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The Apollo cabin never really slept.
That was something Will Solace had learned the hard way.
It wasn’t just the late-night injuries though those were constant, a steady stream of scraped knees, twisted ankles, and the occasional, “I swear it was just a small explosion.” It was everything else layered on top. The whispered worries that only came out in the dark. The quiet knocks that hesitated just long enough to mean this is serious. The way people looked at him like he had answers even when he didn’t.
Head healer.
Counselor.
Big brother.
Sunshine.
It all blurred together after a while, titles stacking on top of each other until they stopped feeling like roles and started feeling like expectations he couldn’t put down.
Will leaned over the infirmary cot, carefully wrapping gauze around a camper’s forearm. His hands moved automatically, gentle, precise, and practiced. He didn’t have to think about it anymore. Muscle memory carried him through each motion, neat and efficient.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, voice warm and easy, like it always was. “Just keep it clean and don’t go sword fighting for, like, a day.”
The kid blinked at him. “A day?”
Will let out a soft huff of laughter, tilting his head. “Okay, half a day. But if you rip it open again, I’m telling Chiron you volunteered for stable duty.”
That earned a grin. The camper hopped off the cot, flexing their arm like nothing had ever been wrong, and hurried out.
The second the door closed, Will’s smile slipped.
It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t shatter.
It just… faded. Like someone dimming a light.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, tension bleeding through now that no one was looking. He rolled his wrist slightly, flexing his fingers. They ached dull and persistent, like they’d been overused for hours.
Because they had.
Will exhaled slowly, pressing his palm briefly against his forehead. The beginnings of a headache pulsed behind his eyes, steady and insistent. He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
Just a second.
That was all he let himself have.
A knock echoed through the cabin.
Will’s eyes snapped open.
“Come in!” he called, voice already back to bright, already fixed like flipping a switch.
The door opened.
Another camper stepped in, limping slightly.
Will straightened immediately, smile back in place, posture shifting without thought. “Alright, what happened this time?”
It blurred after that.
One injury bled into the next. Time slipped through his fingers in strange, uneven chunks.
A sprained ankle.
A cut that needed stitching.
A younger camper who wasn’t hurt at all but sat on the edge of a cot, twisting their hands together as they talked about nightmares voice small, eyes darting like they expected something to be lurking in the corners.
Will listened.
Of course he did.
He always listened.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, nodding in all the right places. His voice softened, careful and steady as he talked them through grounding, through breathing, through reminding them that they were safe.
“You’re here,” he told them gently. “Nothing’s getting in. You’ve got a whole camp full of people watching your back.”
The camper nodded, reassured.
Will smiled.
They left calmer than they came in.
He stayed exactly the same.
Or at least that’s what it looked like.
“Will, do you have a second?”
He turned before the sentence even finished. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Another camper hovered near the doorway, hesitant. “Um… it’s not really a physical thing.”
“That’s fine,” Will said easily, gesturing them in. “Sit.”
They talked.
Then someone else came in halfway through.
Then another.
At some point, he ended up standing between two siblings arguing over something that had clearly spiraled past the original issue. Voices raised, tension sharp.
Will stepped between them without hesitation.
“Hey—hey, okay, pause,” he said, holding up both hands. His tone wasn’t forceful, but it carried. “We’re not doing this like this.”
They both started talking at once.
Will didn’t flinch.
“Okay, one at a time,” he said, calm and steady. “You first.”
He mediated.
He diffused.
He smoothed everything over with practiced ease, guiding them toward something that looked enough like resolution to count.
By the time they left, things were quieter.
Resolved.
Manageable.
Will leaned back against the nearest table once the door shut behind them.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
The cabin felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.
His head throbbed harder now, the pressure building behind his temples. He reached up, pressing his fingers there, like he could physically push it away.
His hands were shaking.
Just slightly.
Barely noticeable.
He dropped them quickly, curling his fingers into his palms like that would hide it.
It was fine.
He was fine.
He just needed a second.
Just—
The door creaked open again.
Will straightened instantly.
The shift was seamless.
The tension vanished from his shoulders, the exhaustion wiped clean from his expression like it had never been there. By the time he turned, he was already smiling.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “What can I help with?”
By the time the sun dipped below the trees, the golden light fading into something softer and dimmer, Will had lost count.
Of how many people had come through.
Of how many times he’d smiled.
Of how many problems he’d tried to fix.
His body kept track, though.
His shoulders ached, a deep, dragging soreness that settled into his bones. His back felt tight, like he’d been holding himself upright for too long. The headache hadn’t gone away it had grown, settling into a steady pulse that made everything feel just slightly off.
He barely noticed it anymore.
Or maybe he just didn’t let himself.
“Will?”
He looked up automatically.
“Yeah?”
A younger camper stood near the doorway, shifting nervously. “Do you have a minute?”
Will didn’t hesitate.
“Always,” he said.
The word came out so easily it almost didn’t feel like a choice.
Later, much later, when the cabin finally emptied. When the last camper had left and the door clicked shut behind them
Will didn’t move right away.
