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Things were better.
Most of the time, Nico could laugh again. Smile again. Enjoy life again.
(He ignored the nightmares. The paranoia. The shadows and ghosts clawing at his vision.)
Most of the time, he could kiss Will. Hold his hand. Be with him in public.
(He ignored the ingrained thoughts in his head. The thoughts he had been conditioned to have. Most of the time they were quiet. Sometimes they weren’t. Nico was a freak, he was dirty, he was sinning. People were talking. Laughing at him. Only pretending they liked him.)
Most of the time, Nico could be close to happy. In the daylight, Nico could be close to happy.
. . .
The dark was different, though.
The ghosts were always stronger in the dark.
. . .
Nico couldn’t be in closed spaces.
When he couldn’t see an open exit, an escape, the air became choking. Everything seemed darker than he knew it was supposed to be. The walls were closing in crushing him he couldn’t breathe it was closing in and crushing him he couldn’t breathe he could hear booming laughing he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe —
Even in the middle of winter, the Hades cabin had every single window thrown open as wide as they could go.
. . .
Nico couldn’t play in Capture the Flag, Camp Jupiter’s war games, or spar anymore.
He saw enemies that weren’t there. He fought for real. His ghosts convinced him he was fighting for his life.
(After all, when was the last time he wasn’t?)
Nico didn’t fight anymore.
Not after viciously and seriously injuring several campers.
(He was a monster; he hurt innocent people.)
. . .
Nico mapped out every exit. Planning ways to flee or fight. What to do if everyone turned on him.
(He was still waiting for it to happen.)
He always kept his sword with him. Drew it out at any unexpected noise or movement.
(He nearly took Percy’s arm off, once.)
. . .
The nightmares were the worst, though.
Giving his mind warped versions of Tartarus. The darkness was coming for him he was small alone a speck in Tartarus’s body he could see all of it the monsters were his cell the darkness was alive and it was coming for him the ghosts were turning against him Akhlys was crying in happiness Nyx was booming loud and surrounded him the monsters were coming for him he was alone. And he was dying .
Of the jar. He was trapped and it was getting smaller and smaller and he was being crushing by bronze he couldn’t breathe he could smell the pomegranate seeds it was getting smaller and smaller and it was crushing him there was booming laughter he couldn’t breathe he was dying it was getting smaller and smaller all he could smell was sickly sweet and choking it was getting smaller and smaller—
Of Will, of Hazel, of Reyna, of Jason, of the others dying and it was his fault he should have saved them he was able to save him why didn’t he save then —
Nico tried not to sleep.
The others tried.
It didn’t help that they were struggling too.
Percy tried to laugh again. Make jokes again. Make mischief again. Love Annabeth again.
(At least the last didn’t hurt Nico as much as it used to.)
Annabeth planned. And planned. And planned. For every opportunity and every possibility.
For every attack, even by allies. She had lists everywhere of strengths and weaknesses and strategies.
She tried to hide them.
Jason didn’t have time to grieve. Didn’t have time to dwell. He moved quickly, never stopping, moving on and on to the next god, the next goddess, the next deity.
Nico envied him for his purpose.
Reyna wasn’t around often. She was rebuilding the Twelfth Legion with Frank. Reyna and Nico tried to Iris message, but the goddess wasn’t too fond of communication with the Romans.
Nico didn’t talk to Reyna much. They just didn’t have times.
Hazel was with Frank in the Twelfth Legion. She was working with the Mist, busy, hiding in its illusions. She was powerful, now, even more so than before.
Nico could tell she hid behind it.
He didn’t want to burden her with his problems.
Frank was shapeshifting, perfecting his power, staying busy, staying strong. He put on an image for the Legion. He needed to be seen as a leader, not the clumsy teenager he was only a few months ago.
Piper had left Camp, trying to reconnect with her Cherokee roots, trying to reconnect with her father. She wanted to figure out who she was without her power, without her charmspeak, without her mother behind her.
Leo was gone.
Will did everything right.
Nico knew this.
Most days, he could be out arguing with Will, bickering and talking in the sunlight. Most days, Nico could hold Will’s hand and be happy with who he was.
Most days, he and Annabeth could debate over the gods, plans, almost everything.
Most days, he could talk to Percy without the wave of self-hatred it always used to come with.
Most days, Nico could ignore the shattered pieces of himself.
Some days, Nico couldn’t leave his cabin.
This was one of those days.
He woke up silently crying with a hoarse throat.
(Screaming was dangerous—they could hear you if you screamed.)
He threw all of the windows open, turned all of the lights on.
Left all of the interior doors open.
(No one could see him like this. He was weak and anyone could take advantage of it.)
Nico splashed cold water on his face.
He sat down on the floor. He stood up.
He mapped the exits; where could he hide; where could he run; at any minute he would have to flee.
What was safety anymore?
He fidgeted with his ring.
Drew his sword.
He knew it was irrational, he knew it and he hated it.
But he wasn’t safe.
He kept pacing the room until long after the sun had risen and long after the lights on were unnecessary.
(He tried to ignore the smothering feeling of walls closing in. Of darkness. Of rasping breathes.)
Any noise made him jump.
Any movement he saw in the corner of his eye startled him.
(He tried to ignore the sickly sweet scent of pomegranate seeds that he knew weren’t actually there but he could almost taste it .)
He heard a knock on his door.
Pointed his sword at it, cataloguing the exits.
“Sweetheart? Nico, are you okay?”
It was Will.
Nico’s heart didn’t stop racing.
(Nico didn’t put his sword away. He had been fooled before.)
(He hated this fear hated it but he couldn’t control it.)
“Nico, sweetheart, can I open the door?”
Nico drew in a breath. Another. Slowly.
He put his sword away.
(He didn’t want Will to see him like this.)
(What if he left when he saw how broken Nico truly was?)
“Yes.”
Will opened the door slowly, gently. Nico could feel a bit of a breeze.
(It helped.)
(But not by much.)
“I brought you breakfast when Austin kicked me out of the infirmary.”
Nico said, “Thank you.”
Nico didn’t step forward.
(He couldn’t convince the wave of self-hatred to go away today.)
Will’s eyes were sad.
Will wasn’t supposed to be sad.
Nico was, though.
“Sweetheart, I can’t stay for long. I have to take the others to canoeing. I’ll tell them you’re not able to come today?”
Nico nodded.
He didn’t move.
(He wanted Will’s warmth, he was cold, so cold, but he couldn’t step forward.)
(He couldn’t take it if someone saw today.)
“Sweetheart, baby, we all care about you. We all want you to be okay. Try to eat something, okay? And come and get me if you need anything.”
Nico nodded.
He knew he wasn’t being fair to Will. Nico knew Will was doing everything right. Nico knew Will shouldn’t have to wait for him to work through everything.
(Will shouldn’t have to wait while Nico put his broken pieces back together.)
Will put the plate down. Stood up. Said, “Sweetheart, is it okay if I touch you?”
Nico nodded. Will was warm. The jar was cold.
Will stepped forward, slowly, and put his arms out for a hug.
Will was warm, Nico thought, as he let himself be hugged.
It was nice, Nico thought, as Will buried his face in Nico’s hair, and murmured softly.
It was comforting.
. . .
But sometimes comfort wasn’t enough.