Character Study - Blog Posts

This is the Hour of Lead - a Star Wars fanfiction

A/N: Hello everyone! Here's a little bonus story. It's pretty short, and it's not Wolfwren but it is a character study of Bo-Katan and Sabine after the Great Purge of Mandalore. Here is the beginning and if you want to read the whole story, the link will be at the end.

Another ship landed outside of Kryze castle. Bo-Katan felt its weight as if it had landed on her shoulders. Her first thought was that more survivors had made it out of Mandalore. She should feel relieved, but she only felt more guilty. It was venomous in her chest, and amplified with every oblique glance she was given as she carried bandages and blankets through the crowd of survivors. But upon looking at the ship closely, she recognized that it wasn’t one of their own. It was the Phantom.

She walked through the improvised camp and met up with Axe near where the ship had landed.

“Who is it?” Axe asked, on edge.

Bo placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent order to move his hand away from his blaster. Although she hadn’t received any message, she had a feeling she knew exactly who had joined them.

“She’s one of ours,” she told him.

The ramp opened and Sabine Wren stepped out. Her helmet was on and Bo couldn’t see her face. A surge of emotion stifled her lungs. She had no idea what was going on through the young Mandalorian’s head. Sabine stopped at the bottom of the ramp, her visor turned toward Bo-Katan. The former leader straightened her back and took a step toward the younger woman.

“Sabine…”

A blaster shot singed the grass at her feet.

Full Story Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54377779

Presenting glamourous Hollywood prince Mingyu

My study on the visual differences in the links, as divided in LU. (But not following their headcanons or mine) I was mostly just trying to get their individual features in one style)

This is mostly for my own benefit, so sorry if the writing looks illegible lol.

Also. Do we think age should be decided chronologically by timeline, by how long your body has existed, or by how long you have been aware (other than sleeping)?

…time travel and comas make age confusing.

“Hide me hide me hide me hide me hide me.”

Nico blinks, watching blankly as Will ducks under his arm, situating himself behind the door and peeking around it. When Nico doesn’t move, he cranes his neck to look at him, face urgent, and says, “Close it, dude, hurry up!

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

Nico blinks again. He squints across the common, trying to suss out what Will’s staring at. It doesn’t take long. She’s hard to miss, especially in full armour.

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

“Am I hiding from —” He scoffs. “No, I’m just behind this door for fun. Fucking obviously I’m hiding from Clarisse, Nico, now get with the program and close the damn —”

“Solace!”

Both of them jump. When Nico looks, Clarisse is already way closer than she should be. Before he can process enough to slam the door, and heedless of Will’s increasingly-harried oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods fuck fuck fuck fuck, Clarisse is closer, and closer, and then suddenly she’s barging inside, pushing Nico aside like it’s not his damn cabin.

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

She doesn’t bother to humour him with words, choosing instead to grab him by the collar and drag him bodily out. Will does not make it easy, going completely limp and getting his clothes grass-stained beyond belief, because Clarisse tugs him along like a sled behind her, bouncing over every stone. Nico follows, on the grounds that it’s not being nosy if Will dragged him into it technically.

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

“And yet I’m choosing you,” Clarisse says easily. “I’ve already told Chiron. It’s a done deal, weatherboy. You’re chariot racing with me.”

Will groans, trying in vain to squirm out of Clarisse’s grip. “There is no reason for me to be your partner in the stupid chariot race, I am a healer, I am at camp to heal —”

She shakes him a little to shut him up. “All the more reason. You focus too much on one thing, brat. All you do is heal and study like a big nerd. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“Um, no way. I’m very comfortable in it. That’s why it’s called a comfort zone.”

“You could use some training,” Nico pipes up, and the betrayed look Will gives him would be more effective at making him feel bad if it wasn’t so funny. “Last time I tried to teach you how to use a sword you almost sliced off your own face, so.”

Clarisse looks at him with appraisal. “Maybe you do have some sense in you, di Angelo.”

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

“Ugh,” Will says dramatically, and finally manages to wrench out of Clarisse’s grip in order to embed the appropriate level of drama in his face-down flop to the floor.

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

Notably, he stops protesting. She kicks him again, affectionately this time, and stomps away.

———

“If I work myself into another coma, I don’t have to chariot race,” Will says gleefully, shoving the bottles of nectar Nico hands him onto a shelf. He’s been buzzing around the infirmary all day, healing things he is meant to be healing with a band-aid and a stop being a clumsy dumbass, dumbass with hymns and salves. “I’m gonna try to cure cancer again.”

Kayla, walking by, reaches out and smacks him. “Try it and I’m crack your country CDs in half.”

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

“Every single one of them,” she stresses, green eyes narrowed.

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

Nico pats him delicately on the back. “There, there.” A pause. “I mean, personally, I can’t wait to watch you fall out of a chariot.”

The look Will shoots him is nothing short of wounded. “You think I’m so uncoordinated I’m gonna fall out of the chariot?”

“Gracefully!” assures Austin from across the infirmary, smiling supportively. He grins brightly when they turn to look, nose scrunching with the force of his smile. “I’m sure!”

Will’s scowl twitches in the face of his brother’s blind enthusiasm. (It is impossible not to be endeared by Austin. He is genuinely the sweetest kid in the entire universe. Nico even gets, to his horror, the occasional urge to squish him. Gently.) He sighs.

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

The twitching scowl melts into a full smile. “Love you too, kiddo.”

———

Watching chariot race practices, very quickly, becomes Nico’s favourite pastime.

He sees, now, why Achilles would bring them up, unprompted, wistful look in his eye, every time Nico visited. There’s a beauty in the rawness of it; the whipping winds, wild horses. Squealing wheels and bending axels, open-backed and inches from death at all time. Dangerous, exhilarating. Humanity, at it’s most thrilling and old — some of the first tools, the first domestic animals, the first machines, all at once. It’s pure, raw excitement.

