Archive of Our Own

The infirmary never truly went quiet.

Even on nights when camp tried to pretend it could rest, when laughter drifted from the cabins and the air buzzed with anticipation instead of alarms the space hummed with a low, living tension. Canvas walls breathed softly in the winter cold, expanding and contracting with each passing gust. Lanternlight glowed warm and steady, reflecting off white sheets, glass bottles, bronze instruments, and the faint gold lines of wards etched into the floor by hands long steadier than Will’s felt lately.

The air smelled like clean linen and crushed herbs and the faint, ever-present sweetness of ambrosia.

Will Solace had been on his feet since before sunset.

He stood at the central worktable now, methodically grinding dried yarrow with a practiced hand. The pestle moved in smooth, even circles. His wrist didn’t ache yet but he could feel the fatigue waiting just beneath the surface, like a tide pulling back before it rushed in.

His movements were precise, efficient, almost mechanical.

He didn’t need to look at the mortar to know when the texture was right. He felt it through the vibration in his palm, through the resistance that eased just a fraction when the leaves finally surrendered. He stopped at exactly the right moment, setting the pestle aside before the powder could get too fine.

Too fine meant wasted medicine.

Will wiped his hands on a towel and scanned the room.

The infirmary was full, but not busy in the sharp, frantic way that set his nerves on edge. No screaming. No blood pooling faster than he could stop it. No one calling his name with that particular pitch of terror that meant seconds mattered.

Just… maintenance.

A Demeter kid slept through a mild frostbite treatment, breath slow and even, cheeks pinking back to life. Will had tucked an extra blanket around their shoulders earlier without thinking about it. Habit.

Two Ares campers occupied neighboring cots, whispering loudly and comparing scars like trophies. One of them gestured animatedly at a jagged white line across his forearm.

“Totally would’ve been fatal if Will hadn’t been there,” he stage-whispered.

Will pretended not to hear.

In the far corner, someone coughed softly, dry, not wet. Healing. Good.

Will tracked every sound without meaning to.

Heartbeats layered over one another in his awareness steady, uneven, quick, slow. Each one registered automatically, catalogued and assessed. Most of them were fine. Healing. Recovering. Safe.

That knowledge should have comforted him.

Instead, it pressed down on his chest like a weight.

He moved between the cots, clipboard tucked under his arm now, checking vitals with gentle efficiency. Fingers to wrist. A quick glance at pupils. A quiet question murmured just loud enough to confirm lucidity.

“How’s the pain?”

“Still sore.”

“That’s normal. Let me know if it spikes.”

A nod. A tired smile. Trust.

Will returned it every time, even when his own smile felt like something he had to consciously assemble.

“Will?”

He glanced up automatically. Kayla stood near the entrance, clipboard tucked under her arm, hair pulled back in a messy knot that said she’d stopped caring about appearances hours ago. There was a smudge of something ink, probably on her cheek.

“Vitals check on bed six,” she said. “And the Athena kid in the corner says his ankle feels weird again.”

Will sighed fondly. “Tell him weird is normal for the next twelve hours. Pain is not.”

Kayla snorted. “You’re a poet.”

“I try.”

He smiled, but it faltered, just a little.

Kayla had known Will long enough to read the signs. The tightness in his shoulders. The way he shifted his weight from foot to foot but never actually sat down. The faint golden sheen under his skin that meant he’d been channeling too much, for too long.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Will nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just end of the year stuff.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Kayla studied him for a moment longer, gaze soft but sharp, then let it go. “I’ll be back,” she said, retreating toward the supply shelves.

When she left, the space felt larger.

Emptier.

Will exhaled slowly and rubbed at the back of his neck. His fingers came away faintly warm with lingering sunlight residual healing energy that refused to fully dissipate these days. He used to be better at regulating it. Used to know when to stop, when to hand things off, when to rest.

Now it felt like if he let go for even a second, something terrible would slip through the cracks.

He shook out his hands and forced himself to keep moving.

At the next cot, he adjusted a bandage around a camper’s forearm, smoothing the gauze with careful, gentle pressure. His touch was warm, not the overwhelming blaze of Apollo’s full blessing, but a steady glow, like sunlight through glass.

The camper relaxed instantly, muscles unclenching as pain dulled to a manageable throb.

“Thanks, Will,” the kid murmured, already half-asleep.

Will smiled automatically. “Anytime.”

But when he turned away, the smile faded.

He checked the time without meaning to.

Almost midnight, someone had said earlier. A Hermes kid, probably bouncing on the balls of their feet, vibrating with excitement and sugar and the certainty that the new year would be better simply because it had to be.

Will had nodded, distracted, and gone back to work.

Still, the thought lingered now.

Midnight meant fireworks. Shouting. Camp counting down together beneath the stars.

It also meant Nico.

The thought settled unexpectedly warm in his chest.

Nico, waiting somewhere quiet. Nico, who had insisted—insisted, that Will take at least a few minutes tonight. Nico, who never pushed but somehow always made space anyway.

Will pictured him without trying: dark curls falling into his eyes, expression pretending to be unimpressed while caring far too much. The way his shadows softened when Will was close. The way he said Will’s name like it mattered.

Will swallowed.

Just a little longer, he told himself. Finish rounds. Make sure everyone’s stable. Then—

A laugh drifted in from outside. Someone shouting about sparklers.

Will adjusted one last chart and forced his shoulders to relax.

New Year’s Eve used to mean something. Fireworks. Music. People believing that the simple act of crossing a threshold could make things better.

Now it mostly meant vigilance.

But for the first time in a long while, there was something else threaded through it too.

Anticipation.

And Will let himself hold onto that, just a little  as he moved toward the next cot, unaware of how close the night was to breaking.

Will finished his last round slower than necessary.

Not because anything was wrong but because nothing was.

That was the dangerous part.

He adjusted a pillow here, tugged a blanket higher there, double-checked a chart he already knew by heart. The motions grounded him, kept his hands busy while his thoughts drifted too far ahead.

