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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!”