The quiet settled in slowly, like dust. He stood in the middle of the infirmary, staring at nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No one calling his name.
It should’ve felt like relief.
Instead, it felt… wrong.
Like he’d missed something.
Like there should be more.
Will let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging as the tension he’d been holding all day finally slipped, just a little.
His smile faded again.
This time, it didn’t come back right away.
His hands trembled faintly at his sides, the aftershock of constant motion finally catching up to him. He flexed his fingers, but it didn’t fully stop.
The headache pulsed.
His chest felt tight.
Too tight.
Will dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, you’re fine.”
The words sounded practiced.
Worn.
He swallowed, blinking hard, like that would steady something inside him.
It didn’t.
For a split second—just one—his composure slipped further.
His breath hitched.
His vision blurred at the edges.
Too much.
It was just—
Too much.
Will clenched his jaw, forcing it back down, forcing everything back into place. He straightened, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake it off.
He couldn’t fall apart here.
Not now.
Not where anyone could see.
The moment passed.
Or at least it buried itself again.
Will took another breath, deeper this time, steadying.
Then he moved.
Cleaning up. Resetting the cots. Reorganizing supplies that didn’t need reorganizing.
Keeping his hands busy.
Keeping his mind from catching up.
Because as long as he kept moving, as long as he kept being useful.
He didn’t have to think about how close he was to breaking.
By the time evening settled over camp, the world had gone that soft, golden-gray color that usually made things feel calmer.
Usually.
The light filtered through the infirmary windows in long, slanted beams, catching dust in the air and turning it into something almost pretty. The kind of quiet that followed a long day had started to creep in fewer footsteps outside, fewer voices drifting in.
It should’ve felt like things were finally slowing down.
Will Solace stood at one of the tables, sorting through ambrosia squares with careful precision, like the exact placement mattered more than it did. His movements were steady. Controlled.
Deliberate.
Because if he stopped.
If he paused long enough to think.
The exhaustion waiting just under his skin might finally catch up.
He adjusted one square slightly. Then another.
His fingers trembled.
He stilled them immediately, curling them into his palm for a second before forcing them to relax again.
It was fine.
Just tired.
That was all.
The door slammed open.
The sound cracked through the quiet like a whip.
Will flinched before he could stop himself. His heart jumped into his throat, adrenaline spiking fast and sharp.
He turned quickly, already shifting, already pulling the mask back into place.
An Ares camper stood in the doorway.
Broad-shouldered, flushed, eyes burning with anger. They were half-dragging, half-supporting a smaller camper whose arm hung awkwardly at their side.
“Fix them,” the Ares camper snapped.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just a demand.
Will didn’t react to the tone.
He couldn’t afford to.
“Get them over here,” he said, voice calm, even as he moved forward. “What happened?”
“They fell during sparring,” the Ares camper said, jaw tight. “And no one did anything.”
Will guided the injured camper onto a cot, his hands already moving checking the arm, gentle but firm, assessing.
“Okay, hey,” he said softly to the injured one, his tone shifting instantly. “I’ve got you. Just stay still for a second, alright?”
They nodded, wincing.
Will’s fingers traced carefully along the arm. Swelling. Possible fracture. Not clean.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Alright,” he murmured. “It’s not great, but it’s fixable.”
“Not great?” the Ares camper snapped. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Will didn’t look up. “I’m going with accurate.”
He reached for supplies, movements efficient.
Behind him, he could feel the tension radiating off the Ares camper, sharp and restless, like a storm waiting to break.
“You should’ve been there,” they said.
Will paused for half a second.
Then kept moving.
“I can’t be everywhere,” he said.
“Yeah? Because it kinda feels like you’re nowhere.”
That hit.
It landed somewhere deep, somewhere already worn thin.
Will’s grip tightened slightly around the roll of bandages before he forced it to loosen.
“I’m here now,” he said, quieter.
“That didn't help when they needed you earlier!”
Will closed his eyes briefly.
Just for a second.
Then opened them again, focusing on the task in front of him.
“Hold their shoulder steady,” he instructed, ignoring the comment.
The Ares camper didn’t move.
“Hold their shoulder,” Will repeated, sharper this time.
A beat.
Then, reluctantly, they did.
Will worked.
He focused on the arm, on the injury, on the tangible, fixable thing in front of him. Because that—that he could handle.
Not the accusation.
Not the frustration in the other camper’s voice.
Not the creeping feeling that maybe, maybe they were right.
“You call this helping?” the Ares camper muttered.
Will’s jaw tightened.
“I’m setting the bone,” he said. “So yeah.”
“You’re taking too long.”
“That’s because I’m doing it properly.”
“Or you’re just stalling.”
Something in Will snapped just slightly.
Not enough to break.
But enough to crack.
He looked up.
Finally, his blue eyes were sharp now, the warmth dimmed.
“Do you want me to rush and make it worse?” he asked, voice low.
The Ares camper didn’t back down.
“At least then you’d be doing something.”
The words hit like a slap.