Also, Will falls out of the chariot, like, eight whole times. And there’s nothing funnier than watching him lose his shit at a splintered pile of wood that was once a carriage, helmet thrown to the ground in a fit of rage, accent so thick he’s literally incomprehensible. Nico never gets to see him like this. His stomach actually hurts from laughter on several occasions.

Slowly, though, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s smart — incredibly so — and when he stops spending half his time complaining, and the other half pouting, he actually gets pretty decent. He’s fast, after all, and quick to observe, to respond; the other teams struggle to land hits on him, in practice runs, and sabotage is difficult when your opponent seems to have an almost prophetic gift to see things coming.

He can’t, however, steel himself to hit back.

And therein lies the trouble.

“For fuck’s sake, Will, I’m not asking you to kill anybody,” Clarrise snaps. “You need to get your head in the game!”

Will’s shoulders curl defensively. “I know! I’m trying! It’s just —” He kicks at their broken wheel, in two clean pieces on the ground. “Do no harm.”

“Do some harm. Or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Will brightens. “And then ask somebody else to be your partner?”

“No, and then make you my partner forever.”

“Oh.”

Will’s sullen face is hard to look at. He’s got those big, puppy dog eyes, round and sad and pouty. Not even Clarisse is immune. (And certainly not Nico, who finds himself halfway off the spectator’s stands and jogging to the tracks before he wonders what exactly, the fresh fuck, he is doing, and sprints right back.)

“Shit, Solace, don’t look like I killed your goddamn mother.” She cuffs him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling with a muffled oof. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go again.”

Accepting the spare chariot someone wheels towards her, she pulls herself up, making space for Will to do the same. He doesn’t get on immediately, still looking miserable, but concedes eventually.

His forearms look kind of nice when he grips onto the rails for dear life, Nico notices. From a totally objective perspective.

The four practicing teams guide their horses to the starting line, running a few last minute checks. To avoid spilling any secrets or strategies, everyone uses the same practice-issue wooden chariot and wears the same armour, but it’s still obvious who’s who.

The Hephaestus team’s chariot, despite being standard issue, gleams like it’s brand-new. The wood is polished and looks to be altered, barely; a carved groove here, a sharper wing there. Nothing that could really be considered an upgrade, but definitely making the whole thing look smoother. The spears they hold promise a plethora of untold ability hidden within.

The Hermes chariot looks deceptively beat up. There’s a chunk missing from the top of the left side, and one of the wheels appears to be just slightly out of alignment. Upon careful inspection, though, Nico can see clear, hollow tubing attached along the rails and open to the back — definitely a quick rig of some sort. Base (not acid, Cecil had happily lectured him on the benefits of using a base rather than an acid when dissolving anything from steel to human flesh), if Nico has to guess, or maybe Greek fire.

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot doesn’t have to do much to look great. The whole thing seems to coast gracefully to the beginner line, and neither charioteer looks particularly bothered or preoccupied with the competition — if Nico recalls correctly, and he does, their goal is to win through “gay audacity”, which Nico does not understand but supports wholeheartedly.

Will and Clarisse’s chariot, by comparison, is pretty run-of-the-mill. They haven’t done much training with the Ares horses or the Apollo flying chariot, because Clarisse is primarily concerned with training Will — she knows the equipment is fine.

Lacy, standing at the edge of the track, puts a sparkly pink whistle to her lips and blows loudly. It’s not nearly as loud as one of Will’s sonic whistles, but it does the trick, and the teams are off in a blur of movement; Will and Clarisse in the lead, Hephaestus behind them, Aphrodite-Iris in third, and Hermes lagging slightly behind.

As they turn their first corner, positions largely unchanging, Nico hears footsteps from his left — Lou Ellen smiles at him as she climbs the stand, settling into the space he makes next to him.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, brushing dust off her hands.

He shrugs. “Not much. They were in the lead the last practice round, too, but on the last lap Hermes caught up.” He gestures to the heap that was once their practice chariot. “Julia had her sword at their wheels. They were on the inner ring, nowhere to move; the only way to get rid of them would have been to knock her arm, probably dislocate her shoulder. Will couldn’t do it.”

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

There’s a ripping sound, followed by cackling — the Hermes chariot has finally made use of their hasty rigging, setting off an explosion behind them that rockets them forward. It has the added bonus of shaking the ground, slightly, unsettling the other drivers for just barely long enough for them to pull into third place. Far ahead, still in first, Nico can see Clarisse yelling instructions at Will, although he can’t hear what they are. His grip on the rail has tightened.

“Why,” starts Nico carefully, and based on Lou Ellen’s pinched face she knows exactly where he’s going, “does she make him — well, you know.”

Lou Ellen is silent for a good long while, watching the practice chariot race with eyes that aren’t paying attention. Hermes is gaining, but Hephaestus is gaining faster.

“Clarisse has always liked Will,” she says eventually. She meets Nico’s incredulous expression, snorting. “Well, as much as Clarisse can like people. I got here way after he did, so I don’t have any more details there than you do, but he’s never been afraid of her, and she likes that. He’s never been mean to her, either. I mean, I know she can be a bully, but people aren’t exactly light on her, to be fair.”

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot turns out to have some tricks up its sleeve — it starts to glow; barely at first, but quickly blinding. At its crux, everyone has to look away, allowing them to pull into first.

Well, except that Will doesn’t seem nearly as staggered as everyone else. In fact, he doesn’t look bothered at all — for the first time that Nico has seen, there’s something like competition pulling a crooked smile on his face. He stares straight at the still-too-bright chariot, reigns wrapped around his arms as he yanks them forward.

“Is that why she drags him away sometimes?” Nico asks. “To train?”

“Something like that. Most of his training was with —” she falters. “Well, you know who. Medicine and some archery.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Neither of them ever knew Lee or Michael well, if at all, but over time Nico has found himself almost clamming up at the mere thought of them, the way one might tiptoe around an authority figure when they have something to hide. Forbidden subjects, where before Nico simply didn’t think of them often.

