—Kayla, back me up—”
Kayla just grins, mouthing ‘germaphobe’ behind his back.
Nico snorts despite himself, warmth curling in his chest. “You’re impossible.”
Will just beams, unbothered. “What can I say? Patient safety comes first. Apollo’s rules.” He leans in a little, eyes softening. “And hey, if you change your mind about coming, I’ll save you a clipboard. Promise.”
Nico ducks his head, smiling into his cereal. “Maybe next time.”
Will raises a brow, mock-offended. “Skipping out on infirmary business? Tragic. What could possibly be more important than untangling medical tape with me?”
“Just… something I promised Piper,” Nico mutters, cheeks burning. “She’s coming by my cabin.”
“Oh.” Will’s disappointment flickers across his face, quick as a summer shadow, but he recovers instantly, flashing that easy, crooked grin. “Well, try not to let her talk you into a makeover. And tell her I said no more flowers in my hair unless she wants a full incident report about allergies.”
Nico snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll warn her.”
Kayla leans across the table, waggling her eyebrows. “You two are so weird sometimes, you know that?”
Will just laughs, but he throws Nico a soft, secret little smile—a private sunbeam in the middle of the morning bustle. For a second, it’s just them, golden and invisible in the noise. Nico aches to reach out, to touch the braid, to press his cheek to Will’s shoulder and exist in that easy warmth a little longer.
Instead, he pushes to his feet, muttering a too-casual, “See you later,” and heads for the door before anyone else can catch the longing written all over his face—or the way Will’s eyes follow him, bright and full of something he still can’t quite believe is meant for him.
He barely has time to pace twice across the room before Piper shows up at Cabin 13, knocking in a bright rhythm, two brushes and a handful of elastics clutched in one hand, her expression all mischief and knowing sympathy. “You ready for your lesson?” she grins, the picture of easy confidence—gentle, but already teasing.
Nico shrugs, trying for cool and only managing awkward. “I guess. Just… don’t laugh if I’m terrible, okay?”
Piper’s grin goes sly, but soft. “You’re about to learn from the best, Death Boy. We’ll have you braiding circles around Aphrodite kids in no time. C’mon.”
They set up camp on the rug by Nico’s bed, cross-legged and surrounded by a growing nest of hair ties. Afternoon light spills gold across the stone floor, the world outside filtered through summer birdsong and distant shouts from the archery range. Nico stares at Piper’s hair like it’s a puzzle with shifting rules—thick, dark, shining, impossibly perfect. His fingers fumble, awkward and all thumbs.
“Okay, split it into three,” Piper instructs, voice endlessly patient, guiding his hands. “Other side—yeah, like that.”
Nico’s first braid is a disaster—lopsided and loose, the end sticking out like a crow’s nest. He scowls at it, frustrated. “I don’t get how you make this look easy.”
Piper just laughs, warm and unbothered, shaking her hair out. “I was a mess at it forever, too. You’re doing better than you think. Besides, everyone’s first try looks like it went through a minotaur stampede.”
They start again. Piper chatters to fill the silence—Aphrodite cabin drama, old camp pranks, the time Will tried to teach Austin to juggle and almost set the arts-and-crafts tent on fire. Nico’s hands grow steadier with each attempt, his frown easing, the weight in his chest lightening just a little.
Every so often, Piper glances at him sideways, eyes bright with curiosity. “So, is there… anyone in particular you’re hoping to impress with these skills?” she asks, light and casual, but the look she gives him is anything but.
Nico ducks his head, ears pink. “Just wanted to learn. For… reasons.”
Piper hums, clearly not buying it, but she just lets him keep practicing, her patience endless.
The sun moves, shadows stretch, and slowly, Nico’s hands begin to find the rhythm—the braid tighter, neater, until Piper declares, “That’s it, Nico. You’ve almost got it.” And for a second, pride flares so bright in his chest he can hardly breathe.
After a while, Piper’s teasing shifts, her tone softer but still playful. “You know, you were staring pretty hard at Will last night.” She’s smiling, not unkind, just curious. “Not that I blame you. He was glowing—literally.”
Nico feels heat crawl up his cheeks. He ducks his head, focusing hard on the braid. “I wasn’t… staring,” he mutters, though it’s an obvious lie. “He just—looked different with his hair down. That’s all.”
Piper’s grin widens, but she’s gentle. “If you say so. I’ve just never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you.” Her eyes flick up in the mirror, soft and knowing. “Like you hung the moon or something.”
Nico’s fingers freeze in her hair, his face hot. “We’re just… close,” he manages, voice quiet and uncertain. “It’s complicated.”
Piper turns a little, her eyes meeting his in the glass—steady, kind, not pressing for more. “It doesn’t have to be, you know. But it’s fine if it is. You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Nico. Not unless you want to.”
