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When Cecil was little, peppermint meant coming in from the cold.
It meant warmth, it meant hot chocolate, it meant his mother was home early. He liked peppermint. He liked it especially in the candy canes he would lift around Christmas, slipped into his coatsleeves at a busy department store, devoured on the bus home as his mother snorted at him.
"I'm pretty sure they arrest thieving seven-year-olds here, you know. We don't have money for bail. You're staying there."
Peppermint was fine. He didn't think of it often.
On a Tuesday in July, when he was nine -- he remembers because Tuesday was when the camp store used to restock -- he hopped up the rickety steps of the brightest cabin in camp, picked up the three packages of candy that had fallen out of his bulging pockets, and knocked on the door.
"Will?" he called, peering through the darkened screen. "Are you here? You weren't at our spot."
Cecil does not actually remember how long it took for someone to come to the door. He remembers it took some time, because taking any time at all was unusually. He didn't usually have to knock. Even now, it is odd for the Apollo cabin door to be shut, especially in the daylight hours.
Eventually, there were footsteps. A tall, barefoot woman stepped out, swinging the creaky door closed gently behind her. A wave a peppermint followed her out, making Cecil's eyes water.
"Cecil," she said, smiling warmly. "Hey, kiddo."
Cecil rocked on his heels. "Hey, Cass." He glanced around her. "Where's Will."
"Oh. Um..." Cass turned back to face the door, biting her lip. In her silence, Cecil heard faint crying. "Come sit with me a second, okay?"
The oldest Apollo daughter sat delicately on the top porch step, tucking her long hair out from under her thighs. She patted the spot next to her, and after a moment -- staring at the door, straining to hear -- Cecil sat.
"Will," she said, after a moment, "is...sick."
Cecil frowned. "I thought you guys didn't get sick."
"We don't. Kind of."
Cecil waited. Cass didn't notice, looking out onto the common. He worried at her lower lip, fingers wrapping around her hair.
"He's not that kind of sick."
"What kind of sick?"
"You ever had a headache?"
"Yeah."
Cass traced a line in the woodgrain beneath them. "It's like that. A little."
"Well, can't you heal it? We're supposed to go in the woods today. Luke said he'll teach us how to trap a myrmeke."
"That's...no you're not. Tell him I said you two are absolutely not allowed to do that."
Cecil crossed his fingers. "Uh-huh. Can he come play soon?"
"...No, Cecil. He'll be sick for a while." She turned to face him, resting her chin on her hands. She smiled, slightly, but her dark eyes were round and wet. "Will gets something called migraines. It's like...um, imagine you're in the ampitheatre, doing sword practice. And then suddenly, boom! You're by yourself! And you're surrounded by monsters, but they're invisible. What are you going to do?"
Cecil pondered. That was a new one. Usually he imagined he's being attacked by Connor and Travis who have been cloned a million times and turned evil.
"Uh...start swinging?"
Cass smiled. "Right. Would make a pretty big mess of the ampitheatre, huh?"
"Probably."
"A little chaotic?"
"Duh."
"Hm." A cry came from the cabin again. That time, it was loud enough for both of them to hear it, even through the soundproofed walls. Cecil's stomach turned. "Sometimes, Will's brain thinks there's something wrong with it. But it doesn't know what. So it starts thrashing around, trying to get rid of whatever's hurting him, but it just kind of...makes things worse."
"So...his brain hurts?"
"Yes. It hurts so much that it makes his stomach hurt, and his skin, and even the lights hurt him a little."
The weird feeling in Cecil's stomach got worse. He turned toward the door, waiting, and after a few minutes, there was another cry, small and sad and hurt, like the one time he was walking home from school with his mom and they passed a puppy that had been left all by itself in an alley, barking for its mama. Cecil had cried the whole way home. He turned back to Cass, eyes burning.
"Oh."
"Yeah." Cass reached over and slid a hand over his shoulder, pulling him into her side. He stayed there, for a minute, hiding in her soft t-shirt. "It sucks, kiddo. I wish he could come play."
"When will he be better?"
Cecil pulled away, swiping quickly at his eyes. Cass let him, watching with soft eyes.
