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The morning is too bright.
Sunlight flashes through the colored glass of the pavilion, scattering across tables in restless shards of gold and red. The air is sharp with cold, biting at every gap in a sweater or jacket, and leaves skitter across the stone floor whenever the wind threads through the open columns. The whole camp looks like something from a postcard—maples flaming, birches bare and silver, pumpkins piled on cabin doorsteps that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Nico hates it. Or at least, he makes sure everyone thinks he does.
His spoon drifts dangerously close to sliding out of his fingers as he blinks, heavy-lidded, at the cereal in front of him. The milk is going warm, but he’s too tired to care. Across the table Kayla and Austin chatter at a speed only children of Apollo can manage before noon. Kayla’s describing an arrow fletching design; Austin interrupts to insist his scales are more efficient for tuning lyres; Kayla rolls her eyes and weaponizes a grape. Nico lets it all wash over him. He’s long since perfected his morning routine: slump in his seat, scowl like he’s in pain, keep replies to a bare minimum. It isn’t that he’s truly furious at the world—it’s just the most effective way to stop people from talking to him before mid-morning. The Ghost King routine, Prince of Shadows and Underworld, Officially Not a Morning Person—it has its uses.
And then—because of course the gods enjoy tormenting him—Will Solace bounds into the pavilion like he’s carrying the sunrise on his shoulders. His hair catches the light in gold curls, his cheeks pink from the cold, his whole body humming with a brightness that makes the rest of the world seem dim.
Nico watches him approach, struck by the absurd fact that this is the boy who kisses him goodnight in the shadows of the Hades cabin. He schools his face into practiced indifference. No one needs to see how fond he really is. Not that it matters—they all see anyways despite his efforts.
“Exciting news,” Will declares as he drops onto the bench beside him, too cheerful for human consumption. “Big plans. Today’s going to be amazing.”
Nico groans into his cereal. “That’s the worst sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“Good morning to you too,” Will chirps, unbothered. He swipes a grape off Kayla’s plate before she can throw another at Austin.
Kayla smirks. “Careful, Solace. The Ghost King doesn’t do mornings.”
Austin leans across the table, grinning at Nico. “Or afternoons. Or evenings. Honestly, I’m not sure he does daylight at all.”
Nico narrows his eyes, spoon suspended like a weapon. “You’re both very funny.”
“We’re terrified,” Kayla corrects solemnly. “Definitely quaking in our boots.”
Will bumps Nico’s shoulder, and the scowl he’s been carefully maintaining nearly slips. Nearly. He clamps down on it before anyone can accuse him of looking soft.
“Anyway,” Will says, undeterred, “as I was saying—exciting news. The Demeter cabin grew pumpkins overnight.” His whole face lights up like this is an event on par with the second coming of Apollo himself. “An entire patch. Huge. We’re going to pick one.”
Nico blinks at him. “We’re what?”
“Going. To pick. A pumpkin.” Will enunciates each word like Nico’s the one being unreasonable here. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Nico drops his spoon into the cereal with a splash. “I don’t do ‘fun’ before noon.”
“You don’t do fun ever,” Austin teases, earning himself a sharp kick under the table from Will.
Nico doesn’t rise to the bait. He just slouches deeper in his seat, arms crossed like he’s been personally wronged by the concept of pumpkins. Committing to the bit matters—if he gives in too fast, Kayla will declare victory and he’ll never know peace at breakfast again.
But Will is watching him with that insufferable brightness, curls already catching the light. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and Nico knows the ridiculous knit hat he insists on wearing is probably stuffed in his pocket, waiting to be pulled out the moment they step back outside. It’s ugly, but somehow it makes Will look… even more like himself. Messy, warm, impossible not to notice.
Nico stares down at his cereal as though it has personally betrayed him. The truth is, a pumpkin patch doesn’t sound terrible. Not when it means being out there with Will, with the air crisp around them and leaves tumbling at their feet. Not when it means watching that stupid hat make its seasonal debut.
He sighs, long-suffering, and finally mutters, “Fine. But only because you’ll sulk if I don’t.”
Will beams, triumphant. “See? Knew you’d come around.”
Kayla raises her cup in salute. “All hail the prince of shadows, conceding to the power of squash.”
Nico shoots her a look sharp enough to cut glass, but the corner of his mouth threatens to give him away.
***
By the time they make it back to the Hades cabin, Will has already decided that Nico’s outfit needs intervention. Which is how Nico finds himself watching, half-amused and half-horrified, as Will rifles through his drawers like he owns the place.
“My wardrobe is fine,” Nico mutters—flat, but with a trace of exasperation he doesn’t bother to hide. Please stop fussing, the tone says, though underneath it hums another truth: he doesn’t really mind that Will fusses.
In truth, it’s more than fine. Ever since the leaves began to turn, his father’s skeletons have been showing up at odd hours with armfuls of suspiciously soft cashmere and wool, receipts from designer boutiques fluttering like burial shrouds. The result: a closet that now looks like it belongs to some brooding aristocrat rather than a boy who used to sleep under trees. Nico hasn’t complained. The sweaters are warm, and he likes the weight of them. Still, he’d take his father’s morbid generosity over Will’s color coordination any day.