For a second, Will just stared at them.
Because he was doing something.
He was always doing something.
Every second of every day.
And it still—
Still—
It wasn't enough.
“I am doing something,” Will said, his voice tighter now. “I’ve been doing something all day.”
“Yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”
That did it.
The crack widened.
Will stood up straighter, his hands dropping to his sides for a second.
“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve treated today?” he demanded.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah,” Will let out a short, humorless laugh, “that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”
The Ares camper’s eyes narrowed. “My sibling got hurt. That’s what I care about.”
“And I’m helping them!”
“Not fast enough!”
Will’s chest tightened, something hot and sharp flaring under his ribs.
“I’m not a machine,” he snapped.
The words came out louder than he meant.
The injured camper flinched, that made something in Will twist painfully.
He immediately forced his voice back down, dragging it under control.
“I’m doing the best I can,” he said, quieter now, but strained.
“Then your best isn’t good enough.”
Silence.
It dropped heavy and immediate.
For a second, everything in Will just… stopped.
That was the fear, wasn’t it?
The thing he never said out loud.
The thing he worked himself to exhaustion trying to outrun.
Not good enough.
His hands started shaking again.
Worse this time.
He clenched them into fists, trying to hide it.
Trying to hold everything in place.
“I said,” Will repeated, each word tight and controlled, “I am doing the best I can.”
“Well, try harder.”
That was it.
The breaking point right there, just beneath the surface.
Will inhaled sharply, like the air itself hurt.
For a second, it felt like everything inside him tilted like the careful balance he’d been maintaining all day was about to collapse completely.
He couldn’t—
Not here.
Not in front of them.
Not now.
Will turned away abruptly, grabbing the supplies again, forcing his focus back onto the injury with almost desperate intensity.
“Hold still,” he said to the injured camper, his voice back to that practiced calm—but thinner now. Frayed at the edges.
He worked faster.
Not sloppy but faster.
Efficient.
Precise.
Silent.
The Ares camper didn’t say anything else, but the tension stayed, thick and suffocating.
Every movement felt heavier.
Every second stretched.
Will finished setting the bone, wrapping it carefully, securing everything in place.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back. “It’ll heal. Keep it immobilized, come back tomorrow so I can check it.”
The injured camper nodded quickly. “Thank you.”
Will gave them a small smile.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
The Ares camper grabbed their sibling’s good arm, helping them off the cot.
They paused at the door.
For a moment, Will thought.
Maybe, they’d say thanks, but then.
“You should be better,” they said.
And then they left.
The door shut behind them.
Hard.
The sound echoed.
Then, nothing.
Silence flooded the infirmary, thick and suffocating.
Will didn’t move at first.
He stood exactly where they’d left him, eyes fixed on the closed door like it might swing open again like the moment could rewind, like he could say something different, do something better, fix it the way he was supposed to fix everything.
The handle didn’t turn.
No footsteps came back.
Nothing changed.
The quiet pressed in harder.
Will swallowed, but his throat felt dry, tight. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his body had forgotten how to slow down now that there was nothing left to do.
“Okay,” he murmured, barely audible. “Okay, you’re fine.”
The words echoed in the empty space.
They didn’t stick.
His hands were shaking.
He looked down at them, like they belonged to someone else. The tremor was small, but constant, an uneven, betraying thing that wouldn’t stop no matter how tightly he curled his fingers into his palms.
“Stop,” he whispered, more to himself than anything.
It didn’t.
His pulse thudded in his ears, loud and insistent. Each beat felt wrong too fast, too heavy, like it was trying to break out of his chest.
He dragged in a breath.
Too sharp.
Let it out.
Too quick.
It wasn’t working.
The pressure in his chest tightened, winding up, pulling everything inward until it felt like there wasn’t enough space for air anymore.
Will turned abruptly, like if he stayed there another second he might actually shatter.
He moved quickly too quickly across the infirmary, his steps uneven as he passed rows of empty cots and neatly arranged supplies that suddenly felt… accusing.
Like they were proof.
Proof that he was supposed to have it together.
Proof that he didn’t.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t—
His shoulder clipped the edge of a table. Bottles rattled.
He flinched hard, breath catching.
“Sorry,” he blurted automatically.
To no one.
The word hung there, useless.
He kept going.
Past the main treatment area, past the front cabinets, toward the back of the infirmary where the light didn’t quite reach as strongly, where the air felt cooler, quieter. There was a small space tucked behind a divider curtain, usually used for campers who needed rest or privacy.
Right now, it was empty.
Good.
Will pushed the curtain aside with unsteady hands and stepped in, letting it fall shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
The space was dimmer.
Quieter.
Smaller.
It should’ve felt safer.
Instead, it made everything feel closer.
The walls. The air. The thoughts.
Will stumbled the last step forward and braced both hands against the edge of the small cot, his fingers gripping the thin mattress hard enough to wrinkle the sheets.
“Okay,” he said again, but his voice shook this time. “Okay, just—just breathe.”
He tried.
Gods, he tried.
