This Is Really Good But Anything Is Better Than That Ending.

On the tail end of Nico di Angelo's eleventh month of observing Will Solace, he notices what he classifies as a 'significant change'.

"Will's had his hair up for a good couple days," he comments, as passively and casually as he can manage. Cecil Markowitz immediately sidesteps Nico's half-hearted lunge and pushes both their swords to the floor, plopping down next to them, falling for nothing.

"It's hot," he points out. Which is a ridiculously logical conclusion for someone who once genuinely believed bees were mammals. Nico scowls.

"It's odd."

"Whatever you say, Professor."

The disarming now makes sense, and infuriatingly Nico's attempt to skewer his friend is unsuccessful. He cackles, sommersaulting away.

"Do not call me that!"

"Professor, Professor," taunts Cecil, running backwards, "decorated doctorate in Willology --"

He does not expect the knife Nico has in his boot, and his subsequent pained shriek is deeply, darkly gratifying. Nico leaves him to writhe in agony for a few minutes before hauling him upright, slapping a hand on his shoulder to stop the bleeding, and dragging him out of the amphitheater.

"Butchering!" Cecil hollers, digging in his heels. "Bloodshed! Gehenna! Fratricide!"

"I'm gonna butcher the other side," Nico promises.

This does not sway the man in any capacity.

"Foul play! Maiming! The wicked fate of Caesar Augustus --"

"Alright then."

He squeezes just lightly and Cecil crumples, wheezing, scrabbling at Nico's hand and mouthing the word evil at him incessantly. For good measure, he does the three-claw ward off, because he is an asshole, and Nico would feel guilty if it weren't for the slightest smirk below the agony and the fact that Cecil once crushed his own legs under collapsed marble to avoid stable cleaning duty.

"Are you done," Nico says, tapping his foot.

"One more round." Cecil inhales. "Slaughterer! Destructor! Slayer of men!"

"I could get behind Slayer of Men."

"Of course you could, gay ass."

It is funny and Nico is mad that it is funny, so he refuses to laugh, but Cecil hears it anyway and snickers victoriously and mutters masters degree in counting Will's freckles under his breath intentionally loudly enough that Nico can hear it. Nico reminds himself to kill him at a later date when he is not awake to complain about it. He shoves him through the infirmary doors via swift kick in the ass and takes a minute to himself just out the entryway, fanning his face and breathing deep breaths until the heat on his cheeks has faded. He shakes out his hand, pushes his shoulders back, and swaggers into the infirmary, sword at his side, doing his best to communicate to any and all onlookers that he is to be equally as revered as feared. He also makes sure his hair looks okay.

Just for -- fear factor, obviously. Very important for the Prince of Hell to look put together when he drags souls from bodies.

"Good afternoon, Gerard Way. I see you've gotten some illegal maiming in this fine afternoon."

"Seemed like the day for it," Nico agrees. "And how are you, Kayla?"

She sighs. "I hate being stand-in head medic. Will should go on strike."

Nico frowns.

"He's not -- here?"

Now for someone with a reputation as a rule-following goody-two-shoes, Will plays a whole lot of hooky. He's good at it, too. The dryads are on his side.

But never in the summer.

"He's not feeling well," Kayla says shortly. She grabs a stitching kit and nudges Cecil onto a cot with her disgusting, duct-taped Converse, ignoring his whining about manhandling and doesn't she have any respect for her elders. She rips off his mangled sleeve without so much as an eyetwitch and gets right into it, unflinching at the mess of muscle and flesh. Nico and his suddenly queasy stomach face the wall.

"I thought you guys didn't get sick."

"Will does," Cecil says between wincing. "And not just the headaches." He stares at his own gaping flesh wound with interest, because he's a weirdo. "He got chicken pox, once, when we were kids. That's why people call him Spots, although it's been so long some people think it's the freckles."

"...Oh."

"Anyways, it's good that he's not working." Kayla threads the last stitch and pats blindly around with bloody hands until Nico pities her and hands her scissors. "He's been in here too much lately and it's good to see him sleeping."

"Aw, that's sweet."

"Cecil, you ever wonder why you get stabbed so often?"

"Never crossed my mind, no."

"Interesting, that."

To save his dumbass friend from another maiming, and not at all because he is disappointed by the Will-less infirmary, Nico walks over and grips the fool from the back of his shirt, pulling him to the door and away from Kayla’s twitching eye. (Head medic truly is a job for children of Apollo who did not inherit his impatience.)