He nods, swallowing, his hands resuming their awkward braiding. “Maybe one day,” he says, and the words feel shaky but real.
Piper just smiles, accepting his answer. “Well, whenever you’re ready. I’ll keep your secrets. Aphrodite’s honor.”
They fall back into their rhythm—Piper telling stories, Nico braiding and unbraiding, each attempt a little less disastrous. Piper never pushes, just lets Nico exist in the quiet, her presence patient and reassuring. For the first time, Nico thinks maybe this is what having a real friend feels like.
By late afternoon, Nico manages something more than presentable, and Piper crows with delight. “Look! That’s a real braid. I’d trust you with a battle updo, di Angelo.”
He grins, shy and surprised, and for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel scary to imagine doing this for someone else he cares about.
***
It happens in pieces, over the next week and a half: Piper shows up every afternoon, rain or shine, slipping into Cabin 13 with a cheerful, “Ready for another round, Death Boy?” She never mocks Nico’s stubbornness or awkwardness—if anything, she seems to admire it. Some days, the braids are disasters. Other days, Piper emerges with a half-decent crown or a lopsided fishtail, Nico’s face set in proud concentration.
With every session, Piper opens up a little more space for trust. She asks questions, never pushy, just leaving room for Nico to step forward if he wants to. One day, as he’s frowning over a tricky Dutch braid, she asks, “You ever get nervous around him? Like you forget how to talk?”
Nico, tongue caught between his teeth, mutters, “All the time.” The admission slips out before he can stop it, and Piper’s grin is all warmth and sunlight.
Another day, as she’s showing him how to tuck loose strands and hide uneven sections, she says, “You know, the camp would be thrilled for you guys. You could tell them, or not. It’s your call.”
Nico’s answer grows softer each time. “Maybe. I just… I want to keep this for myself a little longer.” And Piper only nods, never judging, her approval as gentle and steady as her hands.
By the end of each afternoon, Nico finds himself not just better at braiding, but also—maybe, just a little—braver. Piper’s presence is easy, her friendship something he starts to count on, the comfort of being understood without having to say everything out loud.
But there’s guilt brewing beneath Nico’s concentration, a tension that doesn’t let up no matter how much better he gets at braiding. Will catches him in the dining pavilion, always hopeful, always bright—reaching for his hand or bumping their shoulders together in passing. “Hey, you free after lunch? Austin’s got new sheet music for the lyre and—”
Nico only shakes his head, eyes apologetic. “Can’t. I’m sorry. I promised Piper.”
At breakfast, Will leans close, voice low and eager. “Want to come help me pick strawberries in the fields after breakfast?”
Nico, already catching Piper’s wave from across the crowd, mumbles, “Tomorrow, maybe. I promised—”
It becomes routine: Will asking, Nico turning him down. Every evening, Will’s hair is still perfectly braided, neat and golden down his back—but it isn’t Nico’s work, and that stings in a way Nico hates to admit. It’s childish, he knows, to feel jealous of his own distance, but he can’t help it. He wants to be the one Will turns to for every little thing.
But he doesn’t give up. Every day, his fingers get steadier, the braids a little smoother, Piper’s gentle patience coaxing out real laughter. She lets him braid her hair as she tells stories—about Aphrodite cabin’s wildest schemes, about her own messy crushes, about learning what it means to care for someone and not be sure how to say it. The ache in Nico’s chest doesn’t vanish, but it changes, softer around the edges.
He still can’t say everything out loud—not yet. But he says enough that Piper knows, and somehow, that’s enough for now.
At the end of each session, Piper grins and ruffles his hair, always saying, “You’re almost ready.”
And Nico, cheeks pink, heart in his throat, thinks: Almost.
***
Will catches up with Nico just past the steps of the dining pavilion, the sky gone bruised and purple behind the trees. There’s still noise from the campfire, voices and laughter echoing over the grass, but here it’s just the two of them—suspended in that strange, breathless hush that always seems to gather when things matter most. The world shrinks to the distance between their bodies, to the ache threaded through the air.
Will’s hands are shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched, jaw locked tight against everything unsaid. He won’t look at Nico—his gaze skims somewhere over Nico’s shoulder, watching the last thread of daylight bleed away as if he’s afraid of what he might see if he looks directly at him.
“Hey,” he manages, the word scraped raw, thin and brittle at the edges. “Do you… do you have a sec?”
Nico’s stomach twists, cold guilt creeping up his spine like a tide. He wishes he could disappear, could fold himself into shadows and never have to see the way Will looks right now—like someone waiting for the ground to give way beneath him.
Still, he nods, even though every instinct screams at him to run.
“Yeah. Of course. What’s up?”
Will fidgets, rocking on his heels, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. He glances at Nico only for a heartbeat before looking away again, fingers twisting the cuff of his sleeve over and over, unraveling the seam.