He dragged in a breath through his nose, slowly.
It stuttered halfway in.
Caught.
His chest tightened, like something invisible had wrapped around his ribs and pulled.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head quickly. “No, no, you’re fine, this is fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
He could feel it now, really feel everything he’d been pushing down all day clawing its way back up.
The exhaustion.
The pressure.
The constant, relentless need to be enough.
Then your best isn’t good enough.
The words hit again, sharp and precise.
Will let out a shaky exhale that didn’t feel like it went anywhere.
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, like he could silence it. “Just—shut up.”
But it didn’t stop.
It got louder.
Because what if it was true?
What if all of this, all the running around, all the helping, all the trying still wasn’t enough?
What if he missed something?
What if someone got hurt because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t—
His breath hitched hard.
Too fast now.
Too uneven.
Will’s grip tightened on the cot until his knuckles went white. His head dropped forward, blond hair falling into his face as he tried to ground himself in something.
“Count,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just—count.”
He’d told other campers this before.
It worked.
It always worked.
“In… two… three…”
His voice faltered.
“…four…”
Out—
Except his lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
The air came out in a rush, uneven and shaky, and the next inhale was worse, too sharp, too desperate.
His chest hurt.
Actually hurt.
Like something was pressing down on it, squeezing tighter with every breath he couldn’t quite catch.
“Stop,” he choked. “Please—just—stop—”
His hands slipped from the cot, one dragging up into his hair, fingers tangling tight at the roots. The other pressed flat against his chest, like he could physically hold himself together.
It didn’t help.
Nothing was helping.
His vision blurred at the edges, spots flickering in and out as his breathing spiraled further out of control.
He staggered back a half-step, his legs hitting the side of the cot before he sank down onto it hard, shoulders curling inward.
Too much.
Everything was too much.
The room felt too small.
The air felt too thin.
His thoughts were too loud.
Not good enough.
Try harder.
You should be better.
Will squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head like he could physically dislodge the words.
“I am trying,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’m trying—”
The sentence fell apart.
So did his breathing.
He folded forward, elbows braced on his knees, forehead nearly pressing into his hands. His entire body felt tight, coiled, like it was bracing for something it couldn’t escape.
His breaths came fast and shallow now, barely enough to fill his lungs before they were forced out again.
In—
Too quick.
Out—
Not enough.
His chest heaved, panic rising sharp and choking.
“I can’t—” he choked out. “I can’t—”
The words tangled, incomplete.
Because he didn’t even know what he couldn’t do anymore.
Keep up?
Keep going?
Keep pretending?
All of it.
His shoulders shook, small at first, then harder as the strain finally broke through the cracks he’d been holding shut all day.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, like he could silence the uneven sounds trying to escape, like if he just stayed quiet enough it wouldn’t be real.
No one could see him back here.
No one could hear.
That thought should’ve been comforting.
Instead, it made everything feel worse.
Because there was no one here to ground him.
No one to interrupt the spiral.
No one to tell him.
His thoughts cut off abruptly as another sharp wave of dizziness hit.
Will sucked in a breath that stuttered painfully, his fingers tightening in his hair as he forced himself to stay upright.
“Just breathe,” he whispered again, desperate now. “Just—just breathe, you know how to do this—”
But knowing and doing were two completely different things.
The techniques he’d taught a hundred times felt unreachable, slipping through his grasp like water.
All that was left was the panic.
Raw.
Overwhelming.
Relentless.
Will curled further in on himself, every muscle tense, every breath a struggle as he tried, failed then tried again to pull himself back together.
The thin curtain behind him swayed slightly from where he’d pushed through it, settling back into place.
The infirmary beyond stayed quiet.
Still.
Unaware.
And in the dim, enclosed space at the back.
Will Solace, head healer, steady hands, endless patience sat on the edge of a cot, shaking and breathless, barely holding himself together as everything he’d been holding in finally, quietly, started to fall apart.
Will stayed like that for a long time.
Or maybe it was only a few minutes.
Time felt wrong stretched thin and tangled, like it had lost its shape somewhere between one breath and the next.
His lungs still wouldn’t cooperate.
Every inhale came too fast, too sharp. Every exhale felt incomplete, like he was never quite getting enough air. His chest ached from it, a deep, tight pressure that wouldn’t ease no matter how hard he tried to force it to.
“Breathe,” he whispered again, voice raw.
It didn’t work.
Nothing was working.
The techniques he’d taught other campers counting, grounding, slowing everything down they felt distant now. Out of reach. Like instructions written for someone else.
His thoughts kept circling back instead.
Not good enough.
Try harder.
You should be better.
Will squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head like he could force it all out.
“I am trying,” he said again, softer this time, barely a sound.
But the words didn’t stick.
They never did.
His hands were still shaking.
Worse now.
He dragged one down from his hair, staring at it as it trembled uncontrollably, like it wasn’t even his anymore.
He hated it.
Hated how out of control it felt.
Hated how loud everything inside him was.
Hated that he couldn’t just… fix it.
That was the worst part.
He was supposed to fix things.