“You can’t just not train, though,” Lou Ellen murmurs, eyes trained on the chariots. Hephaestus throws one of their spears, lodging it in the spokes of the Aphrodite-Iris chariot. They come to a very abrupt and very screechy halt, knocking them out of the race in any real capacity. “Not at Camp Half-Blood. She taught him hand-to-hand because she was the only one strong enough to physically drag him to the arena. Everyone else gave up after the first few tantrums — I think she was kind of amused by the challenge. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nico agrees. Privately, he thinks that there is something about Will Solace that makes you want to protect him. Not frailty — he is not by any means incapable — but something about his smile, his genuineness. The stubborn belief that people are good and kind and worthy of everything he has to give. A naivety, except someone who’s been through what he has (what they all have) cannot be naive — his hope in the world is hard-earned and well-won. It makes people want to protect his hold on it, by any means necessary.

Even, Nico reasons, ornery old fuckers like Clarisse LaRue.

The three remaining chariots start the last leg of the race — Apollo-Ares, barely squeezing out in front; then Hephaestus, quickly gaining; and finally Hermes, lagging slightly but not to be discarded. As they round the bend, Nico watches as Clarisse cuffs Will briefly on the arm, clearly proud. This is the farthest they’ve made in first so far, after two weeks of training. Will, reigns safely transferred back to Clarisse, beams at her — bright enough that Nico can see it from dozens of yards away.

With sudden, calculated speed, the Hephaestus chariot surges forward.

As if coordinated, Nico and Lou Ellen inhale sharply, leaning forward. He sees the scattered few other campers so the same in his peripherals, watching with single minded focus as the chariot levels exactly with Will and Clarisse. Nico eyes the spear nervously — of all weapons, they’re the easiest for Will to dodge, to fight off. More impersonal.

But the sons of the smartest god around would know that.

For at least a hundred feet, nothing happens. Ares-Apollo and Hephaestus stay neck in neck, every urge forward matched, every pesky road-blocking stone avoided. The finish line is dangerously close, but no one pulls ahead, nothing changes. Four shoulders remain tense, four helmets stare resolutely forward.

Then, in a quick movement, the taller Hephaestus charioteer hands the spear off to the shorter, swiftly taking the reigns, and the shorter lunges — aiming right for Will’s shoulder. Will’s quick, though, and has his own spear poised to parry in an instant. There’s a barely perceptible nudge from Clarisse, and then Will’s eyes harden, and he lifts his spear to jab right back, needle-thin tip gleaming in the late afternoon sun, right for the chink in the charioteer’s armour and then —

The charioteer rips their helmet off, dropping it at their feet.

It’s Harley.

Hephaestus’ darling; hell, the camp’s darling. One of their youngest and brightest, with big, mischievous brown eyes, contagious smiles, endless enthusiasm. Cute, clumsy Harley, the only one of Hephaestus’ children Will doesn’t have to nag to get treated, who walks dutifully over the infirmary every time he gets so much as a second-degree burn and treats each one of Will’s overcautious instructions with utmost seriousness. Who Will sends away each time with an affectionate kiss on the forehead and a prized purple sucker — who Will, frankly, favours. Who Will would never, in a million years, even consider hurting.

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

Immediately, Will flinches back, spear dropping from his hand and splintering under thundering hooves and spinning wheels. Without a second of hesitation, Harley launches his spear in the same move as before — sticking it in the wheel’s spokes, inertia sending the charioteer’s sprawling, knocking them out of the race.

Except, maybe it’s different when the chariots are so close. Or maybe the chariot was faulty to begin with. Because as soon as the spear gets wedged, the fragile floor of the chariot seems to implode — sending Will and Clarisse under the still-moving machine, instead of flying over. The horses, disoriented from the sudden change, rip free of their harness, adding more force to the already precarious tumble.

There’s a sharp, sickening crack, so loud Nico can hear it as if it’s next to him. In the brief nanosecond immediately afterwords, he closes his eyes, sending a prayer to his father: please be the axle. Please be the axle. Please be the axle.

As the Hephaestus and Hermes chariots rocket past the finish line, Clarisse lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream.

———

Nico’s off the bench and halfway towards the crashed chariot before he can blink. He’s not the only one — he processes, barely, everyone else’s quick convergence, including the remaining charioteers — but he’s there first, diving into the wreckage seconds before anyone else is close enough.

There’s not a lot of actual debris, chariots being as small as they are, but the dust cloud from the track is so huge and the pieces of wood are so splintered that it feels like there is. As the dust settles, and he kicks some debris out of the way, he starts to see the shape of Will, kneeling, in front of a prone Clarisse and an ever-growing pool of blood.

There’s a bone sticking straight out of her thigh.

As the rest of the campers converge upon them, Will looks up and meets Nico’s eyes. His own blue eyes are dark, steely — determined, but afraid.

“I don’t have time,” is the only thing out of his mouth before he braces both hands on Clarisse’s leg, immediately starting to sing urgent hymns.

Nico understands.

“Lou, Julia, Chiara,” he barks, taking charge in absence of Will’s voice. The three girls snap forward to him immediately. “Sprint the the infirmary and tell them what happened. Austin’s on duty — make sure he doesn’t come with you, we need him to prep a surgical suite. Send everyone else and send them fast. Bring a stretcher.”

He turns to the Hephaestus kids. “Jake, Harley, start clearing the debris to make space. Damien, join them; move the big stuff first, small stuff is secondary. We need a space for Will to work and a space to lay the stretcher. Jen, Butch, Lacy —”

He barks off a list of orders, doing his best to channel the commands he’s watched Will give dozens and dozens of times. In minutes, he has the track cleared, Will’s medical bag dragged over from the stands, and everyone who is not helping stabilize out to the infirmary to help as needed.

As soon as there’s an opening, he rushes over to Will and Clarisse, kneeling by her head.

“Help is coming,” he promises, watching the glow dim and flicker in time with the rhythm of Will’s chanting. The bleeding has slowed, marginally, but he can tell from the volume of blood alone that this was an arterial hit. It’s going to take more than Will’s raw healing power, although there is a lot of it, to keep Clarisse alive and keep her leg functioning in recovery. He needs tools, he needs nectar and ambrosia; he needs the surgery suite. He needs time.