"Well," he says, and nothing else. Kayla raises a knowing eyebrow. "Bye."

"Don't bother him," she calls, as they make an exit at normal speed. "I am not as nice as he is! Medical malpractice is my favorite hobby!"

Nico smacks Cecil in the side of his head before he and his big mouth get any ideas.

It does not deter the commentary. Nico vows, by the third mention of the Solace Syllabus, to be present and prejudiced at his judgment day.

-- -- --

next

Nico di Angelo is in love.

Unfortunately.

Not with Percy Jackson anymore. That would’ve been easy. Unattainable, sure, but at least he could’ve filed it away under Stupid Mistakes I Make When I’m ten. Curse you, Aphrodite.

He knows the feeling — that jittery, restless buzz, like waiting for the sun to rise after an all-nighter you know was a terrible idea. It’s an old enemy by now. Like most of his enemies, it’s winning.

Will Solace is light and butterflies and every other nauseating thing Nico pretends not to give a crap about. His laugh lights up the room — because of course it does — like the universe personally handed him a spotlight and said, Here, make everyone else look worse. 

His absurdly long fingers drum a rhythm on the table, like he’s starring in some indie coming-of-age movie nobody asked for. Nico included.

Every stupidly perfect curl, every freckle that looks like Aphrodite got drunk and decided to show off — it’s enough to make Nico want to set himself on fire. He wonders how much gold it would take to recreate this disaster. Everything in Hades’ palace. Twice. Maybe throw in Cerberus for good measure.

Will’s eyes crinkle when he smiles — soft and blue and filled with that unbearable, stupid early-morning light that makes you want to punch the sunrise and then crawl into a pit and die.

“Oh my gods, Cecil, please don’t—”

Will’s laughter detonates — loud, wild, full-body laughter — and Nico feels it like a bomb going off right inside his ribcage.

He bends over clutching his chest dramatically — Nico’s chest, technically, since that’s where the explosion hits.

His back curves like some stupid heroic mountain or whatever. It’s disgusting.

The first sound of his laugh practically plants flowers in the air. Actual, metaphorical, revolting flowers. Nico would throw up if he weren’t too busy mentally composing sonnets about Will’s jawline. He is a disaster.

“Yo, Death Boy, what are you staring at?”

Will waves a freckly hand in front of his face because of course he notices. Of course he has functioning eyes. Meanwhile, Nico can barely remember how breathing works.

“Nothing,” Nico says, dead inside. “Just the sunrise.”

And somehow, Pandora opened the box and you didn’t fall out. Miraculous.

“Sunrise? D’Angelo, it’s literally ten in the morning. And raining.”

“Cecil, shut up before I hand-deliver every skeleton middle finger we planted on the Ares cabin roof last night into your bunk.”

“Geez, Nico! Fine! Shutting up!” 

The funniest thing about the whole ordeal is that he sits by the window, mooning.

Like a Victorian maiden.

"Stop teasing," Cass scolds, visibly choking back laughter. "He's -- little."

"He's down bad facetious," Lee argues. He gestures to Will's feet, which are -- and he cannot emphasize enough -- swinging back and forth. He even --

Gods.

He is twirling his hair.

Cass lets a bubble of laughter through, clamping her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my gods," she says, shoulders shaking. "It's so cute, I'm gonna --"

Will sighs to himself. Deep, long, lovesick; it takes everything in Lee's body not to join Cass on the floor, holding himself to limit the shaking. She keeps her head carefully bowed but even then Lee can see the tears streaming down her face.

"Goober," Lee calls, tongue in his cheek, "what the hell are you doing."

Will startles. He goes, quite immediately, startlingly, pomegranate red, sliding a worn journal against his chest and out of sight. Only, he misses, because he's a klutz, and launches the journal halfway across the cabin, narrowly avoiding smacking Cass clean across the face.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Stillness.

Silence.

Lee glances over at the journal. Will holds his breath. Lee moves his hand, ever so slightly.

They bolt at the same time.

"Nothing!" Will shouts, diving for the book. He is, unfortunately, a pipsqueak, and easily lifted to the side and dropped, screeching and clawing, on Michael's top bunk. "Nothing, nothing, I'm doing nothing --"

"If you're doing nothing, then it's fine if I look," reasons Lee, knowing that if he kept a diary and any of his rat ass siblings tried looking through it he'd kill himself. "Just blank pages, right?"