That was what he did.
That was who he was.
And right now he couldn’t even fix himself.
The thought hit hard enough to make his stomach twist.
Will let out a shaky breath that broke halfway through, his shoulders tightening as the panic kept clawing its way higher, higher, higher.
Too much.
It was too much.
He needed it to stop.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to think.
To breathe.
To not feel like he was coming apart.
His gaze dropped, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening on the small supply cart pushed against the wall nearby. Clean. Organized. Familiar.
Safe.
He knew everything in it.
What it did.
How it worked.
His fingers curled slightly against his knee.
A thought quick, unwanted, but loud slipped in.
Not a solution.
Not really.
Just… something.
Something sharp that might cut through the noise.
Something that might make everything else quiet down for a second.
Will swallowed hard, his chest tightening further.
“No,” he whispered immediately, shaking his head. “No, that’s—”
Not good.
Not right.
Not something he should even be thinking about.
He knew that.
Better than anyone.
He told people that.
Every time someone came to him hurting, he told them there were better ways.
Safer ways.
Healthier ways.
So why, why was it the only thing that felt possible right now?
His breathing hitched again, sharp and painful.
The panic surged.
Louder.
Stronger.
Drowning everything else out.
“I just—” he choked, pressing a hand to his chest. “I just need it to stop—”
Just for a second.
That was all.
Just a second of quiet.
His gaze flickered back to the cart.
Then away.
Then back again.
His hands trembled harder.
There was a long moment where he just sat there, frozen in place, like if he didn’t move, didn’t decide, it would all just… pass.
It didn’t.
It only got worse.
The pressure built higher, tighter, until it felt unbearable like his own skin didn’t fit, like he needed to get out of himself somehow.
That was what broke him.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Just enough for him to reach.
His movements were slow at first. Hesitant. Careful in a way that didn’t match the panic rushing through him. Like some part of him was still trying to stop, still hoping he would pull back.
He didn’t.
His fingers brushed the edge of the cart, then steadied against it. He focused on that contact for a second, the solidness, the realness of it before his hand moved again.
“I just need—something,” he whispered, voice unsteady.
Not to fix it.
Not to solve anything.
Just—
Something to interrupt the spiral.
Something sharp enough to cut through the noise in his head.
What he did wasn’t calculated.
It wasn’t something he planned out or thought through.
It was quick. Impulsive. A grasp at control when everything else felt like it was slipping.
A way to anchor himself.
To feel something he could actually understand.
And for a moment.
Just a moment.
It worked.
The storm in his head faltered.
Not gone.
But disrupted.
Like static cutting out mid-signal.
Will sucked in a sharp breath, his body going still as the overwhelming pressure shifted redirected into something smaller, more contained. Something he could focus on instead of everything else crashing over him at once.
His breathing stuttered.
Then slowed.
Just a little.
Enough that the air actually reached his lungs this time.
Enough that the room stopped spinning quite so fast.
Will froze there, shoulders tense, like he didn’t trust the sudden change.
Like it might snap back any second.
But it didn’t.
The panic dulled at the edges.
Still there.
Still heavy.
But not suffocating him the same way.
“Oh,” he breathed.
The word came out faint, almost confused.
His hand lowered slowly, his gaze unfocused again but softer now. Distant in a different way.
Grounded.
But at a cost.
He became aware of everything all at once: his body, the quiet room, the faint rustle of the curtain behind him.
The reality of what he’d just done settled in a second later.
And with it
Guilt.
Immediate.
Sharp.
Heavy.
Will’s stomach twisted.
“Great,” he muttered hoarsely, dragging a shaky hand back through his hair. “That’s yeah. That’s really healthy, Solace.”
His voice cracked at the edges, the weak attempt at sarcasm falling apart almost instantly.
He leaned forward again, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders curling inward.
His breathing was still uneven, but slower now. Manageable in a way it hadn’t been before.
That should’ve felt like relief.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Because he knew why it was better.
Knew what he’d used to get there.
And that knowledge sat heavy in his chest, mixing with everything else in a way that made it hard to separate one feeling from another.
“I know better,” he whispered.
The words felt small.
Insufficient.
Because knowing didn’t stop him.
It hadn’t helped at all when everything tipped over the edge.
Will squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms briefly against them like he could block everything out his thoughts, the memory of it, the weight settling in his chest.
“Don’t—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Like he was negotiating with himself.
Like if he said it out loud, it would stay small. Contained. A one-time thing instead of something worse.
His shoulders rose and fell with a shaky breath.
In.
Out.
Still uneven.
But not spiraling.
Not anymore.
The silence in the room had changed.
It wasn’t suffocating now.
Just… quiet.
Empty in a different way.
Will stayed where he was, hunched on the edge of the cot, staring down at the floor without really seeing it.
His hands were steadier.
That fact sat wrong with him.
He flexed his fingers slightly, like testing it, like hoping the tremor would come back so he could blame everything on that instead.
It didn’t.
“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s not concerning at all.”
His voice was flat.
Tired.