“Is it helpful for me to knock her out?”

Clarisse, of course, is still conscious. Barely — and in so much pain Nico will be surprised if she’s processing anything at all — but enough that every few seconds she lets out an agonised shout of pain, writhing and flinching so hard Will has to focus on steadying her as much as healing her.

Without breaking his song, eyes still trained on the injury, Will nods. Nico breathes, squaring his shoulders, then shuffled forward to rest Clarisse’s head gently in his lap, fingers pressed to her temples. He presses, hard enough to feel the beat of her heart — weak — through his fingertips, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s no son of Hypnos, but dreams are the Underworld’s domain. Are his domain, as heir and prince of the Underworld, in every way that matters, that can be counted.

He lets himself sink into careful limbo; body in physical space, mind and soul elsewhere. Not too much — he’s no use if he falls unconscious — but enough to slip into Clarisse’s mindscape, step into her subconscious.

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

Nico stumbles when he first walks in, nauseous despite being nothing but his own mind. It’s been a while since he’s experienced this kind of pain, his own or not, and he has to consciously beat back memories of brimstone and rot; liquid fire, endless red, red, red.

“Clarisse?” he calls, softly as he dares.

She doesn’t respond. He’s not sure she knows how to respond, even if she could. Cautious of the memory and emotion swirling around him, he steps forward. If he focuses, her anguish is pointed — is central. She will be at the centre of it.

He has volunteered, but he’s not sure he wants to follow.

Steeling himself, he shoulders through swirling masses of pain, of hurt, of fear. It’s blisteringly hot, and feels not unlike the sandstorm he was once stranded within, in the middle of the New Mexico desert four years ago. His face prickles; he’s blinded.

He trudges forward.

“Clarisse? Clarisse! Can you hear me? It’s Nico!”

Desperately and uselessly, he wishes he had more practice. Will has offered, the few times he’s needed to anaesthetize someone, but for the most time Nico has foolishly declined. Why on Earth he would pass up a much easier mindscape to navigate through in preparation for something like this is a mystery to him. Fuck.

“Clarisse! Try to — focus on me, can you hear me?”

He forces himself forward, a few more — well, there’s no distance in a mindscape, nothing measurable, anyway. He forces himself to look up, braving the assault to his face, and try to scan his surroundings. The swirling mass is more centralized, now, almost hurricane-like and conal. He’s closer than he was before, but if he can only find…

He looks up, and almost cries in relief: weak against the roaring storm, but still present, is a flickering, golden light. A very familiar light. Nico squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting out his own energy in an uncoordinated mass — boy, is that going to be uncomfortable to extract later — and flails wildly until he finally feels the warmth of Will’s energy entangling with his own, grounding him. He opens his eyes, and suddenly everything is clearer.

Clarisse kneels in the centre of her mindscape, hands pressed tightly to her ears, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Hey,” Nico murmurs, kneeling in front of her. It takes a few seconds, and a few moments of gentle coaxing, before she looks up.

“It hurts,” she croaks.

She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her — eyes brown and big and wet, pained, face twisted and chin trembling and achingly, unbelievably young. She is nineteen years old, but in that moment she appears almost childlike. The years of warrior’s hardness has abandoned her; she is armourless.

Nico swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

“Help me. Please.”

“Come here, Clarisse.” He reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around hers, tugging her close. The knee jerk discomfort at close contact is barely a flicker — he is so entwined in her right now that her fear has started to bleed into his; her rawness. He needs this comfort almost as much as she does. Right now she is a person, in agony, and so is he, and it is unbearable.

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

“Bed,” Nico says softly, rising up to meet him as he exits. It says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even protest, letting Nico place a hand on the small of his back and guide him past the on-call room, past the patient cots, past the Big House living room couches, past Cabin 7. He leads him across the common and right into Cabin 13, with its double beds and blackout curtains, with its insulated, soundproof walls. With Nico.

He helps him out of his bloodstained scrubs, peeling them off his skin and tossing them directly into a trash can. He’d guide him to the shower, usually, but there’s a — glassiness, to his eyes, that there usually isn’t after surgery. Nico chooses instead to skip it, guiding him into the sweatpants he left behind the last time he was here and an oversized The Doors t-shirt of Nico’s, and then to the spare bed he always uses, across from Nico’s. He peels the covers back for him like he’s a child, tucking him in, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He’s asleep in minutes, curled tightly around a pillow, furrowed crease not leaving the space between his eyebrows, even in sleep. Nico smooths it away with his thumb.

“Goodnight, Will,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his forehead.

He watches him sleep far past what is normal, and then slips back out of the cabin.

———

“On the bright side,” Will says, squeezing the hand that has left to leave Clarisse’s arm, “you’re free from your chariot race obligation! As am I!”

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

Will helpfully gets her a glass of water, fussing over her blankets while she drinks until she bats him away. Chris watches the whole thing with great amusement, shoulders brushing Nico’s.

“He’s a mother hen, isn’t he,” he comments, tilting his head in Will’s direction, who narrowly avoids having his fingers bitten off trying to feed her a square of ambrosia.

Nico snorts. “Yeah.” He watches the fussing for a few more seconds, making note of Will’s shaking hands, his shakier smile. “He’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do anything. She doesn’t blame him.”

Nico meets his dark look, mouth twisted in understanding. They both know this logic is futile.

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

“Will — stop it.” In a startlingly quick move for someone on as much morphine as she is, Clarisse darts out and clutches Will’s fluttering hands. He hesitates, wondering if it’s worth it to pull out of her hold and possibly jostle her leg. “I’m fine. And you’re still charioting.”

“You’re not fine,” Will frowns, conveniently ignoring the part of the sentence he doesn’t want to deal with. “Your femur snapped in half and tore through your femoral artery on its way out of your leg. You’re going to be on bedrest for a week at least, and it’ll be tender for a good long while besides. That’s what we in the medical business call a Big Fucking Deal.”

She tightens her hold, staring at him until he finally meets her eyes.