Midnight soon.

The wards hummed softly beneath his feet, steady and reassuring. He paused near the center of the infirmary, eyes unfocusing as he listened, not just with his ears, but with that deeper awareness Apollo had gifted him. The pulse of camp life thrummed faintly in the distance. Bonfires crackled. Laughter spiked and fell. Someone set off something loud near the lake, followed by cheers and Chiron’s exasperated shout.

No sudden drops. No sharp flares of pain.

Good.

Will leaned against one of the support beams and finally let himself breathe.

The exhale came out shaky.

He pressed his thumb into the inside of his wrist, feeling his own pulse. Fast, but steady. Alive. He’d learned a long time ago that healers were terrible at checking themselves. Too close. Too aware of everything that could go wrong.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the infirmary entrance.

Nico would be waiting.

The thought softened something tight in his chest.

Will smiled faintly to himself, imagining the look Nico would try and fail to hide when Will showed up late. The fake scowl. The way his shoulders would relax anyway. Nico never said it’s okay, but he always meant it.

Will pushed off the beam and headed toward the supply shelves, pretending he had a reason to reorganize them again. He straightened bottles that were already aligned, checked expiration dates he’d memorized weeks ago.

“You’re allowed to leave, you know,” Kayla said quietly from behind him.

Will startled, then laughed under his breath. “I am?”

“Legally? Spiritually? Healer-code-wise?” She shrugged. “Yes to all three.”

He turned to face her. “Just making sure everything’s set.”

Kayla lifted an eyebrow. “Everything’s been set for an hour.”

Will opened his mouth to argue then closed it.

She softened. “You’re not abandoning anyone.”

“I know,” he said, and meant it. Mostly.

He glanced around again, instinctively cataloguing: stable, stable, stable. The infirmary had that peaceful, end-of-year hush to it, like it was holding its breath along with the rest of camp.

“I’ll be close,” he said. “Just stepping out for a bit.”

Kayla smiled. “Good. Go see your boyfriend before you combust.”

Will felt heat rush to his face. “Kayla.”

She laughed. “Relax. We like him.”

“I—good,” Will said lamely.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged it on, the fabric warm from being indoors too long. As he headed for the exit, he slowed, one hand brushing the canvas flap.

For just a second, that old fear whispered at the back of his mind.

What if something happens the moment you leave?

Will closed his eyes.

“I can’t stop time,” he murmured to himself. “I can’t be everywhere.”

He stepped outside.

Cold air hit his lungs, sharp and clean. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved a few steps away from the infirmary, giving himself space to feel like a person again instead of a constant emergency response.

The night sky stretched wide above him, stars bright and unbothered by mortal worries. Somewhere across camp, voices began counting down too early, off-beat, enthusiastic.

Ten. Nine.

Will smiled despite himself.

He started walking, hands tucked into his pockets, following the familiar path that led deeper into camp. Toward shadows and quiet and the one place that always felt strangely safe.

The countdown echoed faintly through the trees.

Eight. Seven.

Will’s steps slowed.

Something tugged at his awareness not sharp, not panicked. Just a flicker. A wrongness so subtle he almost dismissed it as nerves.

Six.

He paused, head tilting slightly, listening harder.

Five.

His pulse ticked up.

Probably nothing, he told himself. Camp was full of noise tonight. Energy spiked and dipped constantly.

Four.

Still, the healer’s instinct wouldn’t let go.

Three.

Will turned halfway back toward the infirmary, jaw tight.

Just a second, he thought. One more check.

Two.

The night held its breath.

One—

—and somewhere behind him, a sound cut through the air, sharp and urgent, calling his name.

“Will!”

The year turned.

And Will spun around, heart already racing, instinct screaming that the quiet was over.

“Will!”

The voice cracked through the trees, thin and panicked, and something inside him went cold.

Not just any camper.

Gracie.

His feet were already moving before the sound finished echoing. Snow scattered beneath his boots as he veered off the path, lungs burning as he pushed through low branches and shadow. The lantern light from camp faded quickly, swallowed by the forest, replaced by moonlight and the faint glow of frost on bark.

“Gracie?” he called, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Gracie, I’m coming—where are you?”

“There—!” Her answer broke apart, the last syllable dissolving into a sharp inhale that turned into a sob.

Will burst into a small clearing.

Gracie sat on the ground near the base of a tree, legs folded awkwardly beneath her. One hand was pressed hard against her side. The other trembled uselessly in her lap. Her face was pale beneath her freckles, eyes too bright, breath coming too fast.

Blood darkened the snow beneath her.

Not a lot.

But enough.

Will’s vision narrowed instantly.

For a split second, the forest wasn’t a forest anymore, it was canvas walls and shouting and a body that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter what he did. It was his hands slick and useless and someone’s pulse slipping away beneath his fingers.

No. Not again.

He dropped to his knees in front of her so fast the cold barely registered.

“Hey,” he said, voice already slipping into healer-mode even as his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest. “Hey, Grace. Look at me.”

Her eyes snapped to his like she’d been holding herself together by sheer force of will and had finally found something solid.

“Will,” she breathed. “I—I fell. I didn’t mean to go off the path, I swear, we were just—”

“Hey,” he interrupted gently. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t touch her yet.

That was rule one.

Look first. Breathe. Assess.

The blood looked worse than it was. He could tell that much immediately. It had soaked into the snow, spreading wide and thin, making it seem catastrophic. Snow always did that. Made everything look worse.

Logically, he knew that.

Emotionally, his chest was screaming.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?” he asked, carefully.

“My side,” Gracie said, voice wobbling. “And my leg. I—I think I scraped it on something. It won’t stop bleeding.”

That last part came out small. Afraid.

Will swallowed.

“That’s okay,” he said immediately. “Scrapes bleed a lot. Especially in the cold. That doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

He didn’t know if she believed him.