He let his head drop forward, shoulders slumping further as the adrenaline finally started to wear off, leaving something heavier behind.
Exhaustion.
Bone-deep and inescapable.
The kind that didn’t go away with sleep.
The kind that came from holding too much for too long.
Will sat there in the dim back corner of the infirmary, breathing slowly, unevenly, trying to hold onto the fragile stillness he’d forced into place.
Trying not to think about how easy it had been.
Trying not to think about how much it had worked.
The curtain behind him hung still.
The rest of the infirmary remained quiet, undisturbed.
And for now
No one knew.
The quiet didn’t last.
It never really did.
Will sat there for a while longer, hunched on the edge of the cot, staring down at nothing as his breathing slowly evened out not steady, not normal, but no longer spiraling out of control. The sharp edge of panic had dulled, leaving something heavier behind.
Exhaustion.
And that hollow, uncomfortable awareness of what he’d done to get there.
He swallowed, throat still tight.
“Okay,” he murmured under his breath, more out of habit than belief. “You’re good. Just… fix it.”
That, at least, he could do.
Fix things.
That was simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Will forced himself to sit up a little straighter, ignoring the way his body protested. His limbs felt heavy, like they didn’t quite belong to him yet, but he moved anyway—reaching for the supply cart with practiced familiarity.
His hands were steadier now.
That should’ve been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
It just made everything feel more deliberate.
More real.
He grabbed what he needed automatically gauze, antiseptic, tape laying everything out with quiet precision. His movements were methodical, almost detached, like he’d slipped into autopilot.
Clean.
Assess.
Wrap.
He’d done this a thousand times.
His jaw tightened slightly as he worked, breath catching once before he forced it back into something resembling normal. He focused on the process, on the routine, on the small, manageable steps in front of him.
Not the why.
Never the why.
His fingers moved carefully, making sure everything was properly taken care of. No shortcuts. No mistakes.
Of course not.
He didn’t make mistakes.
Not when it came to this.
Will finished securing the bandage, smoothing it down with his thumb. He lingered there for a second, staring at his own work like it belonged to someone else.
It was clean.
Proper.
Exactly how he would’ve done it for anyone else.
That thought made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just a fraction.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Good job, Solace. Real impressive.”
The sarcasm landed flat in the empty space.
The curtain behind him shifted.
It was a small sound.
Soft.
Barely anything.
But Will’s entire body tensed like it had been struck.
His head snapped up.
The curtain pulled back.
Nico stood there.
For a split second, everything froze.
Nico’s eyes moved fast taking in the dim space, the supplies laid out too neatly, the way Will was sitting too still, too rigid.
And then, they landed on the bandaging.
On Will.
On the pieces that didn’t fit together.
That shouldn’t fit together.
Nico went pale.
“Will—”
His voice broke.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Enough to send a sharp spike of something cold through Will’s chest.
“Oh,” Will said quickly, already moving, already trying to stand like if he just acted normal enough, this could still be normal. “Hey—uh, didn’t hear you come in.”
His voice was too light.
Too fast.
He brushed his hands together like he’d just finished something routine, like this was nothing, like everything was completely under control.
Nico didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“What happened?” Nico asked.
The question came out wrong.
Too sharp.
Too urgent.
There was a flicker of panic in it that Nico didn’t even try to hide.
Will felt it.
And immediately tried to smooth it over.
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Just—minor. I’ve got it handled.”
Nico took a step forward.
Then another.
Slow at first but there was tension in it, like he was holding himself back from rushing.
“Will,” he said again, more firmly this time. “What happened?”
“I said it’s nothing.”
Too fast.
Too defensive.
Will forced a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.
Nico didn’t even react.
His gaze dropped again, locking onto the bandaging like he could see straight through it.
Like he could see exactly what it was covering.
His expression shifted tightening, something like fear flickering through it.
“You did that,” Nico said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Quiet.
But sharp enough to cut.
Will’s stomach dropped.
“I—no, I just—” he started, then faltered.
Because there wasn’t a good lie.
Not one that would actually work.
Nico’s breathing had changed.
Faster now.
Shallower.
“You did that,” Nico repeated, a little louder this time, his voice cracking at the edges. “Will—why would you—?”
He cut himself off, shaking his head quickly like he couldn’t even finish the thought.
Like he didn’t want to say it out loud.
Will took a small step back without meaning to.
“I’m fine,” he said.
There it was again.
Automatic.
Reflexive.
Nico’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto his.
“Don’t say that,” he said immediately.
There was panic there now.
Clear.
Unfiltered.
“Don’t—don’t say you’re fine when you’re—” he gestured helplessly, like he didn’t even have the words.
Will flinched slightly.
“It’s handled,” he insisted, his voice tightening. “See? It’s clean, it’s taken care of, it’s not a big deal—”
“That’s not the point!”
Nico’s voice cracked louder this time, the control slipping.
Will froze.
Nico rarely raised his voice.
Almost never like that.