“I just… I dunno, Nico. Did I do something? Because if I did, you can tell me. I promise I can take it.”
His laugh is empty—a thin, desperate sound that seems to hang in the air like smoke.
“It just feels like you’re… I dunno. I keep thinking I did something wrong, and it’s driving me a little crazy. You don’t look at me anymore. Or talk to me. Not really. And every time I ask if you want to hang out, you’re suddenly busy, or gone, or—”
He falters, squeezing his eyes shut as if bracing for a blow, the soft rise of his chest betraying a shaky breath.
When he speaks again, his voice is smaller, paper-thin, teetering at the edge of breaking.
“It’s like you’re slipping away, and I don’t know why.”
Nico’s chest aches, shame pressing down like a weight. All he can think is how desperately he wishes he could undo the last weeks—how he’d go back and say yes, every single time, if it would let Will believe, even for a second, that he was wanted.
He can’t meet Will’s eyes—his own gaze fixed somewhere at the ground, on the bruised grass, on the worn laces of his boots—anywhere but the boy standing in front of him, so full of hope and hurt.
“No, Will. You didn’t do anything wrong. I swear.”
His voice is shaky, hushed with dread.
“I’ve just…been busy. With Piper. And, um… stuff.”
The word tastes bitter, flimsy, pathetic in the hollow space between them.
Will forces a laugh, but his eyes shine—wet and vulnerable in the indigo dusk.
“Stuff.”
He says it flat, defeated, like the word itself is a wall he can’t get through.
“Okay. Because if… if you don’t want to be with me anymore, or if you’re having second thoughts, I wish you’d just say it. I won’t be mad. Just—hurt, I guess. I’d rather know than keep guessing.”
He shrugs, shoulders caving in, looking so much smaller than usual, all the sunlight drained out of him.
“I miss you, Nico. I feel like I barely see you anymore, and when I do, you’re somewhere else.”
Nico’s panic spikes, fear and longing colliding so violently inside him he almost can’t breathe. This is the thing he’s always feared—hurting Will, making him doubt what they have, failing to bridge the distance between what he feels and what he can say.
“No! Gods, Will, it’s not that. I want to—I want to be with you. I just—”
He rubs at the back of his neck until it aches, hating how clumsy his words sound, how young and helpless.
“I’ve been working on something. For you. And it got out of hand, and then I felt stupid for hiding it, and then I didn’t know how to explain, and now it just feels like I made everything worse—”
He cuts himself off, cheeks burning, throat tight and voice barely more than a whisper.
“This is so stupid. I’m sorry.”
Will’s shoulders sag, some of the tension bleeding away but the ache lingering in his eyes. When he finally meets Nico’s gaze, there is something so open and breakable in him that Nico’s heart cracks right down the center.
“It’s not stupid, Nico. Not if it’s got you this worked up.”
Will’s voice is gentle, but there’s a tremor beneath it—something unsteady, like a bridge stretched too far.
“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. I just—”
He hesitates, swallowing hard, eyes shining in the twilight.
“I’m scared I’m losing you, and I don’t want to. If you can talk to me… please, I want to understand.”
Nico’s mouth is dry, panic and guilt roaring in his chest. He wants to vanish, to apologize for everything he can’t say. Instead, the words tumble out, heavy and hopeful:
“Just—just come to my cabin? I want to show you. It’s—” He falters, heat rising to his cheeks, hope and dread knotted together. “You’ll understand when you see. Maybe. I hope.”
For a second, Will just looks at him—really looks, like he’s trying to read Nico’s mind. Then his lips curl in the smallest, most hopeful smile. “Okay. I’ll come. But only because you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Nico huffs, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, half mortified and half relieved. “Yeah, well. You try talking to Piper for a week straight about emotional vulnerability. You’d be weird, too.”
Will laughs, the sound still a little shaky but warm, golden in the growing dark. “Lead the way, death boy.”
Nico rolls his eyes and bumps Will’s shoulder, nerves buzzing, hope rising quietly with every step toward his cabin and the secret he’s almost ready to share.
Nico barely remembers closing the door—only that, all at once, the world outside falls away. The cabin hushes around them, candlelight flickering shadows over stone, and the sudden closeness nearly undoes him. Will is right there, golden and nervous, shoulders drawn in a little, still holding the ghost of that uncertainty from before—so heartbreakingly familiar that Nico feels the ache of missing him settle in his bones, sharp and desperate after so many days apart.
Will sets his bag down, fingers lingering a second too long on the strap as if to steady himself, and offers a hopeful, uncertain little smile, voice a touch too thin. “So—what’s the big—?”