Will lunges, but Lee is stronger than he is, and his arms are longer. He plants a hand on his squishy face and holds him there, struggling, arms scrabbling for the journal, Cass's wheezing echoing through the largely empty cabin.

"Cass! Tell him -- tell him to give it back --"

Cass looks up, maybe, to tell him off, but she sees Will's squished, roan face and loses her shit all over again. This time she doesn't even bother staying on her knees, she hits the full, total ground, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face, choking in agony.

Lee flips open the book.

Will screams.

"Dearly beloved," Lee reads, voice trembling. Will claws at him. In what is, perhaps, divine intervention, the scratch marks disappear as quickly as Will makes them, glowing a soft gold. Will screams again. "We are gathered here today --"

There is laughter, and arguing, outside, and Lee pauses. Will stops struggling. His face drops. He whips toward the window, faster than Lee can even think of stopping him, and brings his clasped hands to his face, head bowed, and begins rapidly to pray:

"Dad, please, if you love me, smite them all, please, do not let them come in, turn off their ears, please, I promise I will scrape off every brownie I get for the next fifty years if you --"

But it is for naught. Because in a great, energized gaggle, the rest of their siblings pile through the door: Michael, scrabbling at Diana's flexed arm, flailing his way out her head headlock; Kate and Pheobe, heads bent over a script; Melody, Mercury, and Leanna, harmonizing over Michael's cursing; Gabriel and Laurel, tossing a basketball back and forth; and, finally, Amir, trailing quietly behind them, bow in hand.

They spill out onto the giant carpet by the door, and pause.

Lee clears his throat.

"--to celebrate the union of --" His voice wavers. Will shrieks, lunging again, but Kate in Phoebe are faster, lunging forward and grabbing one arm each.

"Oh, no you don't," says Kate, grinning, and Phoebe, unusually bold, pokes his ribs until he stops squirming, snickering to herself.

Lee continues.

"-- Nico di Angelo and Will Solace, in the sight of -- oh for fuck's sake, capital-G God -- to join them in holy matrimony."

Will puts his pudgy little hands over his face and yells. He begins, ever so, to glow, like he does when he's healing, and it is the perfect moment to set everyone off: several of their siblings join Cass on the floor, who, at this point, looks genuinely unwell, and several more -- mostly the girls -- rush forward to hang off Michael's bunk, cooing at poor Will, who glares at Lee with all the vitriol his ten-and-three-quarters body can muster.

"I hate you," he croaks. "You are -- the worst brother ever --"

"I'm just trying to have it memorized," Lee says solemnly, "you know, so I can recite and when you and Nico get --"

There is a quick, painful flash. For a moment, Lee is genuinely blind -- his eyes are open, he can feel the air of them on his drying sclera, but he can see nothing but pure, white light -- and it takes a solid minute of blinking to get anything back in front of him, even if it's blurry.

The first thing he sees is Will, off the bunk, with the journal in his hands.

The second thing he sees is Amir, quick and quiet, poised behind him.

"I don't even like him," Will says hotly, "I'm just -- did you know that there are friendship marriages, and --"

Lee meets Amir's eyes and nods. The curve of his oft-stoic mouth incites genuinely glee in Lee's wicked heart, and in a flash their third youngest darts out his deft pianist hands and grabs the journal from Will's hands. Before Will can even shriek, he tosses it across the room, where Laurel catches it, and she sprints across the cabin, scurrying up the wooden support beams, and hangs from the highest rafter. She flips through the pages and opens a new one.

"Oh-hoo-hoo, this one is good," she says evilly, wiggling her fingers. "He even got all the letters right, ahem, Mr. Will di Angelo --"

Will is short, but he's fast and he's slippery, so he's out of Kate's attempted half-Nelson in seconds and ripping across the cabin, spider-monkeying up the beam. Laurel shrieks and tosses the journal to the waiting Gabriel, who slides himself in the spot between his bunk and the wall and flips to a new page.

"It's a drawing!" he reports, delighted. "Aw, man, he even got the shine of his hair on here --"

"All of you hate me!"