“I don’t care if it’s clean,” Nico continued, his words coming faster now, more frantic. “Why did you have to do that in the first place?”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because he didn’t know how to explain it in a way that didn’t sound bad, wrong.
Exactly what it was.
“I just needed—” he started, then stopped, his hands curling slightly at his sides. “I just needed it to stop, something that could ground myself with.”
The words came out quieter.
Smaller.
But they hung there anyway.
Nico’s expression shifted again.
The panic didn’t disappear.
But it changed.
Softened at the edges into something more focused. More careful.
“The panic?” he asked, voice lower now, but still unsteady.
Will nodded once, looking away.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Nico took another step closer, slower this time.
“Will…” he said, softer now, but there was still something tight in his voice. “You could’ve come to me.”
Will let out a quiet, shaky breath. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to—” Nico stopped again, jaw tightening. “You don’t have to hurt yourself just to get through it.”
Will’s shoulders tensed.
“I know that,” he said quickly. “I know. I tell people that all the time.”
“Then why didn’t you listen to yourself?”
The question wasn’t accusing.
That was the worst part.
It sounded… confused.
Hurt.
Like Nico genuinely didn’t understand how Will could say those things to others and still end up here.
Will swallowed hard.
“Because it wasn’t working,” he admitted quietly. “None of it was working, and I just—needed something that would.”
The honesty slipped out before he could stop it.
Nico’s expression tightened again, his hands clenching at his sides.
“And that was the only option?” he asked, voice strained.
“No,” Will said immediately.
Then, softer—
“It was just the only one I could think of.”
That landed hard.
Nico looked like he wanted to argue.
Like he wanted to say something that would fix it.
But nothing came out.
Because there wasn’t an easy fix.
There never was.
Will shifted his weight slightly, uncomfortable under the weight of Nico’s gaze.
“I took care of it,” he said again, quieter now. “It’s done.”
Nico shook his head.
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“Then stop acting like it’s not a big deal!”
Will flinched.
Again.
His composure cracked just slightly, just enough for the exhaustion underneath to show.
“I’m not—” he started, then cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m just trying not to make it worse.”
Nico stared at him.
“You’re already making it worse by pretending it’s fine.”
Will didn’t respond.
Because he didn’t have anything left to argue with.
The silence stretched again.
But this time, it wasn’t suffocating.
It was just… heavy.
Nico stepped closer, stopping just in front of him now.
Close enough that Will could feel the tension, the worry, the way Nico was trying to keep himself together.
“You’re not okay,” Nico said quietly.
Will let out a weak, humorless breath.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m starting to get that.”
Nico hesitated for a second.
Then reached out slowly, careful like he was afraid Will might pull away.
His hand hovered for just a moment before settling lightly against Will’s arm, gentle and grounding.
Will stiffened.
Then.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t pull back.
“I’m here,” Nico said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that edge of urgency underneath. “You don’t have to deal with this alone.”
Will swallowed hard, staring down at the floor.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admitted.
Nico’s grip tightened slightly.
“Too late,” he said quietly.
There was no judgment in it.
Just the truth.
And something else.
Something like fear that hadn’t fully gone away.
Will let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping just a little.
And for once, the silence that followed didn’t feel like something Will needed to fill.
It just… stayed.
Heavy, but not suffocating. Present, but not pressing. Like the room itself had finally stopped demanding things from him.
Will stood there, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor that didn’t really exist. His breathing was still uneven at the edges, but it wasn’t spiraling anymore. Just tired now. Leftover adrenaline fading into something dull and shaky in his chest.
Nico’s hand was still on his arm.
Warm in a way that grounded him more than it should’ve.
Neither of them moved.
The infirmary behind them was quiet, no footsteps, no voices, no urgent knocking. Just the soft creak of the building settling and the faint hum of distant camp life outside.
Will swallowed.
His throat still felt tight.
He didn’t know what to say now.
There was too much in his head, too many things that felt too big to put into words without everything breaking open again. So he didn’t try.
For once, he just… existed in it.
Nico exhaled slowly.
Will felt it more than he heard it.
The hand on his arm shifted slightly, like Nico was hesitating. Thinking. Deciding.
Will finally lifted his eyes.
Nico wasn’t looking at the bandages anymore.
He was looking at Will.
Really looking.
And there was something in his expression that made Will’s chest tighten again not panic this time, but something softer. Sharper in a different way.
Fear.
Not of Will.
For him.
Nico took a small step closer.
Then another.
Careful, like he was approaching something fragile that might disappear if handled wrong.
Will didn’t move away.
Didn’t brace.
Didn’t pretend he didn’t notice.
He just stood there and let it happen.
Nico’s hand slid from his arm slowly, like he didn’t want to let go completely, before both of his arms came up instead.
There was a brief pause, just a heartbeat of hesitation.
Then Nico pulled him in.
It wasn’t sudden.
It wasn’t tight at first.
It was careful.
Like Nico was afraid of doing it wrong.
But the moment Will didn’t pull away, didn’t tense, didn’t say anything
Nico held on a little firmer.
Will froze.