Nico doesn’t let him finish. He crosses the distance in a heartbeat, hands twisting into Will’s shirt, and kisses him like he’s starving for it—like it’s the only thing that will settle the ache. There’s nothing careful about it—just heat and longing, the breathless tumble of everything he hasn’t been able to say. Will makes a soft, startled sound, body tense at first, shoulders stiff as if he’s still waiting for the world to break, before finally melting, a tremor of relief running through him as he clings back—arms locking tight around Nico’s waist, anchoring him there. The kiss is rough at first, frantic with all the need and apology that’s built up between them, and then it gentles—Will’s hands, slightly unsteady, sliding up into Nico’s hair, Nico cupping Will’s jaw, both of them shivering with relief.
When Nico finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch—his breath mingling with Will’s, eyes searching, greedy, still half afraid this is too much. Will just beams at him, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, lips parted as though he’s never wanted to say more. Some of that tightness is gone from his shoulders now, and he looks almost dazed, like he’s still not sure it’s real.
“Gods, I missed this,” Will whispers, voice gone raw, hands still tracing the lines of Nico’s back as if to convince himself Nico is really here.
Nico swallows, throat tight with wanting. He hesitates, then lifts a trembling hand to Will’s braid—a single, perfect rope of gold running all the way down his back, too neat, too beautiful, too carefully done. His fingers slide along the braid, slow and reverent, savoring the silk and warmth and the shiver that goes through Will at his touch.
Will’s breath stutters, blue eyes flicking from Nico’s face to the hand at his hair and back again. He tries for teasing, but his voice is still a little unsteady, the aftershocks of that earlier conversation not quite faded. “Not that I’m complaining about the welcome committee,” he manages, a crooked grin threading through the vulnerability, “but, uh… I still don’t know what’s going on.”
Nico feels his cheeks go hot. He drops his gaze, suddenly unable to meet Will’s eyes, nerves tangling every thought. “I—I just. Can you—um. Can you sit on the bed? With your back to me?”
Will quirks an eyebrow, but there’s a flicker of nervousness as he moves—his hands fidget in his lap as he settles onto the bed, legs folding over themselves. He glances over his shoulder, giving Nico a soft, lopsided grin that’s equal parts anticipation and fragile hope. “You know you’re being super cryptic, right? This isn’t, like, an underworld hex thing? You’re not going to draw a summoning circle on my back?”
Nico huffs a laugh—shaky, more mortified than he means. “No curses. Promise.” He climbs onto the bed behind Will, knees close, palms pressed together so Will won’t see them shaking. The urge to run is wild, but Will is right here, warm and solid and waiting, and Nico has to force himself to breathe.
Will turns just enough to catch his eye, the patience on his face so easy, so open it almost hurts. There’s still a flicker of fear there, some small part of him that’s bracing for disappointment, but the trust is unmistakable. “Hey. It’s just me, Nico. Whatever you want… I trust you.”
Nico nods, biting his lip, and finally gets the words out. “Can I—um. Can I take your braid out?”
Will’s answer is a whisper, gentle and sure. “Yeah. Of course.”
Nico exhales, relief mixing with terror, and tries to steady his hands as he finds the end of Will’s braid. He works slowly, undoing the golden rope, careful with every strand, as if the hair might vanish if he tugs too hard. One curl, then another, slips loose—soft, sun-bright, impossibly long, twining through his fingers like something alive. The room is all quiet breath and the hush of anticipation.
When he finally works the braid loose, Nico lets his fingers drift through the golden length of Will’s hair, combing gently, almost worshipful. Each strand catches the candlelight, gilded and soft, a living ribbon of sunlight slipping through his hands. He hesitates—heart thudding—then begins to rub small, soothing circles at Will’s scalp, barely daring to breathe, as if a single sharp inhale might shatter the moment.
Will lets out a sound that’s almost a whimper—unguarded, real—melting into Nico’s hands. He tips his head back a little, offering himself up, trust laid bare in that simple, silent motion. The weight of it—of being allowed this closeness—makes Nico feel dizzy and impossibly seen.
Something in Nico’s chest unfurls, fierce and tender, so full of longing he can barely stand it. Lila might have braided Will’s hair a hundred times, might have laughed with him and touched those same golden curls, but she never got this—never got Will undone and pliant, trusting, every shield lowered.
No one else gets to see him like this, golden and unafraid, every line of him softened and loose, surrendered entirely to Nico’s hands. This part—this sacred, secret gentleness—is his alone.
Nico’s hands move slowly, reverent, careful not to rush what feels holy. Will’s hair is impossibly soft, the curls slipping like silk through his fingers, warm from the lamplight and still somehow bright with Will’s sunlit magic. Each time Nico’s nails graze his scalp, he feels a quiet shiver run through Will—an involuntary ripple that sends a flutter through Nico’s chest. It would be easy to lose track of time here, to breathe together in this fragile pocket of light, the world pared down to golden strands and the hush of a room that feels secret, sacred, and made for just them.
