Work Text:
“Sleep. Now,” Percy barked as he unceremoniously drops him on their bed. The bed springs barely making a noise when his small frame bounced off the soft mattress.
“I’m fine,” he tried to protest, but the words are distorted by a yawn and his body reflexively buried his face in one of the large feather pillows that lean against the headboard. “Okay, maybe I’m a little tired.”
“Uh huh. Sure,” the Son of Poseidon chuckles as he helps him under the Penguins of Madagascar comforter. His husband then brushed a few stray strands of hair from his brow with his real hand and places a tender kiss in its wake. “Sweet dreams, Neeks.”
“You too,” he yawns as he hears Percy click off the lights and exit their room.
Dreams.
It would be unfair to say Nico doesn’t have them as often since the world ceased to exist, as he doesn’t sleep nearly as much as he used to. The strange, temporally agnostic properties of his new home make it exceedingly easy to lose track of time.
Hours, days, weeks, months, and even years can pass in the blink of an eye if he’s not careful- and his efforts to try and solve the mystery of the Necronomicon, its authors the Elder Things, and their foes the Outer Gods make it all too easy to fall into the trap of an “all-monther” as his step-mother calls it.
Thankfully he has his husband to keep him on a semi-healthy sleep schedule. Percy sometimes literally dragging him out of his study to make sure he gets a few hours- or days – of sleep. Granted, there are often other things the Son of Poseidon also has in mind besides his concern for sleep, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t share his interests.
But sleep always follows when they’ve had their fill of one another.
And dreams follow after.
The good news is the prophetic dreams that plagued them in their lives before had ceased entirely. The gods and Fates can no longer barge into their unconscious minds like they own the place with new, exciting forms of confusing trauma. Their dreams are now entirely their own.
The bad news is their dreams are now entirely their own.
He, Percy, Piper, and Persephone have experienced and lost more than any god, let alone a normal human. His husband still mourns the loss of his family at the hands of his former stepfather; his stepmother is tortured by the memories of the years she mistreated him and grieves the loss of her king; the Daughter of Tristan (because she has disowned her mother) howls out in anger and sorrow that she refuses to speak about; he dreams of the sisters he lost and his how he treated his future husband; and they all wake up in cold sweat when they dream of their failure to save Jason.
Thankfully, the bad dreams aren’t a constant.
At least not for him and Percy.
Sometimes the dreams are just dreams. Neither good nor bad; logical nor crazed; based on memory nor entirely fictional.
And they’ve gotten pretty good at predicting what they’ll dream about. Like if Percy eats an entire bag of shredded cheese before bed, he’ll dream of Hannibal the elephant stepping on his stomach- and then wake up to rush to the bathroom.
As for himself, whenever he loses track of time, his mind will always take him back to his first experience with vast amounts of time slipping by. Where he and his older sister spent fifty-plus years of their lives.
The Lotus Hotel and Casino.
Most people fail to understand what it was like to be in the Lotus for such a long period of time. As those who managed to escape its hypnotic thrall are only there for a few days to a few weeks. They think of the realm of the Lotus Eaters as a static paradise, wherein all earthly, PG-rated pleasures have always existed.
But that was hardly the case.
Those who enter the hotel bring with them their own unique definitions of pleasure. Definitions, that the magics of the Lotus add to its own to keep the eternal party going. So, as he once tried to explain to a certain Son of Hephaestus, the only Nintendo he was playing for the first forty years was a pack of playing cards.
Not that he knew that how much time had passed.
For him, the best way to describe how it felt in the Lotus was to compare it to a parade. The floats, balloons, marching bands, and costumed characters were all different and never the same, but that was how parades worked. No one got suspicious when the Snoopy balloon was followed by the Pokemon float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade even though they were created decades apart. You just smiled and watched the parade go by with little attention to the clock. In his case, the parade just would have never ended.
But he could remember the start of the parade. The first few floats and balloons that were far simpler than the ones that came later.
And tonight, Nico’s dreams took him back to the earliest days of his stay at the Lotus.
His ten-year-old self was seated in the corner booth of one of the magical hotel’s countless lounges. The permanent haze of a thousand cigarettes and the dim light the booth’s small lamp made it all but impossible to see anyone beyond the edge of the table, but that hardly mattered. The only person he cared about was sitting across from him, equally enraptured by the place’s spell. Bianca leaning forward from the darkness with her elbows on the table as she sipped on a malted milkshake through a red-and-white striped paper straw.