Case in point: Will is currently holding up the yellow sweater Nico had stolen from him weeks ago, pairing it with a dark plum scarf. “See? Warm and seasonal.”
Nico blinks at him. “That’s a hate crime.”
“What?”
“The combination. Absolutely illegal.” Nico narrows his eyes, fighting the twitch of a smile. “I thought you had bad taste, but this is impressive even for you.”
Will gasps, clutching at his chest with mock offense. “Excuse me? Coming from you? Flip-flops and cargo shorts slander I can take, but I—”
“I didn’t even say flip-flops and cargo shorts,” Nico interrupts smoothly. “But it’s interesting that’s where your mind went.”
Will narrows his eyes. “You’re impossible.” He folds his arms. “Don’t forget, I still remember the first time I saw you after—well, really saw you. Red Hawaiian shirt. Dirt. Blood. Pretty sure there was ichor too. When exactly did you become Mister Fashion Critic?”
Nico shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’m Italian. It’s in the blood.”
Will stares at him, caught between laughing and groaning. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you,” Nico says, plucking the plum scarf out of his hands and tossing it back onto the pile, “are never dressing me again.”
It takes a full five minutes of pointed glares and dry remarks before Will finally surrenders the color combinations and admits defeat. In the end, Nico pulls on a black cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and a coat that swallows him in clean lines. Black on black on black. Cozy, warm, and most importantly—dignified.
Will circles him like he’s appraising a patient. “You’re still going to freeze,” he insists, tugging at the sleeve. “Maybe another layer.”
“I’m fine.”
“Another scarf?”
“No.”
“Gloves, then.”
Nico groans, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as they leave the cabin. Will only grins, pleased with himself, and bumps Nico’s shoulder as they crunch down the path, scattering leaves in copper and gold. Nico kicks at one particularly large pile, pretending it’s just in his way, but Will catches the faintest upward curl at the corner of his mouth and grins like he’s won something.
By the time they reach the canoe lake, Nico is ready to make some remark about pointless errands and squash-related torture—except his words vanish.
The patch is enormous, spilling across the meadow like something out of a harvest festival dream. Pumpkins in every size and shade glow in the autumn light: pale ghosts the color of bone, glossy orange giants with vines thick as ropes, squat little gourds striped green and gold. Some are star-shaped, others ripple like frozen waves, a few even shimmer faintly as though laced with morning frost. The air hums with quiet magic, Demeter’s children moving among the rows with casual pride, coaxing new blossoms out of vines with a flick of the wrist.
Will whistles low. “Wow. They outdid themselves this year.” He crouches beside a pumpkin the size of a dinner table, running a hand over the smooth skin. “Do you know these are packed with beta-carotene? Great for vision. Plus, they’re high in vitamin A, potassium, and fiber.”
Nico raises an eyebrow. “Thrilling.”
“Don’t roll your eyes. They boost your immune system too,” Will says, standing to brush dirt off his hands. “Pumpkin soup would keep you from catching a cold.”
“I don’t catch colds.”
“Not with soup, you don’t.”
Nico gives him a flat look, but Will is already off again, babbling happily about antioxidants while pointing out a pumpkin shaped like a crescent moon.
Nico exhales, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. They drift further into the patch, vines tangling around their boots, pumpkins glowing like lanterns in the cold light. The air is sharp enough that Nico can see his breath mingling with Will’s whenever they lean close over a stem. It curls silver between them before vanishing, as though the morning itself can’t decide if it’s real.
Will crouches beside a massive pumpkin that looks like it could double as a chariot. “This one’s perfect.”
Nico folds his arms. “For what? Housing a family of five?”
“Think bigger—haunted mansion.”
“Or emergency infirmary,” Nico deadpans. “Very practical.”
Will laughs, the sound bright in the crisp air. Nico pretends to study the next row of vines so no one notices how much he likes hearing it.
They walk further in, their shoulders brushing every so often, leaves crunching underfoot. Will stops again, pointing at a squat white pumpkin streaked faintly green. “Okay, this one. Stylish. Understated.”
“It looks sick,” Nico says.
“It’s unique.”
“It’s contagious.”
Will snorts, shaking his head, curls bouncing out from under his knit hat.
Then Nico sees it—a small, round pumpkin set a little apart from the others, dark green shading into orange at the base. He crouches, brushing cold fingers across its smooth skin. “This one.”
Will kneels beside him, their shoulders pressing together, breath clouding between them. “Didn’t think you’d go for the modest one.”
Nico shrugs. “It’s better than the overcompensating ones you keep picking.”
Will grins. “So basically—you chose the broody pumpkin.”
Nico gives him a flat look. “It’s a pumpkin. It’s not broody.”
“You say that, but it looks like it writes sad poetry.” Will carefully cuts the vine and lifts the pumpkin with both hands, triumphant.
Nico dusts frost from his knees as they stand. Will tucks the pumpkin under one arm and slides the other easily around Nico’s waist. Nico rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away.