He wasn’t sure he believed himself yet.

He shifted closer, finally placing one hand lightly at her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers fast, but strong.

Good.

“Any dizziness?” he asked.

She shook her head, then winced. “Just—scared.”

“Yeah,” Will said softly. “That makes sense.”

The other camper Gracie’s friend hovered a few steps away, eyes wide and rimmed red. Younger than Gracie. One of the unclaimed, maybe. Her hands were stained with blood where she’d tried to help.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said in a rush. “She slipped and there was this rock and I tried to stop the bleeding but—”

“You did the right thing,” Will said without looking up. “You stayed with her. That matters.”

He turned his attention back to Gracie and finally, carefully, lifted her hand away from her side.

The injury was shallow.

A few long scrapes along her ribs where she’d slid against bark or stone, the skin broken but not deep. No dangerous angle. No unnatural swelling. Painful, yes, but nothing life-threatening.

She’s fine.

The thought should have grounded him.

Instead, his hands started shaking.

Because it didn’t matter how many times he told himself that. It didn’t matter how clear the signs were. Blood was blood, and his brain didn’t distinguish between manageable and fatal when it came to people he loved.

Not anymore.

He forced himself to keep going.

“Okay,” he said, voice steady by sheer effort. “That’s not bad. It just looks dramatic.”

Gracie let out a shaky breath. “Really?”

“Really.”

He let a controlled thread of warmth spill into his hands not the blazing rush of Apollo’s full power, but something softer, steadier. Sunlight filtered through clouds. Enough to dull pain and slow bleeding without overwhelming her system.

Gracie hissed softly, then sagged against the tree.

“Sorry,” Will murmured automatically. “Cold first. Warmth after.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It already feels better.”

He nodded, even as his vision blurred at the edges.

Because his mind wasn’t here anymore.

It was back there, a year ago, another night, same forest. Another camper. Older. Braver. Bleeding out while Will pressed his hands into a wound that refused to close.

You’re doing everything right, someone had told him.

It hadn’t mattered.

He remembered the exact moment he’d known—known that it wasn’t enough. The way the pulse had slowed, then stuttered, then stopped. The way the world had gone unbearably quiet after.

Will sucked in a sharp breath.

“Will?” Gracie asked faintly. “You’re—your hands are glowing more.”

He blinked, forcing himself back into the present.

Too much power. Pull back.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly. “Just focusing.”

The lie tasted bitter.

He glanced again at the blood soaking the snow and felt something cold coil around his spine.

It looks like them.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t. Didn’t matter that Gracie was breathing, conscious, stable. His brain had latched onto the visual and refused to let go.

“You’re not dying,” he said suddenly, urgently, more force than he meant to put into it. “Do you hear me? You’re not dying.”

Gracie’s eyes widened.

“I—I know,” she said, but her voice shook. “I didn’t think I was, I just—”

He closed his eyes.

Too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean—”

Gracie reached out and grabbed his sleeve, grounding him with surprising strength.

“Will,” she said. “I’m here. I can feel my toes. I’m not dying or anything.”

That last word hit him like a blow.

Dying.

He swallowed hard.

“Good,” he said hoarsely. “That’s good.”

He shifted position, carefully inspecting her leg next. Another scrape. Deeper than the first, but still superficial. Bleeding freely, yes, but controllable.

He pulled a cloth from his pocket and pressed it gently against the wound.

“Pressure,” he instructed, placing her hand over it. “Firm, but not painful.”

She nodded, obedient even through the tremor.

“You’re doing great,” he told her. “I’m going to get you back to the infirmary, okay?”

Her eyes flicked toward the trees. “I can’t walk.”

“That’s okay,” Will said immediately. “You don’t have to.”

He scanned the distance back to camp, calculating angles, terrain, and options. Carrying her wasn’t ideal but neither was waiting too long in the cold.

He raised his voice, controlled but urgent. “Kayla! I need help in the woods now!”

The sound echoed through the trees.

Gracie squeezed his sleeve tighter. “You’re shaking again.”

Will hadn’t noticed.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to steady.

“I’m fine,” he said, softer this time. “I promise.”

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t lying to her.

Logically, clinically, he knew she was going to be okay. He’d treated worse injuries in his sleep. This was nothing compared to what camp had seen.

But logic didn’t stand a chance against memory.

Against the weight of every camper he’d failed.

Against the voice in the back of his mind whispering, What if you’re wrong this time too?

Footsteps crunched through the snow, growing louder.

Relief hit him so hard his knees almost buckled.

Kayla burst into the clearing moments later, eyes flicking from the blood to Gracie to Will’s face.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “I’ve got her.”

Will nodded, stepping back automatically then stopped himself.

No. Don’t disappear.

He stayed close as Kayla assessed the injuries, confirming what he already knew. Stable. Minor. Scary-looking, but safe.

“See?” Kayla murmured, glancing at Will. “She’s fine.”

Will nodded again.

His throat burned.

As they prepared to move Gracie back toward camp, Will kept one hand on her shoulder, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

She was alive.

She was safe.

And still his heart wouldn’t slow.

Because the past didn’t care about logic.

And neither did fear.

The walk back to the infirmary blurred.

Will remembered the weight of Gracie against his side, the careful way Kayla coordinated each step, the crunch of snow beneath too many boots. He remembered answering questions automatically, Yes, pulse is steady. No dizziness. Pain manageable. He remembered keeping his hand on Gracie’s shoulder the entire time, as if letting go would make something irrevocable happen.

What he didn’t remember was breathing.

The infirmary lights were too bright when they came through the flap. Too white. Too clean. They swallowed the forest whole, erased the illusion that anything bad had ever happened outside their walls.

They laid Gracie down on a cot near the center. Will moved on instinct, hands already working cleaning, bandaging, murmuring reassurances he’d said a thousand times before.

“You’re doing great,” he told her softly. “I’m just going to finish this, okay?”