His body went still in that instinctive way it always did when he was overwhelmed and didn’t know what came next. His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides for half a second, unsure, unused to being on this end of things.
Then, slowly and reluctantly, he let himself lean into it.
Just slightly at first.
Enough to feel it.
Enough to confirm it was real.
Nico’s grip tightened immediately, like he felt that small shift.
Like he’d been waiting for it.
Will exhaled shakily, the breath catching halfway out.
His forehead ended up near Nico’s shoulder, his hands finally moving—one curling lightly into the fabric of Nico’s shirt, not gripping hard, just holding on in a way that felt unfamiliar and necessary all at once.
Nico’s arms stayed around him.
Steady.
Grounded.
Not fixing anything.
Just there.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Not rushed. Not fragile in the way that felt like it might shatter if either of them moved too fast but still careful, like both of them were aware something important had shifted and neither of them wanted to ruin it by speaking too loudly.
Will’s forehead rested near Nico’s shoulder. His breathing was still uneven at the edges, but it wasn’t spiraling anymore. Just tired now. Heavy in that post-storm way, like his body had finally stopped running but hadn’t remembered how to stand still yet.
Nico didn’t let go.
That was the part that kept hitting Will in small, quiet waves. Not words. Not explanations. Just the fact that Nico was still there, still holding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he wasn’t unsure.
Like he wasn’t afraid to.
Nico exhaled slowly, his hand shifting slightly on Will’s back, grounding him without pressing too hard.
“I thought I was going to walk in and you’d be gone,” Nico admitted quietly after a moment.
Will’s fingers tightened slightly in Nico’s shirt at that, subtle but instinctive.
Nico felt it. His grip tightened in response, immediately steadier.
“I know that sounds dramatic,” Nico added, voice rougher now, like he was forcing himself to keep going. “But I kept thinking about it the whole way here. Like… what if I’m too late. What if you pushed everything too far and I just—missed it.”
He swallowed.
The silence stretched for a second.
Then he said, softer, “I hate that I even had that thought.”
Will didn’t answer.
He didn’t trust his voice yet.
Nico shifted slightly, just enough to look at him without fully letting go. His eyes flicked over Will’s face tired, pale at the edges, still not fully steady.
“And then I saw you,” Nico continued, quieter. “And you tried to act like nothing was wrong.”
A pause.
Not accusatory.
Just factual.
“That part scared me more,” he admitted. “Because you always do that. You always try to stand there like everything’s fine even when it clearly isn’t.”
Will’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.
Nico wasn’t done.
“I don’t need you to be fine,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I need you to be here. Even when it’s bad. Especially when it’s bad.”
Will let out a slow breath against his shoulder.
It shook slightly.
Nico’s arms adjusted again, holding him more securely without squeezing too tight.
“I’m not mad,” Nico added quickly, like he needed to make sure that was clear. “I’m not—this isn’t anger. It’s just… I don’t know how else to say it except that I was really scared.”
He paused.
Then, more quietly, “I care about you too much for that not to scare me.”
That landed differently.
Heavier.
Will’s fingers loosened slightly in Nico’s shirt, then tightened again, like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty.
Nico leaned his forehead lightly against Will’s hair for a second, grounding himself too.
“I don’t want you dealing with things like that alone,” he said. “Ever. Not because you can’t handle things but because you shouldn’t have to.”
A beat.
Then, softer, almost like he was carefully choosing each word:
“You’re not supposed to be the only one holding everything together.”
Will swallowed hard.
His throat felt tight again but not in the same way as before. This wasn’t panic. It was something else. Something heavier in a different direction.
He finally spoke, voice low and rough at the edges.
“I didn’t want you to see it,” he admitted.
Nico gave a small, almost sad huff of breath.
“I figured.”
A pause.
Then he added, “But I’m kind of glad I did. Even if it sucks.”
Will let out a weak breath that might’ve been a laugh if he had more energy for it.
“That’s a weird way to put it.”
“I’m serious,” Nico said. “Because I don’t think you would’ve told me otherwise.”
Will didn’t argue.
Because he couldn’t.
Nico shifted again, more carefully this time, like he was making sure he wasn’t overwhelming him.
“I’m still here,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Will nodded faintly against his shoulder, almost imperceptible.
The room around them stayed quiet. No interruptions. No demands. Just the faint sound of distant camp life outside and the soft fabric of Nico’s shirt under Will’s hand.
Nico tightened his hold just a little, like he was grounding himself in the same way Will was.
“And for the record,” Nico added after a moment, voice gentler now, “you don’t have to earn being cared about.”
Will’s breath caught slightly at that.
Nico didn’t push it.
Just stayed.
A few seconds passed.
Then Nico shifted back just enough to look at him properly. Not pulling away just making space for the words he was about to say.
His expression softened.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I need you to stay with me. Okay?”
Will stared at him for a second.
Really stared.
Like he was trying to anchor himself in something real enough to believe.
Then, finally, his grip tightened slightly in Nico’s shirt again.
His voice came out small but steady enough to hold.
“…I love you too.”