"Tomorrow morning, probably. Lee made him a salve with peppermint oil, and sometimes that helps. If he can sleep it off he might even be better by dinner." Cass glanced back at the screen. "I doubt it, though. This one is a bad one. You come by tomorrow morning though, okay? Bright and early. I'll tell Luke we need your help, he'll let you off your chores."
Cecil brightened. "Really? Can you tell him to give them to Connor instead?"
Cass snorted. "Don't push it, kid."
"Okay, okay." Cecil stood at her gentle push, climbing down the stairs and lingering on the crunchy grass. He fiddled under her raised eyebrows, reaching into his pockets. "Um, can you give him these? For when his stomach stops hurting."
He tossed up a pink package. Cass caught it, turning it over to read the label. She smiled.
"You steal these?"
"Yes."
"Nice." She tucked the Twizzlers in her pocket, grinning. "I won't tell, but Michael is still mad that you stole his comic books last week, si you better get lost before he sees 'cause he'll snitch. Bye, Cecil."
Cecil remembered the rage in Michael's eye and stepped quickly backwards.
"Bye, Cass."
She turned back up the stairs. The smell of peppermint was stronger.
It smelled a little less warm, this time.
-- -- --
When Cecil walks into the infirmary, bleeding sluggishly and grinning sheepishly, he notices three things in quick succession:
1) It is crowded.
2) It is ridiculously loud.
3) It reeks, absolutely reeks, of peppermint.
His smile fades fast.
He moves, elbowing through the throng of neon orange, to the nurse's station, shoving a poor, innocent satyr to lean against the counter, searching. It takes a minute to find a shock of green hair under the actual piles of paperwork.
"Kayla," he says urgently, excavating her just enough to make eye contact. "Where's Will?"
"Uuuuuuuugggggggghhhhhh," she groans, reburying herself. "Fix your own problems! Why is everyone always so concerned with their own mortality!"
"Well," responds Cecil, not sure how to respond to that. "Well, it's urgent. I need to talk to him."
"So do five bajillion others! Get in line!"
Five bajillion others do appear to be in some kind of squashed up, unserious line. Cecil is in the infirmary a lot -- for a myriad of reasons, but for alibi purposes it's because that's where his best friend essentially lives -- but he doesn't see crowds like this often. At least, not this lively. Usually when there's a crowd like this it's accompanied by silence and strict suicide watch.
"What's going on?"
Kayla groans again. There are bags under her eyes, Cecil notices. This is unusual.
"It's the full moon, I guess."
"And -- what, vampirism is on the rise?"
"That's werewolves, you dumbass. And no."
She looks at him like he is dumb. Cecil stares back intently, because he is. She will have to use her words.
She does, rolling her eyes. (Jeez. He does not envy the head counsellors at this camp. If he had to attitude manage thirteen-year-olds for even one hour he would kill himself.) "Injuries and illnesses increase during full moons, for some reason. Although this is worse than normal."
"Okay." The general crowd noise coalesces, several people shrieking over -- something. Cecil winces, nodding to himself. Fuck. Fuck. "Okay, that's -- thanks, Kayla. I'll find him."
"If you see him, tell him I want a raise! By four trazillion percent."
"I'll -- pass that on."
He pushes his way back through the crowd, and it's harder this time. He can see three more people slip through the doorway, and it's ridiculous. Most of them aren't even scratched. He sees a group of Ares kids in permaglitter, glaring at a group of giggling Aphrodite kids with no visible malady. Annabeth Chase sits rolling her eyes on a free cot, holding her broken wrist, her boyfriend fussing over her. Nine of Cecil's own siblings are sprawled about with various gashes and bruises. He nearly trips over Clovis Yanam, who is passed out in the middle of the floor, snoring.
"J -- Jesus," Cecil curses, swiping a hand down his face. The smell of peppermint is worse, somehow, when he takes his hands away; his eyes burn anew and even his nostrils feel singed. He would be convinced it was all in his head if there weren't several people with their shirts over their noses.
"Reeks, huh," comments Malcolm Pace, as Cecil rushes past. "Smelt it all the way across the common. Must be the Vicks."
