Chapter Text
It was well past curfew when Nico di Angelo appeared at the infirmary door, silent as death and twice as bruised.
Will didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. He felt it — like cold air brushing his spine, like a shadow shifting in a sunlit room.
“You’re bleeding,” Will said, still facing the cabinet, voice low.
“Wasn’t planning to make it a thing.”
Will turned, saw the blood soaking through the side of Nico’s black shirt, and crossed the room without another word. Nico didn't flinch when Will touched his waist, just tilted his head and gave that quiet little look that said he didn’t want to talk about what happened.
Will led him wordlessly to bed four — the one by the window, private, the one Nico always ended up on when he let himself be seen.
“Sit,” Will said, already grabbing gauze and a bottle of antiseptic. His voice was a bit too sharp. He knew it. But Nico always showed up like this: battered, drained, mouth set in that stubborn line.
Will pressed the gauze to his side. Nico winced.
“You’re lucky it’s not deeper.”
“You say that like I didn’t walk here on my own.”
“You say that like you’re not one missed stitch away from a collapsed lung.”
There was a pause.
Then Nico met Will’s eyes. “You’re mad.”
“I’m worried,” Will said. Too fast. Too honest. “Which is worse.”
Nico exhaled, eyes falling shut.
“Let me clean you up.”
And Will did.
Silently. Carefully. Fingers trailing over bruises like a prayer. Nico was quieter than usual, but not distant. If anything, he was more present than Will had seen him in days. He watched every movement, every shift of Will’s hands, like he wasn’t sure whether to lean in or bolt out the door.
Will’s palm slid across Nico’s stomach as he inspected the bandage, and Nico’s breath hitched — not from pain.
Will’s hand paused. He looked up.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
Nico didn’t.
Instead, he moved. Just a little. Just enough.
An inch forward.
A tilt of the hips.
A silent dare.
Will kissed him.
Slow at first — uncertain, reverent. But the moment Nico reached up, curled a hand around Will’s neck and pulled him deeper, everything else fell away. Will was on top of him before either of them had the presence of mind to breathe.
It escalated like wildfire.
Will's weight settled over Nico’s body, hands roaming — not possessive, not harsh, just thorough, like he’d been waiting to map this territory for years. Nico’s legs parted slightly to pull Will closer, and Will let out the softest sound against his lips — something caught between a sigh and a groan.
He kissed like he healed: deliberate, patient, but devastatingly focused.
And Nico let him.
Will guided, Nico gave. He sank into the mattress with pliant grace, letting Will lead the pace, letting hands pull at his shirt, lift it halfway, fingers trailing over pale, scarred skin that no one else had ever touched like this — like he was beautiful.
Nico arched into the touch without thinking. Will’s mouth dropped to his neck, kissing softly, then biting — gently, but hard enough to draw a gasp.
“Will,” Nico breathed, voice wrecked, “we’re—gods, the bed—”
Will barely managed, “It’ll hold.”
Spoiler: it wouldn’t.
Because Nico's legs wrapped around Will’s hips.
Because Will leaned in harder, mouth now at Nico’s collarbone, grinding just a little, just enough to make Nico dig his fingers into Will’s back and moan—quiet and desperate and completely unaware of how hot he sounded.
The cot shrieked under the weight.
Neither of them cared.
Nico was trembling beneath him now, but not from fear — from being wanted like this, touched like this, handled like this. Every noise he made set Will more on fire, and every touch Will gave made Nico softer, needier, more unguarded than Will had ever seen him.
“Please,” Nico whispered. A single word.
It shattered Will.
He kissed him harder, body flush against his, hands gripping Nico’s thighs, shifting their hips in tandem—and that was the final straw.
CRACK.
SNAP.
SCREAM-OF-METAL.
The cot exploded beneath them like it had been waiting for its moment to die. Legs bent sideways, frame buckled in the middle, and both boys crashed to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs, twisted sheets, and one very incriminating pair of half-open pants.
Nico blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving.
Will was halfway on top of him, stunned.
Nico, hoarse: “We killed it.”
Will groaned, covering his face with both hands. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
They were still tangled on the floor when the door burst open.
Kayla.
Holding a clipboard. Mid-step. Mid-breath.
Her eyes landed directly on:
The wrecked bed,
Nico with a visible love bite,
Will’s hand still suspiciously low,
Nico’s half-shirtless torso,
A sock on the window sill (no one knew how it got there).
Kayla didn’t say a word.
She turned around.
Walked straight out.
Five seconds later, from the hallway:
“THEY BROKE THE BED—WITH BODY HEAT—IN THE INFIRMARY— OH MY GODS—"
---
Two hours later:
The Apollo cabin knew.
The Hermes cabin reenacted it.
The Aphrodite cabin cheered.
Mr. D added a betting pool to “who breaks the next bed.”
Chiron assigned Will 30 hours of bed repair duty and suggested therapy for Nico ("for the trauma. Or the embarrassment.”)
And the bed was memorialized with a plaque that read:
> "Slain in Action: Bed 4. May your frame rest in peace."
---
Back in Will’s cabin that night:
They lay side by side in his bed. A bronze-reinforced bed. A safe bed.
Nico had his face buried in Will’s shoulder.
“Stop laughing,” he muttered.
“I’m not,” Will said. He was. “I’m just... proud. You were very—uh, expressive.”
Nico groaned. “Don’t.”
Will kissed his temple. “Hey. You were incredible. Strong. Gorgeous.”
Nico peeked up at him. “And what are you?”
Will smirked. “The guy who gets to break the next bed with you.”
Nico pulled the covers over his face.
Then whispered under his breath:
“…It better squeak.”