“Will.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still participating in the chariot race. I’m not asking.”

“It’ll have to wait until you’re better,” he says lightly. “Besides, we’re focusing on you right now.”

Nico can see in her face when she decides to switch strategies.

“Okay,” she says, stubborn glean in her eye, “then I’m asking you, as a personal request, to stay in the race. Or else I’ll drag myself onto a goddamn horse myself, killing myself in the process, and that will be on your head.”

The tactic works.

Will scowls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Clarisse doesn’t bother repeating herself, letting go of his wrists and readjusting her blankets.

“I am done talking now. I believe it’s time for morphine-induced unconsciousness. Please remember that I took down a drakon with my own bare hands; it is well within my abilities to drag myself out of heroin-haze and onto a chariot with no legs, let alone one. Good talk.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she leans back on her pillows and passes out. Genuinely, actually passes out — not closes her eyes, not behind to fall asleep; she is unconscious. Snores ring through the air.

“Well,” Chris says carefully, unfolding his arms. “It might be time to let Clarisse rest for a while.”

Will, healer that he is, cannot exactly argue with that. Will, drama queen that he is, decides to make his fury known by stomping out of the room, a feat in flip-flips possible by him alone.

“She is so infuriating!” he shouts the second they’re in the main room, startling several people. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I put effort in! I failed! She can’t even — it’s not even about spending time together, obviously, since I still have to do it! What does she want from me?!”

Chris, like Nico, has wisely decided to let the hypothetical questions remain hypothetical and stay silent, lest his fury be turned onto them. Ten minutes into Will’s rant, Chris excuses himself to go sit by Clarisse. Nico waves him off.

“Will,” Nico suggests the next time he takes a breath, “let’s maybe go for a walk.” He glances at the group of wide-eyed patients. “I think you’re scaring people.”

Deflating, Will nods, following Nico out the door. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for a walk.”

The fresh air probably doesn’t fix things, per se, but as they lap around the cabins, Will seems to droop further and further, curling in on himself. The anger recedes from his features.

“I feel really shitty,” he admits softly. “Just, like, generally.”

Nico softens like a goddamn slab of ice cream on hot pavement. For the second time in three days, he opens his arms in offering, although this time it’s significantly less difficult.

“Come here.”

Without even a beat of hesitation, Will collapses into him, arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin. Nico fights the urge to wince — Will, usually, takes quite a bit of pride in his height. He likes to be the one to wrap around people, not the other way around. Nico has been indoctrinated into Will-affection, in the time since the Giant War, and if Will is the one curling into him, seeking comfort, than he is struggling.

Nico hates it when Will struggles. He always feels out of his depth.

“There, there,” he hedges, feeling a good bit like an NPC. “It’ll be okay.”

Will makes a small, wounded noise. “You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes I do, I know everything forever. I’ve never been wrong even one time in my life.”

His awkward attempt at lightening the mood is rewarded by Will’s laugh. It’s slight, and nowhere near the brightness it usually is, but it’s there and it’s genuine and that’s all Nico wanted, really.

“You good?” Nico asks softly, squeezing his arms.

Will nods. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

Nico wraps his arms impossibly tighter, aching at the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“As long as you need.”

———

The last practice before the chariot race is nowhere near as fun to watch as the others. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Clarisse, casted and upright, appoints her brother Sherman to race in her place, much to both his and Will’s very vocal complaints. Will’s, because he still doesn’t want to race at all and especially not now that Clarisse is out of the running, and Sherman’s because, well, when isn’t Sherman complaining about having to breathe the same air as someone or whatever.

Clarisse silences both of them with a glare. “Do it,” she orders.

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

The practice race is awful. Nico is surprised, frankly, that they managed to finish at all, as badly behind as they managed. He could practically hear their squabbling all the way from the stands. For as much as Will is generally easy to get along with, he’s impossible when he’s stubborn, and worse when he’s petulant. He takes every command from Sherman like it’s a personal offence, and Sherman, being who he is, does too. Every shout to veer right or deflect an attack somehow sounds like a jab at Will’s speed, or a remark about his general intelligence. When they stomp off the track, helmets thrown in a heap with the rickety chariot, Nico is almost relieved.

“We’re going to lose, tomorrow, and I can’t wait,” hisses Will darkly, fists curled at his sides.

Nico watches him warily. “You’re not even going to try?”

“What, so he can remind me that even when I’m trying I’m a useless idiot? Not a chance.”

Nico has to almost jog to keep up with him, striding as powerfully as he is. He’s not even sure where he’s going — he seems to be, mostly, going away from the track and from Sherman, wherever that may be.

“You’re not a useless idiot,” Nico offers, when some of the stormcloud has lessened its hold on Will’s usually sunny face. “Nobody thinks you’re a useless idiot.”

Will closes his eyes, sighing. “I know.”

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

“It feels very, very weird to be the optimistic and comforting one, right now.”

Will snorts, finally meeting his eyes. “I know.” He flops onto the ground, cheek resting in his knees, and pats the space next to him. Nico sits much more delicately. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately.”

“You’ve been stressed,” Nico points out. “A little assholery is warranted.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Nico knocks their shoulders together. “I forgive you, then.”

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

For a while they sit in comfortable silence, watching the hustle and bustle of camp. Will’s presence is a comforting one, even though Nico can feel the turmoil leeching off of him. Strangely because of that, actually — sometimes Nico feels like he’s the only one who struggles out of the two of them. Will spends so much of his time smiling and joking and lecturing, hands on his hips, that Nico had almost forgotten that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, either. He’s just good at faking it.

“I’ll be watching, tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “And I won’t, like, bring pom-poms, or anything, but I’ll be cheering you on.”

Will grins tiredly. “Silently and in your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

His smile softens considerably, melting into something almost shy, before he turns back to face forward.

“Well, then, damn. I guess I’ll have to try.”

———

On the morning of the chariot race, Will acts like Nico is escorting him to his goddamn execution.

“It is a race that will last a maximum of twenty minutes,” Nico says with no small amount of exasperation, “including prep time.”