"It's cute," Leanna coos, scooping Will up from the ceiling. Laurel damn near cries in relief, dropping down and muttering about evil, punishing little brothers and pointy fingers. Will tries to squirm free but Leanna presses a million exaggerated kisses to his cheeks, to his hair, and on reflex, he leans into them. "Baby's first real crush --"

"I do not have a crush on him!" Will squirms free, eventually, standing on his own -- unmade -- bunk and hollering until his face is read. "I just think he's -- cool, okay, he can control zombies and ghosts and --"

"'Makes your heart flutter?'" Melody suggests. She holds up the journal Gabriel has passed to her and traces her hand over an older page, tapping her electric-blue nails. She clears her throat, upping up her own slight drawl to match Will's heavier one: "'Symptoms: sweaty palms, dizziness, rapid heartbeat, high fever -- potential tachycardia? Or plague. Revisit next appearance.'" She closes the book and grins. "Think you're a touch ahead of yourself, kiddo."

Will, as he always does, chafes at the nickname, snapping a reflexive you're four years older than me! Not even! and crawling under his bed. Belatedly, an arm scrabbles up on his mattress, patting blindly until it makes contact with his pillow -- crumpled into the corner under half a metric ton of stuffed toys -- and drags it down with him, screeching into it.

"All I ever do in this stupid cabin is suffer," he bemoans.

Their siblings, for the large part, ignore his wallowing. More interesting is the journal, that they circle around, flipping through the various drawings and doodles of Nico di Angelo, enigma, and the hearts around every strand of hair.

Lee starts feeling a little bad.

A little.

"Dork," he says, peeking under the bed. Will kicks him. Lee grabs his foot. "Come out."

Will pouts. "No."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"Obviously!"

Lee looks down and sighs. He is eighteen, and feeling every year; his knees, actually, have wear equivalent to that of a seventy-year-old man. Michael checked. Michael could, also, have been lying, because he's a tool, but there was a particular gleam of unbridled glee in his eyes when he reported back so Lee is inclined to believe him.

All this to say: he is too old for this nonsense.

And, yet.

"You have not been sweeping under here," he grumbles, pulling a face at the (numerous) dust bunnies. "You have, like, two chores."

"I have so!"

Will coughs.

Lee sighs and holds out his hand. Will's throat is, indeed, closing up, so he fires off a quick hymn to lower the swelling but leaves it itchy in penance.

"I don't know why you continue to lie to me. Your tell can literally, actually kill you."

Will opens his mouth to lie again. Lee pokes him, hard, in the stomach, and he closes it, choosing instead to scowl.

"Get out of here," he complains. "You smell like dookie and I hate you also."

"I do -- I do not!"

Just in case, Lee sniffs, and he -- well, he doesn't smell like roses, but dookie is an exaggeration and after a moment the little shithead snickers, dodging Lee's pinching fingers. Lee rolls his eyes and scoots closer, crushing him against the wall.

"We're not trying to embarrass you," he tries.

Will scoffs. "Lie!"

"Okay, well, we are a little." Lee turns over and stares until Will meets his eyes. He is relieved to find no genuine hurt in them, only annoyance, and maybe a touch of frustration. He searches for Will's hand and squeezes, holding tighter when someone in the peanut gallery cackles, and Will scowls. "But, like. Embarrassment of love and affection."

"That's not a thing!"

"It is. You know how Diana likes to put a curse of truth on Michael and ask him leading questions about his weird love for Orlando Bloom in public?"

"That's different," Will says after a pause. "Diana only does it to punish him for his crimes."

"Of which there are many," Lee agrees. "But it is the same concept."

"But I'm not evil like Michael!"

"No? It wasn't you and Cecil that rigged Jake Mason's birthday cake to explode last week?"

Will's mouth opens. It closes.

"I will speak no further without an attorney," he decides on, and Lee laughs out loud. Will grins, forgetting his anger, and leans in when Lee curls into him, snorting. Lee presses a kiss to his hair and tugs him even closer.

"We are teasing you because we love you and you are being a massive goofball," he says quietly. He squeezes when he feels Will scowl. "You tease me for crushes and foolishness too, brat. You're just suffering because it's your first time."

"I don't have a crush on him," Will insists, muffled. "...I just think he's cool."

"Right. And all the drawings --"

"Anatomy practice!"

"--and the poems--"

"I can't control those! They just come out!"

"--and the marriage vows --"

"I -- okay. That one -- gimme a second." Will screws up is face, considering. He brightens when the idea comes to him. Lee snorts. "Connor and Travis were telling us about levying the marriage system to benefit you and I think Nico would be a willing participant."

Will beams, proud at his quick thinking, and Lee cannot help but try to crush him a little. Will, used to it, sighs and grumbles and tucks himself smaller so he can fit into the shape of Lee's arms, tights against his chest.