Under Nico’s touch, Will melts, every knot of tension unwinding and falling away. Nico sees it in the way Will’s shoulders drop, in the looseness of his posture, the way he simply lets go—trusting, unguarded, entirely Nico’s in this small, perfect space. Nico’s never been trusted with something so gentle before; the thought almost undoes him, makes his breath catch in his throat.
The intimacy of it sneaks up on him, sudden and electric—Will sitting between his knees, eyes closed, breath turning softer and more uneven each time Nico’s fingers pause to work out a tangle or linger just a moment longer than needed. There’s nothing performative here, no masks, no games, no one to impress—only this strange, beautiful vulnerability, sweeter than any kiss, more honest than any secret. Nico never knew he could want something so quietly, so fiercely, until this.
When Will finally cracks an eye open, he looks half-dreaming, his cheeks flushed with contentment. “So… was this your secret plan?” he murmurs, voice rough and fond. “Because I’m pretty sure you’ve turned me into actual mush.”
Nico blurts it out before he can lose his nerve, the confession tumbling from his lips, all nerves and honesty. “I… I was jealous. At the campfire. Because Lila was braiding your hair.”
Will looks genuinely thrown, brows scrunching, a small, uncertain smile ghosting across his mouth. “Nico, Piper was braiding my hair too. That’s kind of the whole campfire deal—flower braids for everyone.”
Nico groans, dropping his forehead to Will’s shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Gods, you’re so oblivious, Solace. Lila likes you. Like—likes you, likes you. Everyone can see it. And I mean, I get it—look at you. But it was still… hard. And I know it’s my fault, since no one knows about us, but I couldn’t help it.”
Will goes very still, and for a second the silence stretches—just the two of them in the golden spill of hair and lamplight, hearts thundering. Then, suddenly, Will shifts, gently untangling his legs and tugging Nico down until he’s sprawled over him, all awkward elbows and startled laughter. Will’s arms wind around Nico’s waist, holding him close, safe, and then he’s kissing him—slow, patient, pouring every ounce of certainty he can muster into the places Nico’s jealousy and self-doubt have left raw.
Will’s hair fans out across the dark sheets, gold against black, and Nico’s heart aches at the sight—at how beautiful he looks, all wild and glowing, as if he was made for Nico’s hands and no one else’s.
Will only lets him go far enough to see his face, and then he’s cupping Nico’s cheek, thumb brushing soft under his eye. His gaze is steady, almost pleading, but so gentle it makes Nico’s heart twist.
“Hey, look at me,” Will says, voice barely above a whisper, all open nerves and quiet conviction. “You really think anyone could take me away from you? Nico, I’d stumble straight past every other person at camp just to get to you. Lila could weave a thousand flowers into my hair, and I still wouldn’t see anyone but you.”
He lets out a shaky, apologetic breath, thumb smoothing along Nico’s jaw.
“I’m sorry, about… everything with her. I had no idea she liked me. I swear, I never meant to make you feel that way. Sometimes I’m just… really, really slow when it comes to this stuff.”
Nico rolls his eyes, a small, reluctant smile flickering at his mouth.
“It’s not your fault, Will. You’re oblivious. Honestly, I’m still not sure how you ever noticed I liked you.” He tries to keep his tone dry, but there’s real affection beneath the words.
Will gives a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes bright and adoring.
“I mean it. I want you. I only want you. I’d wait forever if I had to, just for you to believe it. It doesn’t matter who knows or how long it takes—I’ll be here, as long as you want me.”
He hesitates, thumb tracing gently along Nico’s jaw.
“I know it’s scary. I know I can’t fix that for you. But I’m not going anywhere. Even if you never say it out loud, even if it’s just us, I’m yours. Just you. Only you. Always.”
Nico tries to roll his eyes, but it falters into something more honest. He swallows, words catching on the edge of a smile. “You say that now, but you don’t see how people look at you.” He can’t help tracing a finger down the line of Will’s jaw, gentle and possessive. “I mean, you’re… Will. You’re all light and gold and—of course people are going to fall for you. I just… Sometimes I feel like I’m always on the outside, and you’re at the center of everything.”
Will’s thumb traces soft, grounding circles at Nico’s hip. He meets Nico’s eyes, unblinking, voice steady and quietly awed.
“You know what I see?” he says. “I see someone who uses what he’s given to help people, even when it’s hard. Like how you made sure everyone who died in the wars made it to Elysium, so no one got left behind or forgotten. I see you sitting with the younger kids at night, telling them that missing someone doesn’t make them weak. You explain things about death that no one else can, and somehow you make it less frightening for them.”
He softens, a small, crooked smile at his mouth.
“You leave flowers for the ones who didn’t come back. You make sure their names are spoken at the campfire. And you always make sure the shyest camper gets the marshmallow they want—even if you pretend you just happened to be there.”