It's not. It's not the fucking Vicks, and Cecil knows that, because this smell is more familiar than it should be and he hates it, he can't fucking stand it. This peppermint is sharp and oily and comes out of a vial that Will keeps in his pocket and has since he was nine. This peppermint means quiet. This peppermint means ice packs and cold compresses, this peppermint means a still cabin and crying audible through pillows.
He trips over a bedpost and has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from shouting. He takes a second, burying his face in his hands, and breathes, in, out. He lets the noise wash over him. He plants his heels on the old floorboards, swallowing hard. In. Out. He squeezes his burning eyes.
He exhales, long and heavy, dropping his hands and turning his face to the ceiling. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking, focusing on the popcorned white.
"Alright," he whispers to himself. "Alright, we're good. We're good."
He isn't usually this stressed. He isn't usually forcing himself to unclench his jaw, blinking back frustrated tears. He doesn't usually jump to 100 this quickly.
The peppermint isn't usually this strong.
Right as he is about to stick a washcloth in a bottle of rubbing alcohol and clear out the building, consequences be damned, he catches a flash of blond hair. He beelines toward it, praying to his father for speed, and has to stop a good three feet from his swaying friend, nearly gagging at the potency of the smell.
"Will," he manages, breathing through his mouth. It burns there, too. "Will, dude, you gotta call it quits."
Will continues -- something. Doing something. Cecil walks around him, elbowing at least two people out of the way, and grabs both his wrists, waiting until he stops struggling.
"Get off."
"Will. I'm serious. Enough is enough."
Any other day, Will would twist out easy. Cecil knows it. Lotta folks think Will is some -- some goober, who can't hold his own, but Cecil grew up with the fucker. He was there when he gained two clean feet of height in one summer. He was there as the muscle developed. It was infuriating. He knows just how nasty Will's left hook can be.
He also knows the migraines make him weak.
"People. Busy. Get off."
He tugs, again, and Cecil lets him, following him closely behind. He stumbles towards the nearest cot, smiling weakly at Lacy. She smiles back, looking worriedly at Cecil as soon as Will focuses on her banged up knee. Cecil shrugs.
"...Hey, Will."
Will hums.
"You, uh. There's a whole lot of aura coming off you right now."
Will snorts. Cecil smiles, slightly, at the accidental pun, shaking his head when Lacy lifts an eyebrow.
"'M okay."
He coughs as soon as he says it, scratching at his throat. Lacy doesn't blink, because there's no way she knows what that means, but Cecil sighs, resisting the urge to smack his head against the wall.
He's not -- Cass. He's not Lee. He doesn't know how to make Will listen to him, how to make Will care. He doesn't get it, either. He twisted an ankle slightly at the beginning of the summer and has been leveraging it to get out of chores for three and a half straight weeks. He's never had migraines, not like Will's, but he's seen enough of the tensing, of the twitching eyes, the grey faces and swaying on his feet to make a pretty educated guess.
Sometimes, he hates being a half-blood.
"It's not that bad," Lacy says quietly, snapping Cecil's attention to her. She places a gentle, manicured hand over Will's, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. "I can get ice and rest up, hey? You look exhausted. Maybe it's time to rest."
Will hesitates. Cecil holds his breath, hoping. Maybe it's just Cecil. He's never been particularly good with his words. Maybe he'll --
A weak, pulsing flash of light envelops Lacy's knee, fading almost as quickly as it came. Will sways. Lacy frowns.
"Honestly, Will. I shouldn't have even come in."
"No, it's -- fine." He stands, and nearly stumbles right into a shelf, Cecil darting out at the last second to steady him. "You should always come in when you're hurt."
He walks off, or tries to. Cecil follows, holding firm to his wrist, waving apologetically to a still-frowning Lacy as they drift by.
"Okay," he says, when she finally heads out. "Okay, dude, enough is e --"
"Is what, Cecil?"
Will wrenches his hand free, whirling around to face him.
"Is it time? For me to head back to the cabin and crawl in bed and just sit in pain for the next several hours? The next however many more days? To just curl up and cry? I'm fucking -- I'm tired, Cecil. I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of throwing up -- throwing up fucking nothing, by the way -- I'm tired of feeling my heart beat in my fucking eyeballs I'm tired of seeing flashing lights and passing out and I'm just fucking -- I'm done! I don't want any more of it! I just want it to stop, and it won't stop, so I just want to work! I want to do something that isn't sitting in -- in fucking peppermint!" He pauses, breathing in deep, holding it, screwing his eyes shut. "I fucking hate peppermint!"
