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Nico di Angelo did not do soft.
He did shadows. He did brooding in the corners of the dining pavilion, terrifying new campers by simply blinking at them, and avoiding prolonged eye contact at all costs. He did not do grand, sweeping gestures, and he certainly did not do flowers.
Yet, here he was, standing outside the bright, blindingly white doors of the Camp Half-Blood infirmary, clutching a bouquet like it was a bomb about to explode.
It was all Will’s fault, really.
For the past two days, the son of Apollo had been running himself into the ground. Between a sudden influx of minor training injuries, inventory shortages, and his own stubborn refusal to delegate, Will was practically living in the medical wing. Nico had watched it happen from afar, an uncomfortable, tight knot forming in his chest every time he saw the dark circles blooming under Will’s usually bright blue eyes. He watched Will’s shoulders slump when he thought no one was looking, the way his sunshine-bright aura had dimmed to a flickering, exhausted amber.
Nico hated it. He hated the twist in his gut, he hated the instinct to step in, and he mostly hated that he couldn't figure out why he cared so much. They weren't dating. They were barely even friends—or, at least, Nico was still trying to figure out where the line between "reluctant acquaintances who survived a war" and "friends" actually sat. Will was just... Will. Intrusive, loud, overly concerned, and completely inescapable.
And for some agonizing reason, Nico wanted to see him smile again.
Which led to the current crisis in Nico's hands. He had visited the Underworld that morning, cornering a highly amused Persephone in her gardens. He’d refused her offerings of cheerful daisies, violently rejected the sunflowers, and finally settled on something that didn't make him want to gag. Dahlias. Deep, rich, velvet-burgundy dahlias that looked almost black in the shadows. He had wrapped them himself in a heavy, matte navy blue parchment he’d scrounged up, tying it off with a leather cord. It was moody, it was understated, and it was still, undeniably, a bouquet of flowers.
This is a terrible idea, Nico thought, his heart hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. He’s going to laugh. Or worse, he’s going to look at me with pity.
He almost turned around. He took one step back toward the shadows, fully prepared to melt into the floor and leave the flowers by the door like a coward. But then, from inside the clinic, he heard a heavy, ragged sigh.
Nico clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on the navy wrapping, and pushed the door open.
The infirmary smelled of rubbing alcohol, ambrosia, and that distinct, clean scent that always followed Will around. Will was sitting at the central desk, his back hunched over a stack of camper medical files. His blonde hair was a disastrous, unwashed mop, and he was rubbing his temples like he was trying to stave off a migraine.
Nico stopped a few feet away, suddenly hyper-aware of how he must look: clad in his dark aviator jacket, combat boots, smelling faintly of the Underworld, holding a perfectly arranged floral bouquet behind his back.
He swallowed hard. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.
"Solace."
Will jolted, his pen clattering onto the linoleum floor. He spun around in his chair, his eyes wide and unfocused for a split second before they locked onto Nico.
"Nico?" Will blinked, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear his vision. He immediately shifted into doctor mode, his gaze raking over Nico for signs of blood or missing limbs. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? I swear to the gods, if you’ve been shadow-traveling again after I specifically told you your—"
"I'm not hurt," Nico snapped, defensive instinct kicking in instantly. It came out harsher than he intended, echoing in the quiet room. He forced himself to take a breath. "I'm fine. Stop hovering. I haven't shadow-traveled in a week."
"Then why are you here?" Will asked, his shoulders dropping. The pure exhaustion on his face made Nico’s chest ache again. "It's past curfew, di Angelo. Even for you."
Just give him the stupid plants and leave, Nico's brain screamed.
Instead, Nico stood frozen. He shifted his weight, his boots squeaking slightly on the floor. His hands felt clammy against the paper behind his back. The silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating, and heavy with everything Nico didn't know how to say. Will was looking at him with that earnest, patient expression that always made Nico want to simultaneously run away and step closer.
"I..." Nico started. He glared at a loose tile on the floor, willing it to swallow him whole. "I brought you something."
Will’s brow furrowed. "You... brought me something?"
With a jerky, almost aggressive motion, Nico pulled his hands from behind his back and thrust the bouquet forward. He held it out like a peace offering—or a shield.
Will went completely still. His blue eyes dropped from Nico's face to the dark, intricate petals of the burgundy dahlias, then down to the navy paper, and finally back up to Nico’s face. The silence in the room doubled in weight. Nico could hear the blood rushing in his own ears. He braced himself for the teasing. He braced himself for Will to ask if someone had died.
Instead, Will’s voice was barely a whisper, breathless and completely disarmed.
"You bought me flowers?"
Nico felt a flush of heat creeping up his neck, setting the tips of his ears on fire. He refused to look Will in the eye, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on Will’s left shoulder.