On the table before him was a stack of pristine white paper, a box of crayons that always had the exact color he wanted and were always sharp, an unopened pack of playing cards, a freshly made Shirley Temple that was always topped off at the appropriate time, and an ice cream sundae that never melted. It was everything he could ever want when he was a kid, at least when he first entered the Lotus. It was a few years before television became big, and decades before the concepts of collectible card games and video games would forever alter his brain chemistry. Of course, it wouldn’t feel that long though. To him and Bianca, it would seem like minutes. Maybe even seconds.
But this dream was before all that.
And at that moment in time, something that should have been impossible in the Lotus was happening.
He was bored out of his mind.
For their presence in the lounge is entirely Bianca’s idea. He was more than content to pass the time by the pool, jumping on their beds, devouring sweets, running through the endless labyrinth of halls, and listening to the radio. But not Bianca. Every now and then his sister wanted to do something that she deemed to be refined. Civilized. Adult. And at that time, lounges were the place where adults gathered for their own brand of fun. So, she dragged him to the Velvet Room for “her turn.”
“I’m boooored,” his dream-self whines as he plays with his sundae. “’Anca, can we please-”
“Shhh! It’s about to start!” His sister hisses as she kicks him under the table. For as adult as Bianca claimed to be, she could be just as childish as she claimed he was. “Just color or something!”
Before his younger self has a chance to protest a ‘THUD’ echoes through the lounge, and unseen stage lights burst to life. The giant incandescent bulbs illuminating the lounge’s namesake, a gigantic velvet stage curtain. The new source of light makes the rest of the room seem so much darker, and he can no longer see the silhouettes of the rest of the now applauding audience.
On the stage, behind golden podiums emblazoned with the hotel’s flowery symbol, stand a dozen or so men dressed in pristine white tuxes. Each are holding a musical instrument, mostly brass, and they are polished so thoroughly that they practically glow. They each wave or give little bows to the applauding audience, and years later he would wonder if they were also guests living their own fantasies or if they were even real to begin with.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep, rich voice announces over the crackling intercom. “The Lotus is proud to present, Zing Brosby!”
A thin man in a black tux with a corncob pipe and dark, slicked back hair walks out on the stage as the crowd’s applause grew even louder.
And his younger self slams his head on the table with a groan.
Decades later, Nico would determine this occurred in either the late forties or early fifties, as that was when the big bands and jazz lost their crown to the crooners. The male singers whose every note dripped with fake sentimentality and unwanted intimacy.
And Bianca eats it all up.
“Well now,” Zing dreamily sighs as he lowers his pipe. “I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing such a fiiiine looking audience tonight. Makes, ah, a simple guy like me feel pretty special.”
Bianca giggles.
And the young Nico wants to puke.
The man continues to talk to the audience for a bit before starting his first song. It’s something close to a popular song, but just different enough to be legally distinct.
All the media and artists in the Lotus were like that.
Close to the real thing, but noticeably different if one’s not fully caught in the casino’s enchantment. The artists make the most sense, as divine intervention or not, the world would notice if Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, or some other big musician went missing. If Old Blue Eyes disappeared, even the Mist wouldn’t be able to hide him from the hordes of frantic Italian-American mothers that would search for him. As for the songs, it was probably some issues with royalties. Even the gods don’t mess with the music industry’s lawyers.
When one song ends, another begins. Zing would eventually leave the stage, but another crooner just like him immediately pops up in his place. Dean Carton, Frank Cilantro, Harry Combover, Al Martini, and countless others. So many that he remembered thinking that hydras could learn a thing or two from the singers.
The concert felt as if it went on for years, and his younger self was more-than-likely right. He’s drank approximately eight-thousand Shirley Temples, consumed a metric ton of ice cream, and licked up enough chocolate sauce and butterscotch to fill the Hudson Bay.
It’s a miracle he didn’t leave the Lotus with diabetes.
The most recent crooner walked off the stage and he was about to protest to his sister that he wants to leave, when he spots the next singer rushing out.
And there’s something markedly different about him.
The man is noticeably younger in appearance than his predecessors- possibly just coming out of his teens -and carries himself in a way that Nico can only describe as rebellious. He’s still wearing a tux like all his precursors, but its a bit disheveled and his dark hair is noticeably unkempt- almost like he just crawled out of bed before walking on the stage. There’s a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, and he finishes both before he’s even halfway across the stage. He doesn’t pretend to be humble or innocent like the others, and points out to specific members of the audience who shout and scream when he does.
“Oh my!” Bianca gasped when the man tosses his tumbler off stage and roughly grabs the microphone.
It’s then that the man looks his way for the first time.
And Nico’s heart skips a beat.