Will looks no less grim. “A twenty minutes that will never be returned to me.”

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

He drops him off at his chariot with a quick pat on the shoulder, jogging back to the stands. They’re full, today, as expected, with every camper and countless others cramped into the minimal space. Nico looks at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, and is about to consider breaking his promise and fleeing back to his cabin before he sees a doodled-on hand stick in the air, waving wildly. He exhales in relief and heads over to sit in the spot Kayla and Austin have cleared between them.

“How miserable is he?” Kayla asks brightly, tapping her purple shoes. “He left before we woke up this morning. Assumedly to sprint around camp a few times like a feral cat.”

“Pretty miserable,” Nico answers. He reaches over to pat Austin’s head when he rests on his shoulder, knowing he’s nervous even if he tries not to show it. “A lot of it is self-induced, though. Like, yeah, Sherman is going to be a dick and it’s going to be stressful, but I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, this is among the least stressful things he’s ever been forced to deal with.”

“There was that one time he had to remove a brain tumour in the middle of the forest,” Austin muses. “I think that was probably pretty stressful for him.”

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

“Demigod life is a nightmare,” he settles on eventually.

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

They lapse into silence as they turn back to the racetrack, evaluating the turnout.

Competition will be hefty.

Sherman has finally arrived, Ares horses in tow. The garish things look almost wrong next to the brightness off the flying Apollo chariot, but that may just be the tension between the team’s charioteers that’s so potent it seems to warp the air around them. Nico is vaguely surprised that they’re managing to stand so civilly next to each other, even if they could not be more visibly uncomfortable. Will, at least, tries for a smile, which drops immediately when Sherman mutters something too quiet to be picked up this far.

Nico sighs. This is going to be hard to watch.

There are about twenty other chariots lines up. Hermes, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite-Iris, like at practice, but Athena is competing too, as well as Nike, as per usual, and Tyche. In fact Nico, and by extension Hades, is one of the few cabins not participating — everyone else seems primed and ready for a chance of laurels and extra dessert. And, of course, settling personal rivalries via bloodshed, et cetera, et cetera.

The biggest competition, if Nico had to quantify it, will be Hephaestus, tricky as they were during practice; Athena, for obvious reasons; and Will and Sherman themselves will be their own worst enemy. He can’t tell if it would be better for them to fail out early to avoid racketing tension up further, or last close to the end to keep things at a healthy simmer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The second warning whistle goes off, and the chariots rush to the starting line — Will and Sherman at third position, Demeter to their left, Dionysus-Hypnos to their right. The stands go silent, the charioteers get in position, and with a sharp, shrill whistle, they’re off.

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

In the ground with the settling dust are three separate chariots, including, surprisingly, Hermes, whose rigging backfired and sent their entire chariot up in smoke. They are luckily unharmed due to their unusually well-prepared fireproof armour, but neither Julia nor Connor seem too pleased about being out so soon.

The rest of the race continues on without them. Athena has a decent stretch of first place, but Nike is following fast. Behind them, barely a hair’s breadth of distance, is Will and Sherman, rocketing forward smoothly. Unlike Clarisse, Sherman does not care for giving Will any learning opportunities — despite the horses being Ares’, Will is on the reigns. Sherman is armed with his sword and his spear, slashing and jabbing at anyone who gets too close. Neither Ares or Apollo is big on tricks, not like some of the craftier cabins, but together they’re fast and strong and make a formidable opponent.

Or, well, they would. If they were working together, rather than two people simply being in the same chariot.

They cross into the second lap, Will guiding them across the innermost ring to move them up past Nike. They’re gaining on Athena, now, but that won’t be an easy task — challenging the camp’s wisest never is.

Kayla hisses through her teeth. “Shit.” She purses her lip at the trailing Nike chariot — they’re gaining, and they’re seething. Damien — at least Nico thinks it’s Damien, it’s hard to tell with the helmets — has an arsenal of throwing knives poised in his left hand, and as his teammate steers them steady, he takes aim. Nico has to resist the urge to shout a warning.

As the short knife sails towards the reigns wrapped around Will’s hands, though, aim ringing true, Will’s spine goes ramrod straight. Almost as if he can feel it. With an eighth of a second to spare, he shifts and jerks his hands out of the way, avoiding the knife and managing, somehow, to stay on track.

With a skill and ferocity that has Nico’s jaw brushing his toes, Will dodges all eight of the knives lobbed in his direction. In one memorable manoeuvre, he rips his left hand from the reigns, holding them in his teeth, and uses it to shove Sherman down behind the wall of the chariot right before a knife would have lodged itself in his uncovered cheek. Out of weapons, he steers their chariot right next to Nike, allowing Sherman to sever their reigns and send them rolling to a sad, victory-less stop.

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

Athena’s chariot has a lead, but their chariot is built for stability, not speed. They’ve accounted for every possible sabotage and built accordingly. They have not accounted for, however, stubbornness and sheer force of Will. The Ares-Apollo chariot gains on them, helmets glinting, skeletal horses gaining faster, faster, faster. Both Sherman and Malcom, Nico believes, have their spears drawn, ready, as the space between them gets smaller and smaller, to fight barbarically for first — for honour.

Nico doubts even Rachel, powers of prophecy fully restored, could predict what happens next.

Either too furious to accept a loss or simply deciding to throw the game, one of the Nike charioteers crawls out from their carriage, darting onto the live track. They scan the ground, looking for something. When they stand in the dead centre of the track, body perfectly tense, gripping something glinting in their hand, Nico gets it.

Austin gasps, nails digging into Nico’s arm. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone can say anything, they take aim. They measure once, twice, and then let the knife loose with deadly precision, knife cutting through the air with ease and hurdling with impossible power towards to two finalists chariots.