"You -- are -- so goddamn cute, you know that?" Lee says, punctuating every word with a loving poke. "Gods."

Will squirms. "Everyone keeps telling me that. That's why I'm studying Nico. So I can get cooler."

"You're studying Death Boy because you have a big fat embarrassing crush on him."

"No."

"Yes, and it's ridiculous, because you've met him, maybe, twice."

"I have met him three and a half times."

"I don't know what a half is and I'm afraid to ask. Kid, you're whipped."

Will tips his head to rest on Lee's shoulder, groaning. He stays there long enough for the wheezing, riff-raff, and general mischief to quiet, for some of the most hyperactive kids in camp to get bored and move on, poking at another available sibling. Will stays there long enough, breathing heavy, eyes squeezed shut that Lee hears Cass humming as she makes her rounds, tucking in the younger kids, who insist that they are too old for such nonsense but allow it anyway, and brushing her gentle hands on the foreheads of the older kids. She comes to Will's bunk last, kneeling outside of it, matching her breathing to theirs.

"All good?" she whispers, hand coming out to squeeze Lee's shoulder.

Lee nods. "Yeah. Tired out."

He can hear the smile in his sister's voice. "Okay. Don't fall asleep down there, Lee. You'll ache in the morning."

"Won't," Lee promises, knowing full well it's a possibility. Cass snorts, squeezing again, and Lee hears he pad away, pulling back her unreasonable number of comforters -- for a child of the sun god she is always freezing -- and floating off a final night, fireflies.

Lee smiles as all thirteen of them -- including Will, who mouths it silently against Lee's shoulder -- wish her goodnight back.

"I don't." Will makes a quiet, keening noise. "I don't understand why my chest feels so big."

Lee buries his face in coily, tangled hair, breathing deeply.

"You got a big, giant heart," he murmurs. "And Nico needs a friend. I think you, uh, I think you might also have a thing for brown eyes and basket cases, but that's none of my business."

Will giggles tiredly. Lee smiles, holding them close and scooching them gently out from the dusty underbed. His knees, as he correctly assumed, scream when he stands, but Will's little hand is warm in his, and his eyes are cloudy and soft. He is ten years old and too big for it but he reaches his hands up and Lee lifts him, anyway, exhaling at the wrap of his legs and arms around him, at the shift of his head in the crook of his neck. He takes a minute to hold the weight of him, memorizing, before leaning down and easing him onto the softened mattress, tucking the creased, messy sheets around him the way he likes.

"Sweet dreams," he says softly, pressing a kiss to his freckled forehead. He grins. "Of wedding bells, and death-breath smooches."

"Go away."

Will pushes him, scowling sleepily, and Lee lets him, smoothing out his pillow and yawning his way over to his own bunk. He flicks Michael awake in passing just to be a jackass and dives into the bottom mattress, before he realizes, wrapping himself in his blanket and pretending to snore. When Michael has re-settled, muttering mutinously to himself, Lee opens his eyes, squinting over to where Will is curled up, across the cabin, blankets pulled up to his forehead and feet sticking out the other end. He smiles.

He can't wait to bring this up at their wedding, one day.

The Umbrella Academy Season 4 (Deleted Scene)

So I think That Nico di Angelo is short, and here's why

The average man in italy in the 1930s was around 5'4-5'7, and then we went though revolution and got taller And Now Italians are about 5'8-5'10

Nico is from the 1930s as we know and he was in the hotel for 70 years so he didn't go though revolution with evey one else so that's why he seems short but it would be considered average.

I think that Nico is 5'5, and It's just an idea, so I'm not 100% sure, and this is just a theory.

Proof that everyone on the School bus graveyard Fandom needs therapy Part One

I would rather webtoon lie to my face then this.

KICK THE CAN!

Let’s play the biggest game of kick the can on the internet.

To kick the can, reblog it. I wanna see how long this can go on for.

I would like to join please.

How would people feel if I made a community dedicated to talking about (making headcanons, sharing fics, fanart etc) of Apollo's kids and legacies?

Like, a place to just yap about Lee, Michael, Will, Kayla, Austin, Jerry, Yan, Gracie, Hal, Octavian (if one wishes to yap about him, I rarely do, but I digress), and Georgina (or hcs as to whether we think Georgie is related to Apollo), that one Apollo kid from the ds movie game I never played but have seen in fics, as well as everyone's child of Apollo OCs!

If no one wants to join, I'll just continue to yap on my own here, but I'll make it if others want to join in my ramblings.