She nodded, eyes heavy but focused on him. “You’re not leaving?”

“I’m right here,” he said immediately. “I promise.”

And this time, he meant it in every possible way.

He worked carefully, deliberately slowing himself down, as color returned to Gracie’s cheeks.

There it is, the rational part of his brain whispered. See? Fine. You knew this.

He finished wrapping the last bandage and stepped back, forcing himself to actually look at her.

Alive. Stable. Safe.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “You’re officially on mandatory rest. No heroics. No sneaking out. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

Gracie smiled weakly. “Told you it wasn’t that bad.”

Will smiled back.

It felt wrong on his face.

Kayla hovered nearby, arms crossed loosely, eyes sharp in that way that meant she was watching him, not Gracie.

“She’s good,” Kayla said calmly. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Kayla hesitated. Just a fraction of a second too long.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked quietly.

Will nodded automatically. “I’m fine.”

The lie slipped out smooth as breath.

Kayla searched his face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, understanding flickered in her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Will barely registered the words.

He was already stepping away, already moving toward the sink, already scrubbing his hands like there was something he couldn’t get off.

The water ran red for half a second before clearing.

He stared at it longer than necessary.

The infirmary settled around him again, quiet, controlled, safe. A few campers shifted in their cots. Someone coughed softly. The wards hummed low and steady beneath the floor.

Everything was fine.

So why did his chest feel like it was splitting open?

Will braced his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned forward, head bowed. His reflection stared back at him from the metal basin, eyes too bright, jaw clenched too tight.

She’s okay, he told himself. You did your job.

The thought didn’t bring relief.

Instead, the adrenaline drained out of him all at once, leaving his limbs heavy and useless. His hands started shaking noticeably this time.

He turned away from the sink and took a step toward the nearest cot.

Then another.

Then his knees buckled.

Will caught himself on the edge of a bed, breath hitching sharply as something inside him finally gave way. The sound tore out of him before he could stop it—a broken, choking inhale that turned into something dangerously close to a sob.

“No,” he whispered to no one. “No, no, no—”

He slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the cot, arms wrapped tightly around himself like he could physically hold himself together.

His mind betrayed him instantly.

Blood on leaves. Hands slipping. Someone calling his name not Gracie’s voice. Older. Deeper. Fading.

You’re doing everything right.

Why isn’t it working?

Will’s breathing went shallow and fast, the room tilting slightly as panic clawed up his spine. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, trying to force his heart to slow.

“She’s fine,” he whispered. “She’s fine. She’s fine.”

The words bounced hollowly off the walls.

Because it wasn’t about Gracie.

It had never been.

It was about the camper he couldn’t save. The one whose pulse he’d felt disappear under his fingers. The one whose blood had soaked into the infirmary floor while Will begged Apollo begged for more time.

It was about the fear that one day, that one day, it would be Nico on that cot.

Or one of his siblings.

Or someone younger, smaller, trusting him with their life.

Will squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering as tears finally spilled over. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands, frustrated and furious with himself.

Get it together, he thought harshly. You don’t get to fall apart.

But his body didn’t listen.

His shoulders shook silently as he curled forward, forehead pressing into his knees. He stayed like that small, folded in on himself for  what felt like minutes.

Maybe longer.

At some point, someone adjusted a lantern. At some point, footsteps passed nearby.

At some point, Kayla left the infirmary.

Will didn’t notice any of it.

He was too busy fighting the crushing weight of every life he carried with him, every loss that lived just under his skin, waiting for the smallest excuse to resurface.

He stayed there on the floor, breath ragged, hands clenched into his jacket, whispering the same thing over and over like a prayer he wasn’t sure anyone was listening to.

“I did everything right,” he said softly. “I did everything right.”

The infirmary did not answer.

And Will was left alone with his thoughts.

Nico di Angelo had never been good at waiting.

He was excellent at endurance at standing still through things that hurt, at surviving long stretches of silence and fear and darkness, but waiting, the kind that came with anticipation instead of inevitability, made his skin itch. It filled his chest with restless energy that had nowhere to go.

Which was probably why he kept rearranging the same three objects.

The small table near the back of the Hades cabin sat exactly where he’d placed it an hour ago, but Nico adjusted it again anyway, nudging it a fraction of an inch to the left, then stepping back to assess. The mugs on top, one black, one chipped blue were aligned neatly, steam curling lazily upward from the hot chocolate inside.

Too hot, probably. Will always burned his tongue because he forgot to wait.

Nico frowned and waved a hand subtly. Shadows coiled, temperature dropping just a touch. The steam thinned.

Better.

He picked up the blue mug, turned it slightly so the crack in the glaze faced away from where Will would sit. Not because Will cared. Because Nico did.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

The cabin was quiet in that familiar, heavy way. Not oppressive, not anymore but still thick with old echoes. The obsidian walls absorbed sound instead of reflecting it, making every movement feel deliberate. The shadows listened. They always did.

Soft lights hovered near the ceiling, threaded carefully through the darkness. They weren’t bright. Nico had made sure of that. Just enough to soften the edges of the room, to make it feel less like a crypt and more like a night sky.

He’d practiced that part.

It had taken longer than he wanted to admit.

Nico stepped back, arms folding across his chest as he surveyed the space. Two mugs. Cookies stacked neatly on a plate he’d borrowed from the Demeter cabin, he’d promised to return it even though no one had actually asked. A folded blue paper crown sat beside them, ridiculous and fragile and painfully out of place.

Percy’s fault.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Percy had said cheerfully, shoving it into Nico’s hands earlier that evening. “Just… keep it. New Year’s thing.”

Nico had scowled.

Percy had grinned wider.

Now the crown sat there like a dare.

Nico looked away from it and checked the time again.

Still not midnight.

Will had said he’d come after rounds. Nico knew what that meant. Will always said after rounds, and rounds had a way of stretching longer than intended. Nico had learned to build his expectations around that.