He shakes his head a little, sunlight and sincerity shining in his eyes.
“You act like you’re all shadows and sarcasm, but you’re gentle. You’re kind, even when you have every reason not to be.”
Will swallows, a little overwhelmed, a little giddy. “You’re so good, Nico. Braver than anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the fact that you’re mine. That you let me love you.”
He lets out a breath, shaky but sure. “You think you’re on the outside, but Nico, you’re the one I look for in every room. You’re the only person who makes it feel like home—like I can breathe, even when everything else is too much.”
Nico doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it out all at once, relief and gratitude flooding through him so fast it almost stings. He leans down, pressing his forehead to Will’s, voice barely more than a whisper. “I told Piper about us. Sort of. I mean, I didn’t say it out loud, but I think she knows. She’s Aphrodite—she could probably sense it. And she’s been… really kind about it. She didn’t push.”
Will smiles, slow and dazzled, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of Nico’s hair behind his ear. “I’m glad. You deserve people who are kind to you. You know, you can take as long as you need. I just want you to feel safe. That’s all.”
Will’s thumb lingers at Nico’s temple, tracing slow, lazy circles, like he’s committing every piece of this moment to memory. He’s still so close, eyes impossibly soft in the dimming light, when he asks—gentle curiosity in his voice, careful not to push, but full of too much affection to hide—“Wait. Does this—” He gestures vaguely, a crooked smile playing at his lips. “Does telling Piper have anything to do with you disappearing lately? Always busy, dodging me after dinner…”
Nico can’t quite meet his eyes. He fidgets, twisting his fingers in the fabric of Will’s shirt, pink flooding his cheeks. He draws a shaky breath, voice soft and stumbling.
“I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t want you, or that I was… pulling away. I never want to hurt you. I just—sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own head, and I wanted to do something special. I guess I made a mess of it instead.”
He finally risks a glance up, eyes earnest and aching.
“I want you. More than anything. I hope you know that. You’re it for me. Really.”
Then, flustered, he blurts out, all in a rush, “And—the reason I was telling Piper, and disappearing after dinner, was because I wanted to learn how to braid. So I could… do your hair. That’s all.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence, so thick with disbelief and sweetness that it almost aches. Will’s whole face lights up—like sunrise, like he can’t contain it—mouth dropping open before it breaks into the most brilliant, disbelieving grin.
“You wanted to braid my hair?” he echoes, like he’s making sure this isn’t some wild fever dream, voice gone bright and full of wonder. He sits up a little straighter, golden hair sliding like silk through Nico’s hands. “Gods, Nico. Please. Yes. Please.”
Nico looks up, wide-eyed, nerves plain on his face. “You’re sure? You… really want me to?”
Will’s answer is instant, a little breathless, a lot unguarded. “Yes. Are you kidding? I’ve wanted you to touch my hair since forever. Seriously. It’s—” He laughs, helpless and head over heels, pressing his forehead gently to Nico’s. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. Please braid my hair.”
Nico’s smile is small, a little shaky, but so real it aches. He nods, brushing his fingers through Will’s hair with a careful reverence—like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this, like every touch is a secret wish answered. Will just melts under his hands, sitting cross-legged on the bed, back straight, the picture of trust, completely at Nico’s mercy.
“Okay,” Nico whispers, suddenly focused, intent, every trace of bravado gone. “Sit still. I practiced. A lot.”
He starts slow, combing through Will’s hair with gentle, nervous fingers, separating it into three careful sections at the nape of Will’s neck. Nico’s heart is thudding wildly; Will’s hair is so much thicker and softer than Piper’s, and he’s hyperaware of every possible mistake. But his hands remember—Piper’s patient voice echoing in his head, steadying him—and he begins to weave, tugging each golden strand with a kind of awe.
Will squirms at the first tug, a shiver running down his spine, breath hitching. “Gods, Nico, if you keep that up I’m going to turn into a puddle. Are you sure you’re not secretly a healer too? Because this is—unfair.”
Nico huffs, trying to sound stern, but a crooked smirk gives him away. “Hold still, Solace. You’re worse than a nine-year-old. If you want this to look good, you can’t keep wiggling every time I touch your hair.”
Will lets out a helpless laugh, eyes fluttering shut, voice gone lazy and content. “No promises. You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now. I might just dissolve. Piper never made it feel like this.”
“Maybe you just like me better,” Nico mumbles, aiming for nonchalance and failing, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
Will grins, leaning shamelessly into Nico’s hands. “Maybe I do. Maybe you should braid my hair every day so I can show off.”
Nico tugs—just a little, playful but not unkind—enough to make Will yelp. “Stop squirming or I’ll accidentally braid your ears in.”
“I’d let you,” Will teases, but finally, finally settles, going soft and pliant under Nico’s touch. His breath catches every now and then as Nico works, the air between them humming with something new.