If the knife hits the Athena chariot, it will slice clean through the axle. Architectural wonder it may be, the chariot cannot withstand Celestial bronze at terminal velocity, and it will give, and the chariot will crumple. In an effort to lesson the chariot’s load, the Athena charioteers have largely forgone armour. Their fall will be painful and disastrous; as deadly as Clarisse’s, if not moreso. A hit to the Ares-Apollo chariot will be similarly as race-ending, but both Will and Sherman are in full armour. It will be bruising, but not deadly. They will lose, but they will survive.

All they need to do to win is shift, just slightly, so that the knife hits the Athena chariot.

Will, like with all the others before it, seems to feel this knife coming. Unlike the others, he glances backwards, looking at the knife, looking back at the Athena chariot. Sherman follows his gaze, and seems to realize what Will has calculated a split second after he does. He shouts something — presumably an order to move, to shift, to sabotage.

Will hesitates.

The knife hits the Ares-Apollo chariot, slicing through the left wheel.

It careens around, unbalanced, dragged into a heap by untethered horses.

The Athena chariot pulls forward to victory, the remaining functioning chariots quickly following.

The Ares-Apollo canon is left broken and humiliated only a few feet from victory, the almost-first-place.

———

As soon as they come off the track, things get messy. Both Will and Sherman are covered in dirt and grime, striped with grease from the broken wheels, bleeding sluggishly from various scraps. Sherman has his non-flailing hand clamped to an oozing wound on the side of his neck, and Will is limping.

“—and I cannot fucking believe you, Solace! All I asked for was effort!”

“Oh, forgive me,” Will says sarcastically, finally close enough to hear. “In the hustle and bustle of being shot at, I made a couple errors.”

“That gonna be your attitude in battle? ‘Oh, sorry, there was a monster chasing me so I lost all focus —’”

“Battles are not usually fought on a chariot going a hundred fucking miles per hour!”

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

“What, Sherman, fucking what? What indisputable flaw do I have, oh great one, that needs to be so desperately remedied?”

It’s startling when Will’s composure cracks. When he goes from bitey and sarcastic, eye-rolling from his usual distance, to right in Sherman’s face. It’s eerie to see him at his full height, no slouching, reminding anyone watching that yeah, actually, their laidback medic is six-two, strong, capable, in more ways than what they’re used to.

Sherman, in usual Ares kid fashion, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your reflexes, for starters,” he says coolly. “No matter what you do, Solace, you’re always one second too fucking late.”

A collective gasp ricochets through the gathered campers. The tension rackets up so rapidly that Nico coughs, lungs suddenly constricted. Will rears back so violently Nico is half-convinced Sherman actual punched him.

Sherman, for his part, seems to realise he’s crossed some kind of line. The cold look on his face twists into a scowl, uncomfortable and apologetic at once. “Look, Will, I just mean —”

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

Will’s quiet voice seems to echo through the entirety of the valley, cutting through laboured breathing of charioteers, pegasus neighing, even the crashing of the waves in the distant shore — everything goes silent.

Nico likes to think he knows Will pretty well. He knows what he sounds like when he’s giggly, watching his siblings argue about nothing; when he’s excitable, rambling about his newest obsession; when he can’t choose between amused and stern at whatever dumb thing Nico has gotten himself into. He knows what he sounds like when he’s exhausted, too, overworked and done with everything; when he’s annoyed, when he’s hurt and sad.

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

“Of all people.” His words are articulated, deliberate. The usual warmth of his eyes is gone. He’s completely still in a way he never is outside of surgery — no shaking in his perpetually trembling hands, no bounce to his curls, none of the constant energy that seems to constantly exude off him. Still, cold. Icy. “You do not get to talk to me about being one second too late.”

Sherman looks stricken. Guilt is written across each of his features, and for a second he steps back — as if afraid.

“Will, I —”

The son of Apollo turns without another word, striding over to the distant tree line and disappearing into the woods. No one chases after him.

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

“You fucking idiot!” Clarisse explodes, the second Will is out of eyesight. She bats Chris’s hand away from her, and he, surprisingly, lets her go easily — his usually understanding face has hardened. She hobbles towards her brother, remarkably quick with her clunky cast, and starts truly tearing into him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing! One!”

Sherman quickly gets defensive under the scrutiny. “Well, you didn’t make it fucking easy! Just because he’s your protege doesn’t mean he’s my fucking problem —”

Nico doesn’t stick around to listen to their argument. He searches around the gathered crowd until he meets Kayla’s eyes, flicking his head towards the woods. She nods frantically. Knowing he’ll make sure they have privacy, he takes off, aiming for the same place Will went, barely slowing down once he enters the forest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will?” he calls, well aware he’s not going to get an answer. “Where are you?”

While there’s definitely no response from Will, he damn near jumps out of his skin when a dryad melts from her tree, shuffling towards him.

“Blond boy?” she asks, leaning close so he can hear her whisper. “Tall? Crying?”

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

“Headed down southeast, ways past Zeus’ fist.“

“Thank you,” he says, hoping she understands how much he means it.

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

Following her directions, Nico jogs down beaten paths, heading in the direction that he is vaguely sure is southeast and mostly praying that he’ll find Will eventually. He shouldn’t have that much of a head start, since Nico left maybe five minutes after he did, but who knows. Will’s fast, and sometimes this forest seems bigger than it really is. It’s easy to get lost.

He searches for what feels like hours, and might actually be hours; sky darkening as the sun disappears into the lake. The temperature drops significantly. Nico is hoping that he won’t be spending the night sleeping in the dirt when he hears sniffling.

Heart pounding, he freezes, focusing on the sound. It’s muffled, sobs choked-off and sound hidden behind cupped hands. The echo sounds strange, too; it’s close, that much is obvious, but Nico almost can’t tell if it’s coming from the left or the right. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like either.

On impulse, he looks up. Almost invisible in the branches of a large oak tree is Will, stained clothes blending in with the scratchy bark, leaves covering the rest of him.

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

Worried that calling out to him might startle him right off the tree, Nico begins to climb. He’s not great at climbing — he doesn’t have a natural sense of what is and isn’t a good foothold — but oak trees are easy. Every half-step has a branch, and this tree is old enough that the branches are thick, sturdy. He’s twenty feet up before he even realizes, barely breaking a sweat.