He paced once across the cabin, boots whispering against stone, then stopped abruptly.

The shadows at his feet shifted.

Not dramatically. Not violently. Just… unsettled.

Nico stilled, head tilting slightly.

He felt it then not pain, not death, not even imminent danger. Just a faint tug along the thread that connected him to the underworld, a subtle vibration that made the back of his neck prickle.

Something was off.

“Don’t,” Nico murmured under his breath, as if the feeling itself could hear him. “You’re overthinking.”

He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, grounding himself in the familiar cool of the cabin. Shadows responded, settling reluctantly.

Camp was loud tonight. Energy spiked everywhere, excitement, fireworks waiting to happen, kids counting down hours too early. Emotional noise could bleed into his senses if he let it.

This didn’t mean anything.

Still.

He crossed the room again, more slowly this time, and reached up to adjust one of the hovering lights. It flickered faintly under his touch, then steadied.

“Stay,” he told it quietly.

It listened.

Nico leaned back against the wall, arms crossed again, and let his thoughts drift inevitably back to Will.

Will, who had been running the infirmary practically nonstop for weeks. Will, who smiled too easily and slept too lightly and carried the weight of every camper like it was his responsibility to keep the world from breaking.

Will, who had promised actually promised, that he’d take a few minutes tonight.

Nico’s mouth twitched despite himself.

He imagined Will arriving late, jacket half-zipped, hair mussed, apologizing even though Nico wouldn’t have minded. Imagined the way Will’s shoulders would drop the moment he stepped inside, the way his breathing would change once he realized nothing was being asked of him.

Just sit. Just exist.

Nico wanted that more than he wanted fireworks or countdowns or any of the stupid things people said about fresh starts.

He wanted Will to rest.

The shadows shifted again.

Nico frowned.

This time, he didn’t dismiss it.

He pushed off the wall and stood straighter, senses stretching outward. Not searching for death that would be too loud, too obvious but listening for imbalance. For something frayed.

The thread hummed faintly.

Too faint.

“Okay,” Nico said quietly. “Fine. I hear you.”

He didn’t know what you was. Instinct, maybe. The part of him that had survived because it listened when things felt wrong.

He checked the time again.

Will should have been done by now.

Nico told himself not to panic.

Then the door slammed open.

Nico spun, shadows snapping instinctively into place.

Kayla stumbled inside, breathless, curls escaping their tie, eyes sharp and worried in a way that made Nico’s stomach drop immediately.

“What happened?” he demanded, already moving toward her.

Kayla shut the door behind her carefully, like she didn’t want the rest of camp to hear this part. She took a second to catch her breath.

“Gracie got hurt,” she said finally. “In the woods.”

The shadows flared.

“How bad?” Nico asked.

“Not bad,” Kayla said quickly. “She’s stable. She’s fine.”

Nico exhaled, but the tension didn’t fully leave his body.

“And Will?” he asked.

Kayla’s mouth tightened.

“He says he’s fine.”

Nico laughed once, sharp and humorless. “That’s not an answer.”

Kayla sighed. “She fell. Slipped on a rock. Scrapes. A lot of blood, but nothing serious.”

Nico winced. Blood always hit Will harder than it should.

“And?” he pressed.

“And he held it together,” Kayla continued. “All the way back. All the way through treatment. Didn’t miss a step.”

Nico’s hands clenched at his sides.

“And then?” he asked quietly.

Kayla hesitated.

The shadows stilled completely.

“Then I left,” she said.

Something cold slid into Nico’s chest.

“You left him alone?” he said, not accusing, just stunned.

“He needed it,” Kayla replied immediately. “Or at least, he needed me gone long enough to stop pretending.”

Nico swallowed hard.

“He’s breaking,” Kayla added softly. “I could see it in his hands. In his breathing. He didn’t even notice when I walked out.”

Nico dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, then stopping. The cabin suddenly felt too small.

“Why didn’t you bring him?” he asked.

Kayla shook her head. “Because he wouldn’t come like that. And because if you walked in right now, he’d try to pull himself together instead of letting it happen.”

That sounded painfully accurate.

Nico glanced back at the table, the mugs, the lights, the careful space he’d carved out with so much quiet hope stitched into it.

“How long?” he asked.

“Not long,” Kayla said. “But long enough.”

Silence stretched between them.

“He didn’t say your name,” Kayla added. “But he didn’t have to.”

Nico nodded once.

“I know.”

Kayla stepped closer. “I came because he won’t ask for help. And because he trusts you to see him like this.”

Nico’s throat tightened.

“He trusts me not to leave,” he said softly.

Kayla’s expression gentled. “Yeah.”

Nico took a slow breath, shadows settling around him like a cloak.

“I won’t go yet,” he said.

Kayla blinked. “You sure?”

“He needs a few more minutes to fall apart without trying to protect anyone,” Nico replied. “Including me.”

Kayla studied him, then nodded. “I’ll stay close.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “He did everything right,” she said firmly. “Even if he can’t believe that yet.”

Nico swallowed.

“I know,” he said.

When she left, the cabin felt unbearably quiet.

Nico stood there for a long moment, staring at the space meant for Will, shadows curling protectively around it like they were waiting too.

“Just hold on,” he murmured to the empty room. “I’m coming. Just… not yet.”

The lights didn’t flicker.

But Nico could feel it now, unmistakably.

Something had gone wrong.

And waiting, waiting was suddenly the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Nico didn’t remember deciding to move.

One moment he was standing in the Hades cabin, shadows pooled thick around his boots, staring at the untouched mugs like they were a promise he was about to break. The next, he was already halfway to the door, hand gripping the cold iron handle hard enough that it bit into his palm.

Waiting had stopped feeling like patience.

It felt like abandonment.

The cabin resisted him when he stepped out, just a little. The shadows tugged, reluctant to let him leave the safety he’d built. Nico ignored them.

“I’m done,” he muttered. “I’m not doing this part again.”