They carry their prize a little ways off and sink down at the lake’s edge, the pumpkin resting between them like a silent witness. The water shimmers steel-grey, sharp with the reflection of a sky thickening toward overcast. Around the patch, camp descends into glorious chaos.
Younger campers chase each other between the vines, shrieking with laughter as one trips over a root and lands face-first in a pile of gourds. A Demeter girl claps her hands and coaxes a pumpkin to double in size, nearly bowling over an unlucky Hermes boy who tries to steal it. And then the Hephaestus kids arrive in force—hauling out wheeled contraptions that look like a cross between wheelbarrows and siege engines. They load pumpkins the size of chariots into them, trundling off toward the Big House in a parade of squeaking wheels and triumphant shouts. The whole thing looks less like harvest and more like a battlefield.
Nico watches, lips twitching despite himself. His gaze drifts past the chaos of campers to the trees flaring scarlet and gold along the shore, leaves tumbling slow into the lake. “It’s beautiful,” he says, voice low, though Will hears it anyway.
A beat, then Nico’s mouth quirks. “Guess we have Persephone to thank.”
Will only nod, eyes soft. He doesn’t need the explanation—of course he knows the story. Persephone leaves, and the world folds into grief. The color, the crispness, the dying fire of autumn: all offerings to her absence.
“She isn’t as terrible as you’d think,” Nico adds after a moment. “Persephone.” His tone is wry, but not unkind. “She once tried to teach me how to arrange flowers. Gave me a whole lecture on balance and symmetry. I told her everything still looked like a funeral arrangement. She said that was fitting.”
Will huffs a laugh, thumb brushing over Nico’s knuckles.
“And once,” Nico continues, quieter, “she sent me back with a basket of pomegranate seeds. Like they were some kind of… gift.” His lips twist. “Hazel and I still joke about it. We left them untouched on the counter until they rotted.”
Will chuckles softly, but Nico doesn’t. The memory tugs at something darker—the jar, the death trance, the suffocating stillness of being trapped in the dark. For a moment his chest tightens, panic curling low and sharp.
But then Will shifts closer, their shoulders pressed together, his warmth seeping through layers of wool and cold air. Nico forces himself to breathe, to taste the sharpness of October instead of bronze and dust. The lake ripples, the leaves spin down in bursts of color, and Will’s hand is steady in his.
For a while they just sit there, the noise of camp carrying across the meadow, the pumpkin solid between them like it’s waiting for instruction. Finally, Nico glances at it and frowns. “So… what exactly are we supposed to do with this?”
Will blinks at him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a pumpkin, Solace. You dragged me all the way out here to pick it. Now what?”
Will tips his head, curls spilling out from under his hat. “Uh… carve it? Make it into a lantern? Decoration, you know.”
Nico gives him a flat look. “You dragged me into a pumpkin-picking expedition for decorative purposes?”
“Not just decorative. It’s festive.” Will grins, bumping Nico’s shoulder. “Besides, I’d be amazing at carving.”
“On what basis?”
“I’ve got surgical precision. Steady hands. Years of training.” He holds his hands out in demonstration, wiggling his fingers.
Nico snorts. “You’re not the only one with steady hands. I’ve trained with a sword since I was ten. Blades, accuracy, control. I’d carve circles around you.”
“Oh, we’re making this a competition now?”
“Obviously.” Nico stands, brushing frost from his coat. “Which means we need another pumpkin. Yours. Then we’ll see who’s actually better.”
Will laughs, bright and delighted, as he gets to his feet. “You’re on, di Angelo. Hope you’re ready to lose.”
They circle back into the patch, pumpkin already in hand but still arguing out of principle. Will insists on finding “the perfect rival gourd” while Nico drags his boots through the vines, pretending impatience but secretly entertained.
It takes longer than it should—mostly because Nico spots a cluster of campers nearby and, without a word, tugs Will by the sleeve. They slip behind a pumpkin so massive it could hide a chariot, the vines curling around like curtains. Out of sight, Nico turns, grabs the front of Will’s coat, and kisses him.
The air is sharp enough to bite, but Will is warm, his breath fogging against Nico’s cheek. For a moment, the chaos of camp fades—the shouts, the laughter, the groaning of Hephaestus contraptions wheeling pumpkins away. It’s just them, tucked away in the hollow of vines, Nico kissing him like this whole ridiculous outing was worth it.
By the time they finally stumble back to the Hades cabin, cheeks pink and hands stiff with cold, the pumpkin is forgotten in the corner. Will rubs his palms together, wincing. “Cold’s killed my dexterity. Can’t exactly carve with frozen fingers. Surgeon’s hands, remember?”
Nico smirks, tugging off his own gloves. “Tragic. Guess we’ll have to postpone your defeat until tomorrow.”
Will tries to glare, but the dimple ruins it. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet…” Nico presses a kiss to his jaw, tugging him toward the velvet sofa by the fire.
The carving contest is forgotten in favor of blankets, tangled legs, and lazy kisses. Outside, leaves skitter across the paths and the last pumpkins rattle toward the Big House. Inside, Nico sinks into Will’s warmth, already plotting how sweet his victory will taste tomorrow.