The man’s eyes are gleaming emeralds. A green so vibrant and deep that his younger self can’t hope to escape their pull. And he’s not sure he wants to.
“How ‘bout we have some fun?” The man asks with a wink. His voice richer and smoother than the other performers could ever dream of imitating. “Get some real music in here, not this nickle and dime slop.”
And then the most terrifying and amazing thing happened: the man looks right at him. He even pointed at him.
“Sound good to you, kid?”
It’s amazing he didn’t spontaneously combust at the question. His face certainly felt like it was about to. And it was even more amazing that he managed to get out a stuttering, “y-y-yeah!”
The man grins at him, and for a moment no one and nothing else exists. But the moment ends when the man turns to the waiting band and says, “well? You heard the kid! Hit it!”
Oh the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear!
And it shows them peeeearly white!
Just a jaackknife has old Macheath, babe!
And he keeps it outta sight!
His younger self is completely and utterly transfixed by the performance. Song after song, a warmth in the pit of his stomach grows. A part of him knew what it was, and would later birth a fear and self-loathing that would haunt him for years. But that would be later. Much later. For at the moment, he was in the Lotus, and its spell would never allow anyone to experience such self-depreciation. The timeless sanctuary his father placed him and his sister in would be just that: a sanctuary.
But all good things must come to an end. In this case, the end was another teenager in a tattered tux rushing out on the stage and whispering something in the singer’s ear.
“Uh, sorry, folks!” The man awkwardly chuckled. “I’m being informed that I need to wrap it up.”
His younger self deflated.
“But,” the newcomer’s eyes widened in shock at the singer’s announcement, “one more for the road!”
“Are you kidding me?! We do not have-” whatever the newcomer was about to say was cut off my the band striking up once more.
Somewhere beyond the sea!
Somewhere waitin’ for me!
My lover stands on golden sands!
And watches the ships that go sailin’!
Somewhere beyond the seas!
He’s there watchin’ for me!
If I could fly like birds on high!
Then straight to his arms, I’d go sailin’!
It’s far beyond a star!
It’s near beyond the moon!
I know beyond a doubt!
My heart will lead me there soon!
We’ll meet beyond the shore!
We’ll kiss just as before!
Happy we’ll be beyond the sea!
And never again I’ll go sailin’!
All too soon, the song came to an end. With the man and his friend rushing off the stage without so much as a farewell to the audience, and he and Bianca left shortly after as well.
He would go back to the lounge with Bianca, and he no longer protested going.
But he would never see the singer again.
He would never even learn the man’s name. Even the hotel concierge couldn’t answer that question. It was as if he was a ghost.
And as years unknowingly passed, the singer’s last song would stick with him. And when he finally left the Lotus and re-learned of his heritage, he prayed the song would be his first and greatest prophecy.
It’s far beyond a star.
It’s near beyond the moon.
I know beyond a doubt.
My heart will lead me there soon.
We’ll meet beyond the shore.
We’ll kiss just as before.
Happy we’ll be beyond the sea.
And never again I’ll go sailin’.
Nico is stirred from his slumber when his husband joins him in bed. The great Percy Jackson is capable of many feats, but silently entering a bed is not one of them. He also can’t throw his shirt in the clothes hamper that’s only six foot away from their bed, but that’s just another thing that made Percy, Percy.
When Nico finally opens his eyes he’s greeted by emeralds.
They’re not the mysterious singer’s, they’re so much better. The singer’s eyes are cocktail olives in comparison to the jewels that are Percy’s eyes. Eyes, that are more beautiful in every way imaginable, and contain something precious beyond words.
Love.
Love for him.
He moves himself closer to his husband and wraps his arms around his strong chest, and a joy and comfort that has never dulled in the slightest washes over him when Percy’s arm wraps around him in turn. There’s not a chance for words before Nico begins to kiss the Son of Poseidon, long and deep. For the moment there is only them.
“Sweet dreams I take it?” Percy chuckles when they finally break.
“Something like that,” he smiles as he rests his head against Percy’s chest.
The singer’s prophecy did come to pass.
They live in an ancient facility that exists beyond the stars, yet could be reached in the Throne Room of Olympus- a few steps beyond Artemis’ throne. He never doubted Percy, not once. And his heart led him right to him. It might have felt like an eternity at the time to get there, but looking back now, it was like the blink of an eye- or a trip to the Lotus.
“Happy we’ll be, beyond the sea,” Nico sings softly as Percy plays with his hair.
He can feel Percy's smile, and his heart leaps when he hears his love finish the song. "And never again, I'll go sailing."