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Tobio wakes to wavering sunlight and wonders if he’s floating or falling, a ringing in his ears reminiscent of waves crashing on the Mediterranean Sea. Amidst the blur of tans and yellows before him, something else wells up within him, fierce, coursing, and—
Pain. It’s definitely pain.
“Don't sit up so fast, dummy,” a soft voice drifts through the tent. A mop of wildfire hair comes into view, and Shoyo is radiant, blinding. He always is.
Shoyo places a hand on Tobio’s shoulder, guiding him back down to rest against the cot. He’s come to know the wooden blinds of the infirmary too well over the years. When he’d first arrived at the camp years ago, having narrowly survived a Minotaurr attack, he was greeted with a sight like this, too. Honey-brown eyes set so determined it was scary, and around his neck, a thick, black cord strung with wooden beads that clicked together when he leaned in. Heaven, he had thought, like an angel was taking care of him.
Now, Tobio’s learned that Shoyo is nothing of the sort. He’s the human–or rather, demigod equivalent of a yappy pomeranian. He’s swift in combat, but he lacks precision. He squawks at Tobio every time he turns up with new wounds, tells Tobio he’s an idiot, and acts offended. As if it was in Tobio’s control.
But when Shoyo looks at him like this, not as a hero or a weapon, but as solace, it’s hard not to think of something holy.
“How long have I been out?” Tobio asks. The rest of his body is drunk in a dull ache, but there’s a sharp, constant pang in his ribs. How exactly his last battle ended, he can't say, but if the cast on his leg or the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his torso are any indication, it didn’t go well.
“Three days.” Shoyo crosses his arms. Tobio has never been knocked out for more than one. “How bad does it hurt?”
“It doesn’t,” Tobio lies, which he really shouldn’t have, because Shoyo instantly leans over and applies a feather-light pressure to his ribcage, and he winces.
“Liar.” Shoyo must be tired of him by now; he’s a disaster.
Tobio stares at the ceiling while Shoyo rummages through his bag for a flask. If he and Shoyo had met as normal kids, like at a school, or playing a sport, would things be different? If his dad had never claimed him, if he’d never left Cabin 11. He’d always thought his friends were so much cooler, so much more important. Hitoka is a walking dictionary. Kei’s sense of strategy is innate. Tadashi can bend light at will, and he probably cries in rainbows. Shoyo has been the camp’s most skilled healer since he was ten years old.
But no, Poseidon, God of the Sea himself, decided to fall in love with his mom, and now Tobio was supposed to save the goddamn world.
And here he was, having boy problems.
Shoyo lifts a bronze spoon to Tobio’s lips, averting his gaze. The liquid tastes like his grandfather’s pork curry, and it instantly relieves some of the pain.
“You seem upset,” Tobio says.
Shoyo nearly drops the entire bottle of nectar. “No shit!” he screeches. “You left camp in the middle of the night! And nearly got yourself killed fighting three cyclopes and a giant just to stop a prophecy that might not even come true!” He gestures with each grievance. “Tadashi and I were worried sick! We all were. And worst of all, I have to hear all of this from Kei, who at least was smart enough to come back in one piece!”
“Well. Being smart is kind of Tsukishima’s thing.”
“Yeah, and your thing is being…stupid.” Shoyo grumbles, unable to think of a better insult. He’s pouting.
“I’m sorry we didn't take you with us.” Shoyo is a son of Apollo in every way, the brightest embodiment of the sun, but he has doubts, too. He yearns to get away from Camp Half-Blood again, to prove himself. The mission they’d been assigned together all those summers ago had been the first taste of freedom Shoyo’s known since he left home.
Their powers may seem like gifts, but their Demigod blood is a curse. None of the kids at the camp can attend normal school or see their normal friends on the regular. Outside of the protection of Half-Blood Hill, they’d become fodder for monsters.
And yet, they're the lucky ones. Just for staying alive.
“We didn't have time, and I knew it would be dangerous,” Tobio continues, almost rambling to fill the strange silence. Shoyo’s gaze is unnerving. “If there’s a next time, I’ll ask you to come with me.” There’s an “I need you by my side,” that goes unspoken.
Shoyo snaps the flask of nectar shut. A slam. “That's why you think I’m mad?”
So Shoyo really is angry. “Is that not the reason?” But that doesn't seem like the right thing to say either, judging by how Shoyo’s brows furrow in response.
“No! How do you not get it?”
“How am I supposed to get it if you don't tell me anything, dumbass!” Tobio tries to get up, but he forgets about the position he’s in, and winces instead. Shoyo’s face softens, flooding with concern.
He sighs. “I meant this. I don't like seeing you like this.”
But Tobio has always gotten hurt like this. His luck has been awful since the moment he got here, regardless of how careful he’s tried to be.
“Why?” Tobio asks again.
“Because I—” Shoyo stops himself, cheeks coloring pink. “I don't wanna sing to you any more than I have to. Now lay back down. Your ribs are fractured.”
Tobio obeys, and he closes his eyes on instinct when Shoyo begins to sing a hymn in Ancient Greek. Shoyo always says he can't do music the way his half-siblings do, that he’s only a healer and all, but Tobio could never get tired of his voice.
When he finishes, Shoyo’s eyes glow in deep gold. His wounds still ache, but experience tells him that they're on a speedy route to recovery, now.
“Thank you,” Tobio says. Shoyo looks away, still shy after the song.
“It’s nothing. When you get out of here, I’m kicking your ass in Friday’s Capture the Flag.”
Tobio grins. “Like hell you are.”
Laughter bubbles from outside the tent where some of the younger kids are messing around with a soccer ball. The other Apollo kids are supposed to teach them archery later.
Shoyo looks like he’s about to leave to join them, but after facing death for the seventh time, Tobio has nothing else to lose.
“Shoyo?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you…stay a little longer?”
It’s not much, and it’s hardly a proper confession, but in the warm glimmer of a quiet afternoon, a secret for two, Shoyo seems to get the message all the same.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Always.”