By the time Nico finishes tying the end with a little leather cord, his hands are trembling, just a bit. He leans back to survey his work—breathless, proud, heart beating wild in his chest. “There. All done. I told you I could do it.”
Will turns, craning his neck to see, eyes wide and shining with wonder and something softer, something awed. He reaches back, fingers brushing the braid, as if it’s proof he’s real, that Nico’s here and loving him in a language that doesn’t need words. “You did it,” he breathes, like he can’t believe it either.
For a while, they just exist in the quiet glow of Cabin 13—the rest of the world falling away, the air thick with the aftershocks of nerves and hope. Will leans back against Nico’s chest, head tipped so Nico can admire his handiwork: a single French braid, neat but a little uneven, each strand a testament to shaky hands and hours of stubborn practice.
Nico runs a finger down the length of it, pride and tenderness swelling in his chest. “It looks… good,” he whispers, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed this happiness. “You look—gods, Will, you look beautiful.”
Will glows at that, cheeks pink, laughter soft and golden as sunrise. “You did amazing. I’m keeping it in till it falls out, just so you know. And for the record? You’re definitely the best at it.” He twists around, until he’s facing Nico, their knees pressed together in the rumpled blankets. “Should I call you my official stylist now? The title comes with lifetime kissing privileges, just so we’re clear.”
Nico huffs, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling—shy, open, awestruck. “You’re such a dork,” he murmurs, but the words are soft, affectionate, low.
They kiss lazily, gently, like they have all the time in the world. Will’s fingers tangle in Nico’s hair, and Nico’s thumb brushes soft over Will’s cheekbone, both of them half-laughing, half-sighing, trying to memorize the shape of each other—every shaky breath, every uncertain murmur, every little huff of nervous laughter.
When they break apart, it’s only just—enough to breathe, enough to rest their foreheads together, eyes closed, letting the hush of the cabin wrap around them. Rain patters steady on the roof, the rest of camp nothing but a rumor far away. Nico tucks a stray piece of golden hair behind Will’s ear, just for the excuse to keep touching him.
“I wish you could stay,” Nico whispers, so quiet it barely stirs the space between them.
Will nudges their noses together, voice low and warm. “Me too. But if I disappear, Kayla’s going to stage an intervention. She says I’ve been ‘obnoxiously distracted’ lately.”
Nico manages a crooked grin, teasing despite the ache in his chest. “Wonder what could be distracting you.”
Will laughs, a sound that leaves him a little breathless. “No idea. Maybe I’m just hopelessly gone for you or something.”
He leans in for one more kiss, lingering, sweet, their mouths brushing like a secret. “Thank you,” Will murmurs, fingers playing with the end of his braid. “For learning just for me. No one’s ever made it feel this good.”
Nico shrugs, cheeks flaming, but his eyes are steady. “You’re worth it.”
Will doesn’t move right away. He sits close, tracing slow circles over Nico’s knuckles, like he’s memorizing the moment, too. Finally, with a sigh, he stands—reluctant, but smiling—giving Nico’s fingers a last squeeze. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”
Nico nods, hope shining clear in his eyes. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
At the door, Will turns, the golden braid catching the light—a secret, a promise, a quiet victory. Nico watches him go, heart thrumming, hope blooming wild and reckless, as the door swings softly shut behind him.
***
It starts as a secret, just for them. But soon, it becomes habit—Will Solace, golden and groggy, showing up at Nico’s cabin door before breakfast, hair loose and wild down his back, fingers tangled in the mess.
“Morning, sunshine,” Nico rasps, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his own hair sticking out at every angle. “You know I’m not a functional person until at least nine, right?”
Will just grins, sheepish and dazzling in the dawn light. “Yeah, but I’ve got a double shift in the infirmary, and Kayla says I look like I’ve been electrocuted. Please save my dignity?” He holds out a brush, hopeful.
Nico rolls his eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile as he steps aside. “Only if you promise not to whine when I hit a knot. I’m not awake enough for drama.”
Will flops onto the bed, cross-legged, looking up at Nico with the world’s most innocent blue eyes. “I’d never whine. I am the very model of stoic heroism. Besides, you love me.”
Nico arches a brow, voice dry. “Not if you keep talking.”
But there’s no real bite to it. He gathers up Will’s hair—familiar now, silk-bright and warm, always smelling faintly of cedar and sunshine—and sets to work. His fingers are steadier each day, sometimes experimenting: a careful French braid, a crooked fishtail, twin plaits just to see Will’s appalled expression and half-hearted protests.
By the third week, Will starts making requests, earnest and trusting. “Can you do the one with the little knot at the end? It survived three rounds of capture the flag and I think it’s my lucky charm.”