He pulled his jacket tighter as he stepped into the night. Camp Half-Blood buzzed with energy, laughter crackling through the air like static. Someone was already counting down somewhere too early, voices overlapping, fireworks testing the sky in brief flashes of color.

None of it reached him.

Nico moved fast, cutting through shadows where the path allowed, feet barely touching the ground. His senses stretched outward despite himself not searching for death, not this time, but for Will.

The bond between them wasn’t something Nico could explain. It wasn’t magic in the clean, spellwork sense. It was pressure. Gravity. A pull that grew sharper the more off-balance Will became.

Right now, it felt like standing at the edge of a drop.

Hold on, Nico thought fiercely, pushing harder. I’m almost there.

And Will, alone with his thoughts, finally broke.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no dramatic moment, no single breath that shattered him. It was quieter than that cruel in its subtlety. A gradual unspooling that started in his chest and worked its way outward until everything he’d been holding up finally gave way.

His hands started shaking first.

Will noticed that distantly, like it was happening to someone else. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, trembling despite how tightly he tried to control them. He pressed his palms flat against the edge of the cot, grounding himself in the solidness of it.

She’s fine, he told himself again.

Gracie lay sleeping just a few feet away. Her curls spilled across the pillow, face soft and peaceful, lashes resting against her cheeks. The bandage on her arm was clean. Dry. Already unnecessary, really.

She was fine.

Will knew that.

That was the problem.

His chest tightened anyway, breath catching sharply as his heart refused to listen to logic. The adrenaline hadn’t drained yet. It clung to him like a second skin, making everything feel too sharp, too loud, even in the quiet.

Too much blood.

The thought came unbidden, looping insistently.

It hadn’t been that much. He knew the difference. He taught the difference. He’d handled worse far worse without blinking.

But his mind had a way of overriding reason.

It didn’t matter how controlled the situation was. It didn’t matter that Gracie had been conscious, responsive, joking weakly even as he’d guided her back toward camp.

Blood meant what if.

What if you’re wrong.
What if you miss something.
What if this time—

Will sucked in a breath that scraped painfully against his ribs.

“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “Not again.”

The infirmary lights hummed overhead, steady and unchanging. The sound usually comforted him. Tonight, it felt oppressive, like the room itself was watching, waiting to see if he’d falter.

He forced himself to move.

Will crossed the room on unsteady legs and stopped at the sink, bracing himself against it as he leaned forward. His reflection stared back at him from the polished metal faucet, eyes too bright, skin pale beneath his tan, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He looked… tired.

Not physically. Not the way he usually did after long shifts and late nights.

This was deeper.

“You’re okay,” he told himself softly. “She’s okay. You did everything right.”

He waited for the reassurance to land.

It didn’t.

His reflection didn’t look convinced. If anything, the words seemed to make something twist harder in his chest, like he’d struck a nerve instead of soothing it.

Because he’d said those words before.

To himself. To others.

He remembered another night, different camper, different injuries, same fluorescent lights. The way he’d smiled and promised everything would be fine while fear gnawed at the edges of his confidence.

He remembered how wrong he’d been.

The memory surged up without warning, vivid and merciless. The weight of a body going limp beneath his hands. The horrible stillness that followed. The sound of someone screaming his name like he could undo it if he just tried harder.

Will’s breath hitched sharply.

“No,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “Stop.”

But memories didn’t listen.

They crowded in, overlapping, blurring together, faces he couldn’t save, moments where his healing had come just seconds too late. The sickening realization that power had limits, that even a son of Apollo couldn’t fix everything.

That he couldn’t fix everything.

His vision swam.

Will fumbled for the edge of the sink, fingers slipping against porcelain that suddenly felt slick beneath his grip. He leaned harder into it, shoulders hunched, head bowed as his breathing started to fracture.

In. Out.

In—

His chest burned. Each inhale felt too shallow, like his lungs refused to fully expand. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud and uneven, completely out of sync with the calm he desperately needed.

“You’re fine,” he whispered again, but his voice wavered. “You’re fine. This is nothing. She’s safe.”

The words sounded hollow now.

He slid down slowly, back dragging against the cabinet until he hit the floor with a soft, defeated thud. The cool metal seeped through his shirt, grounding and uncomfortable all at once.

Will drew his knees to his chest, curling in on himself instinctively. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he could physically hold his heart in place.

It didn’t help.

The pressure in his chest built steadily, a crushing weight that made his throat tighten. His breathing sped up despite his efforts, short and shallow, spiraling faster the more he tried to control it.

He hated this part.

Hated how his body betrayed him. Hated how easily the past still found him. Hated that after all this time, after all the healing he’d done for others, he could still fall apart like this.

You’re supposed to be better than this, the voice in his head whispered cruelly. You’re the healer.

Will squeezed his eyes shut, tears burning behind his lids.

“I’m trying,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’m trying, okay?”

The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and ambrosia and something faintly metallic that never quite went away. Usually, it smelled like safety.

Tonight, it smelled like failure.

His shoulders started to shake.

He pressed his forehead against his knees, breathing ragged now, the careful control he prided himself on slipping through his fingers. Tears spilled over before he could stop them, hot and humiliating, dripping onto his jeans.

“I didn’t miss anything,” he whispered desperately, like someone was there to argue with him. “I checked her vitals. I cleaned the wound. I stabilized her. She’s fine.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

But that didn’t matter when fear had its claws in you.

Fear didn’t care that Gracie was safe. Fear remembered every time Will had thought the same thing before.

He curled tighter, arms wrapping around himself as his breathing finally broke apart completely. Silent sobs tore through him, sharp and painful, chest heaving as he fought to draw in air that refused to cooperate.

He felt small.

Younger.

Like the boy he’d been the first time someone had died on his table, terrified and overwhelmed and suddenly aware of how fragile everything was.