"Yeah, well," Nico muttered, the words rushing out in a defensive stumble. "I noticed you’d seemed kinda down. And you're always nagging everyone else to take care of themselves while you look like a walking corpse, which is ironic, considering I'm the son of Hades. So. I wanted to cheer you up. Just... take them before I throw them in the incinerator."
Will didn't move for a long, agonizing second. Then, slowly, he stood up. He closed the space between them, his movements cautious, like he was approaching a skittish animal. When Will reached out to take the bouquet, his fingers accidentally brushed against Nico’s knuckles.
Nico’s FUCKING breath hitched, a sudden, electric jolt shooting up his arm at the contact, but he didn't pull away.
Will pulled the bouquet gently from Nico’s grip, cradling the dark blooms as if they were made of glass. He brought them up, inspecting the rich, velvety petals of the dahlias. For a moment, the infirmary was entirely silent, save for the low hum of the magical sterilization cabinets in the corner.
Slowly, a smile broke across Will’s face. It wasn't the blazing, thousand-watt grin he usually flashed around the campfire, but something smaller, softer, and infinitely more dangerous to Nico’s fragile sense of composure. The dim, exhausted amber of Will’s aura flared, warming back into that familiar, steady gold.
"Underworld dahlias," Will said, his voice quiet, filled with a kind of awe that made Nico want to crawl under the nearest cot. "You actually went to the Underworld to get these for me?"
"I was already in the neighborhood," Nico lied, his voice tight. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his aviator jacket to hide their trembling. "It wasn't a big deal. Persephone wouldn't shut up about them, and I just... grabbed them. To get her off my back."
Will looked up from the flowers, catching Nico’s eyes. The son of Apollo didn't say a word, but his expression clearly communicated that he saw right through the flimsy excuse. He didn't push it, though. Instead, he turned toward the medical supply cabinet, his shoulders noticeably lighter than they had been five minutes ago.
"Well, they're beautiful, Nico. Truly." Will rummaged around on the counter for a moment before producing a large, perfectly clean glass beaker. He filled it with water from the sink and carefully set the bouquet inside, adjusting the navy parchment so it flared out elegantly around the rim. He placed the makeshift vase right in the center of his cluttered desk, pushing aside the medical files to make room.
Will stepped back, admiring them. "They match my aesthetic perfectly, don't you think?" he teased, a familiar, playful lilt returning to his voice.
Nico scoffed, though the violent hammering in his chest had begun to ease into a steady, warm thrum. "They look like they're mourning the death of your paperwork."
Will laughed—a real, genuine sound that echoed warmly in the sterile room. Nico felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of victory. He had done that. He had made Will laugh.
"Maybe they are," Will said, turning back to face Nico. The teasing edge faded into something deeply sincere. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Thank you, Nico. Seriously. I think this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me all week. I didn't realize how much I needed a distraction."
"You need more than a distraction," Nico muttered, staring stubbornly at the toes of his combat boots. "You need sleep. You look terrible, Will."
"Doctor's orders?" Will raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing on his lips.
"Common sense," Nico retorted, finally meeting Will’s gaze. "Which you clearly lack. Go to bed, Will. The files will still be here tomorrow. The campers aren't going to spontaneously combust if you clock out for eight hours."
Will sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, but he didn't argue. He looked at the dark flowers on his desk, then back at Nico, his blue eyes soft and entirely entirely too perceptive. "Okay," Will agreed quietly. "Okay, you win. I'll go to sleep."
Nico blinked, entirely unprepared for Will to surrender that easily. "Wait. Really?"
"Yeah, really." Will pushed off the desk, grabbing his hoodie from the back of his chair. He shrugged it on, his gaze lingering on Nico. "But only if you walk me back to the Apollo cabin. You know, for my safety. It's past curfew, after all."
Nico’s heart did a complicated, entirely unnecessary flip. He scowled, hoping the shadows in the room were deep enough to hide the fresh wave of heat rushing to his cheeks. "You're a dork."
"Maybe," Will said, stepping toward the door and gesturing for Nico to follow. The bright, blinding smile was fully back now, illuminating the dimly lit corridor. "But I'm a dork with a really nice bouquet of flowers. Come on, Death Boy."
Nico groaned softly, rolling his eyes as he followed Will out into the cool night air. It was absolutely terrifying, he realized, just how easily he could get used to this.
The night air of Camp Half-Blood was cool and crisp, carrying the faint, smoky scent of the dying campfire and the distant, rhythmic crashing of the waves against the Long Island Sound. The camp was blissfully quiet, bathed in the pale, silvery light of the moon, save for the occasional snore echoing from the Ares cabin and the low, bubbling hiss of the lava wall in the distance.