Nico grumbles, but does it anyway, secretly proud of the way Will checks his reflection in every window and flashes him an approving smile over breakfast. He never says it out loud, but there’s a private thrill each time—knowing Will is wearing something Nico made, proof that some secrets are worth keeping, even as they become something softer and more real with every passing morning.
Sometimes, on rare mornings when the world is slow and kind, Nico lets himself linger—fingers moving in slow circles, gently massaging Will’s scalp just to hear him sigh and tip his head back, eyes half-closed with bliss. Sometimes, if he’s feeling bold, Nico sneaks a kiss to the back of Will’s neck when he thinks he won’t notice.
(Will always notices. Will always grins—like he’s been waiting for it all along.)
Other days, Will is the one who starts the teasing. “You’re getting scary good at this, di Angelo. Are you sure you’re not secretly a son of Aphrodite? Or is it just an obsession with my hair?”
“Shut up, Solace,” Nico mutters, but he’s beaming so wide it almost hurts. “Keep talking and I’ll braid in a dead beetle. Just to keep you humble.”
Will just laughs, the sound bright and endless, leaning back into Nico’s hands as if he’s found the safest place in the world.
It’s a strange kind of intimacy—this small, everyday magic, the quiet ritual of hands and hair and trust, practiced in sleepy silence and pale morning light. It roots them both, anchors them to the promise of another day, until the question isn’t if Will will ask, but when.
And every time Nico finds himself saying yes—sleepy, grumpy, proud, hopelessly in love—he thinks maybe, just maybe, this is what happiness feels like.
***
It happens on a Friday evening, the kind where the sky over Camp Half-Blood glows lavender and the dining pavilion buzzes with summer noise and expectation.
Nico’s hands are sweating as he smooths a last ribbon into place, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with the ache of something finally real. Piper’s voice lingers in his mind—gentle encouragement from days spent in his cabin, patient lessons and laughter tangled through a dozen trial braids. You’re ready, Nico. It’s not as scary as you think. And besides—he’s already yours.
The rest of the world recedes to the hush of Cabin 13, the soft golden lamp glow pressing back the dusk. Will sits cross-legged on the floor, knees never still, humming some off-key Apollo tune under his breath while Nico’s hands work with slow, deliberate care through that wild curtain of gold. He threads a length of black ribbon through one shining strand, then pauses to loop on a silver star, a pomegranate, a tiny skull—each charm chosen and knotted with trembling, reverent fingers.
It’s quiet work—just the steady patter of rain at the windows, the faint clatter of campers in the distance, and Will’s low, contented laughter when Nico tugs a little too hard.
“Ow,” Will grumbles, though he’s smiling, eyes closed, looking perfectly at ease. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this.”
“Maybe I do,” Nico mutters, mock-threatening, but the softness in his voice betrays him. There’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be than here, in this circle of lamplight, with Will’s hair slipping through his hands and trust hanging in the air between them.
Will cranes his neck back, grinning, his eyes lazy with happiness. “You’re really good at this, you know.”
Nico huffs, rolling his eyes, but the flush blooming in his cheeks gives him away. “I had the best teacher,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, Piper’s encouragement echoing in his mind—a steady, golden thread through every clumsy braid and all the confessions he was never brave enough to speak until now.
When the last ribbon is woven through, Nico lets his fingers linger at the nape of Will’s neck, not quite ready to let go. Will, for his part, just tilts his head back into Nico’s touch, golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, braid heavy with charms and quiet meaning.
“You sure you’re ready?” Will asks, squeezing Nico’s knee with a warmth that says he’ll wait as long as it takes.
Nico tries for nonchalance, but there’s a tremor in his voice, a smile that keeps tipping into something soft and terrified and real. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Hand in hand, they walk up the hill to the dining pavilion, Nico’s heart pounding so loud he’s sure it’ll drown out the songbirds in the trees. Will’s braid trails down his back, black ribbon curling through gold, every charm catching the last of the sunset—each one a quiet promise, a truth made visible at last.
As they step into the light, the conversation at the tables falters—surprise rolling through the crowd like a summer breeze. Kayla’s fork pauses midair; Piper’s grin is a sunrise, proud and knowing; Austin whoops so loud half the pavilion jumps. There’s a beat of silence, then laughter and cheers, and Will leans into Nico’s side and kisses his cheek softly—bright, unbothered, dazzling as ever. And Nico, for the first time, lets himself be seen. He lets the world witness all the soft, impossible, messy joy of loving and being loved in return.
Later, when the crowd has faded and they’re just two silhouettes in the hush between cabins, Nico smooths a thumb over the braid, tracing the ribbon, the charms, every thread of intention. He’s grinning—shy, triumphant, awed. Will just kisses his forehead, gentle and sure, whispering, “Next time, I want matching ribbons.”
Nico pretends to groan, but his smile lingers, small and stubborn and entirely in love.