The force of his shout echoes through the crowded infirmary.
Cecil stares at him, wide eyed, as he puts his face in his hands, drops to the floor, and starts to cry. Quiet, shaking sobs, shoulders wracking, tears leaking out between his fingers; Cecil, lump in his throat, slides down across to him.
Horsehooves echo in the thick silence.
"Anyone who is not actively dying," calls Chiron softly, "get out. Clovis, you stay."
Murmurs and footsteps swell as dozens of people. for perhaps the first time in their lives, quickly and quietly follow orders. Cecil keeps his eyes trained on his best friend, blinking away the blurriness of his eyes. Two sets of footsteps approach the edge of Cecil's vision, one horse, one slippered.
"May we sit?"
Cecil doesn't move. Will, after a moment, nods.
"How many days, now, child?" asks Chiron kindly. He reaches out a strong hand and rests it gently on Will's head, sliding his fingers through dull curls.
Will holds up a hand, five fingers splayed.
"Fucksake," Cecil mutters, scratching his nose. "Say something day one, dude."
"To what end?" Will's voice is muffled in his knees. "You gonna snap your fingers and magic it away?"
"Something can be done," Chiron chides. "Five days is too long to be in pain, Will."
"It's psychosomatic and you fucking know it," Will snaps. For a second his eyes are clear, glaring as he lifts his head, but it fades just as quickly. The exhaustion leeches the color right out of him. "If it could be healed it would have been healed when Lee was around."
"Just because your brother couldn't fix it does not mean it cannot be fixed."
"Yeah, right."
Will winces again, hands flying up to press against his eyes. Cecil looks over at the centaur, resting his cheek on his knee.
"If it helps, he's always this mean when he's hurting," he offers. He smiles slightly at the scowl he can feel Will sending his way. "It's kind of nice. I never get to see bitchy Will."
"Bitchy Will is the only Will you're ever going to know for the rest of your life, you quisling."
"Quisling?!"
Chiron smiles wryly. "You have your father's inkling for the dramatics, don't you." He shakes Clovis, who has passed out against his flank, gently awake. "Up, my boy. We need your skills."
"Sure thing," Clovis yawned. "How long you wanna be out? A week? Two?"
Will peeks a wary eye open.
"I have a shift tomorrow morning."
"Not happening," Cecil and Chiron say together.
Will sighs. "Sleeping won't make them stop."
"But you won't feel it when you're out."
"...Fine." He lifts his head up, slowly, and scooches over to Clovis. "No more than a day."
Two, Chiron mouths, over his shoulder. Clovis nods.
"Just close your eyes," Clovis says. "Good. Imagine a sheep, in front of you. Can you do that?"
"Yeah."
"'Kay. Hold it gently, around the forelegs. Grab a pair of clippers."
Will's hands curl carefully.
"Imagine shearing it, okay? Stripe by stripe."
Will obeys, too tired to keep fighting. He moves his hands slowly, rhythmically, and Clovis keeps a careful hand over his head. Slowly, the shadow from his hand grows over Will's head, covering his shoulders, his arms, his hips. Will's movements start to slow, and then, as the shadow ghosts over his knees, stop, and he tilts suddenly forward. Cecil darts out to catch him.
"Thanks," he whispers, throat dry. "I, uh, can't carry him, though. He's six-two and I have a twisted ankle."
"I'll get him."
Chiron stands slowly, careful of his hurt leg, and hovers for a minute, hands on Will's shoulders.
"We will have to figure out a lot more than this," he murmurs, exhaling deeply. "You cannot go on like this, child."
He picks Will up with careful, paternal hands, twisting to rest him gently on his back. He stands so that his hooves don't creak the old floorboards.
"Thank you, Cecil."
Old, serious brown eyes are turned suddenly upon him, and Cecil looks back, frozen.
"He needs someone to look out for him. You do well."
The centaur turns and walks lightly out of the infirmary, ducking through the low entryway.
The smell of peppermint fades into something sweet and gentle.