“I can’t do this again,” he whispered brokenly. “I can’t—”

The words dissolved into a choked sound as his throat closed up, panic flooding him fully now. His hands clenched in his shirt, knuckles white, like he could anchor himself there.

Time stretched, meaningless and heavy.

Will didn’t know how long he stayed like that, curled on the infirmary floor, shaking, breath coming in uneven gasps, tears soaking silently into his sleeves.

He stayed long enough that the room stopped feeling safe.

Long enough that he forgot anyone else existed.

Long enough that when the door creaked softly somewhere behind him.

Will barely registered the door opening. Not the sharp sound of urgency. Not the bang of panic. Just the quiet protest of old hinges easing open.

His world had shrunk to the space between his knees and his chest, to the uneven rhythm of his breathing and the ache behind his eyes. He was still shaking, still fighting to slow his lungs down, still trying failing to convince his body that the danger had passed.

Footsteps followed.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Will stiffened anyway.

“Kayla, I’m—” he started hoarsely, lifting his head just enough to speak, then stopped.

Black boots came into view first, stopping a careful distance away. The shadows near the floor shifted, stretching gently across the tiles like they were alive.

Will’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Nico didn’t move closer yet.

He stayed where he was, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that was clearly intentional. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even steady as bedrock.

“Hey, sunshine.”

Will let out a broken sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t collapsed halfway through. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, embarrassed heat flooding his cheeks.

“I—I didn’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I’m fine. She’s fine. I just—”

“I know,” Nico said gently.

Two words. No argument. No correction.

Nico knelt down then, not too fast, not too close bringing himself to Will’s level. He rested one knee on the floor, the other bent, forearms loosely braced on his thigh.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Nico continued quietly. “You already did everything right.”

Will shook his head weakly, tears threatening again. “It just—there was a lot of blood and my brain wouldn’t shut up and I knew she’d be okay but—”

Nico leaned forward just enough to be felt, not crowded.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Breathe with me.”

Will hesitated.

Then, shakily, he tried.

Nico inhaled slowly, exaggerated just enough to be obvious. Counted under his breath, not numbers, just presence. Will followed, uneven at first, then a little steadier.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

The shaking didn’t stop, but it softened.

Nico reached out not to grab, not to pull just resting his hand over Will’s wrist, warm and grounding.

“You’re safe,” Nico said. “She’s safe. And you don’t have to stay here anymore.”

Will blinked up at him, confused. “I—I still have—”

“No,” Nico interrupted softly. “You don’t.”

Will’s throat tightened. “Nico, I can’t just, what if someone else comes in—”

“I’ve got it covered,” Nico said. “Chiron knows. Kayla’s watching the door. The infirmary will still exist without you for one night.”

Will let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to turn it off.”

Nico’s expression softened further, something achingly gentle settling into his eyes.

“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

He squeezed Will’s wrist once light, reassuring.

“I want you to come with me,” Nico continued. “Back to my cabin.”

Will tensed instinctively. “Nico—”

“Not to talk,” Nico said immediately. “Not to explain. Not to fix anything.”

Will searched his face, wary and exhausted.

“I set it up,” Nico added quietly. “Low lights. Warm drinks. No expectations. Just a place where you don’t have to be a healer for a little while.”

Will’s chest ached at that.

“I was going to surprise you,” Nico admitted, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “New Year’s and all. But honestly? I don’t care about midnight. I care about you.”

Will’s eyes burned again.

“I don’t feel very fun right now,” he whispered.

Nico huffed softly. “Good. I didn’t plan fun.”

He shifted closer now, slow and careful, until Will’s knee brushed his. Nico opened his arms not pulling Will in, just offering.

“You can break there,” Nico said quietly. “In my cabin. Let the shadows hold the pieces so you don’t have to.”

Will stared at him for a long moment.

Then his shoulders sagged, the last of the fight draining out of him.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Nico didn’t say good.

He just wrapped his arms around Will gently, solid and warm and real, and held him until Will’s breathing steadied enough to stand.

“We’ll go slow,” Nico murmured into his hair. “I’m not letting you disappear into your head tonight. Not on my watch.”

Will nodded weakly, fingers curling into Nico’s jacket like an anchor.

For the first time since the blood, since the memory, since the panic—

Will let himself be led.

And for the first time that night, the infirmary finally felt far enough away.

Nico didn’t shadow-travel them immediately.

He waited until Will was steady enough to stand, until the shaking in his hands had eased from violent to manageable. He kept one hand lightly at Will’s back as they moved toward the infirmary door, not guiding so much as there, a constant point of contact Will could lean into if he needed.

The hallway outside was dim, camp lights softened for the night. Somewhere far off, laughter rose and fell, a countdown starting and stopping as campers practiced getting it wrong.

Will flinched at the sound.

“Hey,” Nico murmured, thumb brushing once against Will’s spine. “Eyes on me.”

Will did, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” Nico said. “I’m going to shadow-travel us. It’s not far. If you feel weird, tell me.”

Will nodded, then hesitated. “I—Nico, you don’t have to—”

Nico stopped walking.

He turned fully toward Will, expression flat in that very specific way that meant he was being patient on purpose.

“Will,” he said calmly. “We are not doing this right now.”

Will let out a weak, breathless laugh. “I just mean—I kind of wrecked your night.”

“That sentence,” Nico replied, deadpan, “is about to get buried.”

Before Will could protest again, Nico stepped closer and reached for his hands. Will’s fingers were still cold. Nico laced them together anyway, firm and grounding.

“Stay with me,” Nico said.

The shadows answered immediately.

They rose from the edges of the path, curling around them like a living cloak. The world dimmed, not disappearing, just folding inward. Will sucked in a breath, instinctively leaning closer.

The cold came first. Then weightlessness.

Will hated shadow-travel on a good day. Tonight, raw and exhausted, it hit harderhis stomach flipping, the world stretching wrong around them. He squeezed Nico’s hands tightly, knuckles whitening.

“I’ve got you,” Nico said, voice steady and close, like it was the only thing anchoring Will to reality. “You’re not falling.”