They walked side-by-side down the dirt path, the silence between them no longer heavy, but settling into something surprisingly comfortable.
Will was practically dragging his feet, his exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he was no longer fueled by medical emergencies and sheer stubbornness. He kept drifting slightly to the left, his shoulder bumping lightly against Nico’s. The first time it happened, Nico flinched, his defensive instincts flaring. The second time, he merely shot Will a dark glare. By the third time, Nico realized Will wasn't doing it on purpose—he was just entirely dead on his feet, swaying like a tall, blond pine tree in a gentle breeze.
"You're a hazard to navigation, Solace," Nico grumbled, though there was no real bite to his words. He instinctively shifted a few inches closer, offering his shoulder as a subtle, unspoken buffer to keep Will walking in a straight line.
"I'm merely conserving energy," Will countered, his voice sleep-rough and soft. He stifled a massive yawn into the sleeve of his hoodie. "Walking in a perfectly straight line requires too much focus. I’m adopting a more... fluid approach to momentum."
"You're an idiot," Nico said again, a faint, involuntary smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You keep saying that, but you keep hanging out with me. I think you like my idiocy." Will bumped his shoulder against Nico’s arm again, a little more deliberately this time.
Nico looked away, staring resolutely at the golden, glowing exterior of the Apollo cabin that was slowly coming into view. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just here to make sure you don't trip over a tree root and crack your skull open. I don't want to be the one who has to explain to Chiron why the head medic is in a coma."
"So caring, Death Boy. A true bleeding heart."
They reached the steps of Cabin Seven. The building hummed with a low, ambient warmth, radiating a soft light that illuminated the exhaustion etched into Will’s features. Will stopped at the bottom of the steps, turning to face Nico. Without the clinical lighting of the infirmary, Will’s eyes looked darker, a deep, twilight blue, and they were entirely focused on Nico.
Suddenly, Nico felt incredibly out of his depth. The banter had dried up, leaving behind a charged, electric tension that made the tips of Nico's fingers tingle. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, taking a half-step back, ready to retreat into the comforting obscurity of the shadows.
"Well," Nico said, his voice coming out a little hoarse. He cleared his throat. "You're alive. Go to sleep."
"Nico."
Will didn't move toward the door. Instead, he took a step forward, closing the small distance Nico had just created. He looked down at the son of Hades, that quiet, dangerous softness returning to his expression.
"What?" Nico asked, his heart kicking up that frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs all over again.
"Thank you. Again." Will’s voice was barely a murmur above the crickets. "For the flowers. For walking me back. For... checking on me."
Before Nico could formulate a sarcastic deflection to protect himself, Will moved. He didn't rush, telegraphing his actions perfectly so Nico had every opportunity to pull away. Will reached out, wrapping his arms around Nico’s shoulders, and pulled him into a warm, encompassing embrace.
Nico’s entire brain short-circuited.
He froze completely, every muscle in his body locking up as rigid as a statue. He was painfully unaccustomed to being touched, let alone hugged with such easy, unguarded affection. His hands remained trapped in his jacket pockets, his face pressed awkwardly against the soft, worn cotton of Will’s hoodie.
Will smelled like rubbing alcohol and ambrosia, yes, but beneath that was the undeniable scent of sunshine, crushed pine needles, and something that was just fundamentally, inherently Will. It was warm. It was safe.
For a terrifying second, Nico’s instinct to flee screamed at him to dissolve into shadows and materialize in his own bed. But as Will let out a long, quiet sigh, resting his chin lightly on top of Nico’s messy black hair, the panic began to fracture.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tension bled out of Nico’s spine. He didn't pull his hands from his pockets to hug Will back—that was a bridge entirely too far for tonight—but he allowed himself to lean into the contact. He let his forehead rest fully against Will’s shoulder, closing his eyes just for a fraction of a second, committing the sudden, grounding warmth to memory.
Will squeezed him gently, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken victory, before finally stepping back. The absence of his body heat left Nico feeling suddenly, acutely cold in the night air.
"Goodnight, Nico," Will said, his smile sleepy and breathtakingly genuine.
Nico stared at him, his throat entirely closed up, his cheeks burning with a heat that he knew had to be visible even in the dim light. He couldn't speak. He wasn't sure he remembered how to breathe, let alone form a coherent sentence.
He managed a stiff, jerky nod, took three rapid steps backward, and melted directly into the nearest shadow, completely abandoning the idea of walking back to his own cabin.
When he materialized in the pitch-black cold of Cabin Thirteen, Nico collapsed back onto his dark bed sheets, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still racing, his skin still prickling where Will’s arms had been. He threw an arm over his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath, knowing with terrifying certainty that he was in an unimaginable amount of trouble.