They moved through darkness that felt more like deep water than air. Will shut his eyes, breathing uneven, focusing on Nico’s grip, on the warmth of his hands, on the fact that Nico was here.

Too soon, and not soon enough the shadows peeled away.

They stepped back into solid ground.

The Hades cabin loomed around them, obsidian walls catching faint starlight. The door stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling out in a soft glow that didn’t belong to the Underworld at all.

Will blinked.

“Oh,” he murmured.

Nico squeezed his hands once before letting go. “Yeah.”

Inside, the cabin was nothing like the cold, intimidating space most campers imagined. The lights were low and gentle, shadows tucked back instead of looming. A small table sat set with two mugs, steam still curling faintly upward. Cookies waited neatly beside them.

Something in Will’s chest twisted painfully.

“Nico,” he whispered. “You… you did all this?”

Nico shrugged, suddenly a little stiff. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” Will said quietly.

The guilt hit him all at once.

He hovered just inside the doorway, shoulders slumping, exhaustion crashing back down now that the adrenaline was gone. His voice came out small.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I ruined New Year’s. You planned something nice and I—”

“Stop.”

The word wasn’t loud.

It was sharp.

Will froze.

Nico turned to face him fully, eyes dark and unyielding in a way that made Will’s chest tighten.

“No,” Nico said firmly. “Absolutely not. Shut up about that.”

Will blinked, startled despite himself. “I—”

“Will,” Nico continued, stepping closer, voice low but intense, “you do not get to decide that you’re a burden because you had a bad night.”

Will’s throat worked. “But you were excited and I just—fell apart.”

“And?” Nico shot back. “That doesn’t erase everything else.”

He gestured vaguely between them, shadows flicking in emphasis.

“You’ve dragged me out of nightmares I didn’t know how to wake up from,” Nico said. “You’ve sat with me when I couldn’t talk. You’ve held me together when I was one bad thought away from disappearing into the dark.”

Will’s eyes burned.

“You’ve been there for me more times than I can count,” Nico continued, voice roughening. “Do you really think I care about a clock hitting midnight more than you?”

Will shook his head weakly. “I just hate feeling like I’m taking up space.”

Nico stepped in close, hands settling firmly on Will’s shoulders, forcing him to look up.

“You are allowed to take up space with me,” Nico said. “Especially with me.”

The shadows seemed to hum in agreement.

Will’s breath hitched, the last of his resistance finally crumbling. His shoulders sagged as he leaned forward, forehead resting briefly against Nico’s collarbone.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Nico relaxed instantly, arms coming around him, solid and sure.

“Good,” Nico murmured into his hair. “Now come sit down before you fall over. I made the hot chocolate exactly how you like it, and I am not letting you pass out on my floor.”

A weak smile tugged at Will’s mouth as Nico guided him toward the table.

Outside, someone started counting down again far away, muffled, unimportant.

Inside the Hades cabin, Will finally let himself rest.

And Nico stayed right there, making sure he didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

By the time the cabin clock crept closer to midnight, the world felt… quieter.

Not silent, camp was still buzzing somewhere beyond the obsidian walls, but muted, like the noise had been wrapped in layers of cotton and set gently aside. Inside the Hades cabin, the lights glowed low and warm, shadows behaving themselves for once, curled lazily along the corners instead of looming.

Will sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against the couch, mug cradled in both hands. The hot chocolate was perfect, too sweet, a little too hot, exactly how he liked it. He took careful sips now, no longer burning his tongue, no longer in a rush.

Nico sat beside him, shoulder pressed into Will’s, one knee drawn up, the other stretched out comfortably. He hadn’t let go since they’d arrived, not really. Even now, his pinky was hooked casually with Will’s, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Will noticed.

He smiled softly to himself.

“You know,” Will said after a moment, voice light, “this might be the most relaxed I’ve felt all week.”

Nico glanced at him sideways. “High praise.”

Will bumped his shoulder gently. “I mean it. Your cabin’s… nice. Cozy.”

Nico snorted. “No one has ever used that word in here before.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” Will said, gesturing vaguely with his mug. “Low lighting. Warm drinks. Zero expectations. Ten out of ten.”

Nico’s mouth twitched, pleased despite himself.

Outside, distant voices began counting again more coordinated this time.

“Ten!”

Will’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. That’s… actually midnight this time.”

Nico glanced toward the sound, then back at Will. “You want to count?”

Will shook his head immediately. “Nope. I’m good right here.”

“Same,” Nico agreed.

The numbers drifted through the walls anyway, muffled but clear enough to follow.

“Five!”

Will set his mug down carefully and leaned sideways, resting his head against Nico’s shoulder. It was instinctive, unthinking, and Nico responded instantly, shifting just enough to make it more comfortable, arm sliding around Will’s back.

“Four!”

Will sighed contentedly. “Thanks for dragging me out of the infirmary.”

Nico tilted his head, resting it lightly against Will’s. “Anytime.”

“Three!”

“And for not letting me spiral forever.”

“Also anytime.”

“Two!”

Will laughed quietly. “You’re really good at this boyfriend thing.”

Nico hummed. “You say that like I didn’t have a lot of practice being bad at everything else first.”

“—ONE!”

Fireworks exploded somewhere above camp, light flashing briefly against the obsidian walls.

Nico didn’t wait for the noise to fade.

He leaned in and kissed Will gentle, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t desperate or overwhelming. Just warm and certain and home.

Will melted into it immediately, one hand coming up to rest against Nico’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt like he belonged there.

When they pulled back, Will was smiling soft, bright, real.

“Happy New Year,” Nico murmured.

Will’s smile widened. “Happy New Year.”

Outside, camp erupted into cheers and chaos.

Inside the Hades cabin, wrapped in shadows and warmth and each other, Will felt lighter than he had in weeks.

And for the first time in a long while, the new year didn’t feel so heavy.