He pauses a few feet shy of his target, straightening until he’s standing on an almost flat branch, arm looped tightly around the trunk.

“Will.”

Will startles. He looks around frantically, struggling in the dark, until his bloodshot eyes finally land on Nico. He bursts into more tears, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

“Woah, Will, breathe, vita, breathe —”

He’s not sure what tree-sobbing etiquette is, but regular sobbing etiquette often involves some kind of comforting physical touch, so he goes with that. And Will, he knows, likes to be crowded, likes to be almost suffocated with the sights and touch and smells of other people, to remind him he’s not alone, even if he feels it. So Nico scoots as closely as he dares, legs wrapped around the branch, and slides one arm around Will’s back, one against his chest, and tugs him closely.

Will comes easily.

With a bit of manoeuvring, he’s tucked under Nico’s chin, shoulders hunched and shaking, enveloped entirely in Nico’s arms. He can feel a wet spot growing on his left sleeve, and honestly he should be at least a little bit disgusted, but he barely even notices. He’s too busy fighting the lump in his own throat, blinking back his own tears.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s curls. “Let it out, Will. You’re allowed.”

Will wails, a deep, choking, broken sound, and Nico loses the battle with his own tears. He’s never heard Will like this. He’s never heard anyone like this, except himself, in the echo of this same forest, years ago. It hurts like biting ice.

“It hurts, they’re gone, they’re gone, and I hate them, I hate them so much —” he heaves, dragging in breath like it cost him to say it, like part of his soul was dragged out of his vocal chords — “and I hate myself for hating them, I hate, they’re gone, I’m never —”

He dissolves into sobs, again, words breaking into nothing understandable, crying around the same repetitions over and over again. Nico hides his crumpling face in Will’s hair, wincing at every broken cry, every hitched breath, every moaned word. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million fractals. He’s never felt so out of depth in his life.

“Let it out,” he whispers again, for a lack of anything else to say. “Let it out, sweetheart, let it out.”

For a long time, Nico had no one to hold him.

When he lost Bianca, he was by himself. And when he thought he had someone to guide him, someone to fix him, he was wrong — he was vulnerable and easy to manipulate. He had no one to hold him until he was too bitter and too closed off to let himself fall apart, anyway, and losing Bianca stayed somewhere rotten inside him, a bruise that never, ever stopped aching.

Until Will.

Last December he had cracked like an egg. He hadn’t meant to — it wasn’t even in the back of his mind — but he’d opened the door to Will’s smiling face on the morning, cold and sad as it was, and just started bawling. Some part of him, some deep, buried part, stomped it’s way from the prison Nico had kept it in and took the hell over, yanking open the floodgates, forcing him to expel every last drop of shadowy, strangling pain that had stayed inside him so long. He thought he was going to die. His entire body shook and jerked like a rowboat in a deep ocean storm, and it had been Will’s lighthouse, his endless, light eyes, his warm hands, his firm hold that had held him steady until he’d dragged himself out to the other side. It was and is the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. And the most important.

He doesn’t think Will has had anyone to hold him, before, either. Not ‘til right this moment. Not Chiron, not his mother, and certainly not an older sibling. Will has been running on empty for as long as Nico has known him. Longer.

“Let it out,” Nico whispers again, and holds him tighter.

———

By the time either of them move again, it’s pale, early morning, and they’re damp from the dew and Will’s tears. Nico is as stiff as the tree he’s sitting on, but doesn’t dare say a word about it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Will croaks, the first either of them have spoken in hours.

Nico tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, resting a gentle hand on his cheek. “Okay.”

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can stay a while.” Nico pulls away slightly, just enough so that he can cradle Will’s face in both hands, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Will. As long as you need.”

“What if I’ll never have enough time?”

“Then I’ll stay with you until time runs out.” He presses a tentative, careful kiss to the centre of his freckled forehead; staying when Will shudders, leaning into it. Against his skin, he murmurs, “But you’ll have enough time, vita. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong.”

“So don’t, I gotcha.” He presses another kiss slightly above the first, and another, resting again at the crown of his head. “But you can be.”

They stay like that until Nico’s face starts to go numb, and even then he doesn’t go far, shifting so his cheek lays on the top of Will’s skull. He ignores the slight tickle of his curls against his nose, focusing instead on the brand of his hands on his waist, the shakey but constant inhales, holds, exhales, again, again, again.

“Clarisse is my friend,” Will starts. “She was as important to me as — as Cass, before the war.”

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

“And you resent her for it, a little.”

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s human, Will, Christ.” He moves them around so they’re both sitting facing each other, Nico’s eyes firmly meeting Will’s. “I will never fully forgive Percy for letting Bianca die. Never. It’s not fair to him, and I love him anyway, and I am choosing to move past it. But I will carry that burden. Am I disgusting for that?”

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

“Clarisse actively chose her pride over her people. So did the rest of her cabin. She’s not fully responsible for that choice, and the blame, as always, lands on Kronos’ shoulders, but —” Nico laughs, a bitter, defeated sound. “Out of all of us, you lost the most. No one lost as many as Apollo. No one burned as many shrouds. You’re allowed to be hurt, allowed to be angry.”

“I forgave them,” Will admits. “I did it publicly and called off the stupid rivalry right after the war. It was the first thing I did as head counsellor.”

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

“Are you kidding me, he —” Will scoffs, swiping at the tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. “If Michael were alive, and he found out I forgave them after what happened to Lee, too Diana — he would have been furious. He would stop speaking to me. If I was trying to be like Michael, I might’ve refused them treatment.”

Nico tries to imagine that for a second — Will refusing anyone treatment. It makes something sour uncurl in his stomach, something unsettling.

“You would never refuse someone treatment. I didn’t even — I didn’t think you guys were allowed.”

Will shrugs. “There are no rules to our practice. I just never made refusal an option, and the kids are too young to know any different.”

‘The kids’ — as if Kayla and Austin aren’t as old or older than Will was when he was in charge, when he held the bashed pieces of his brother’s brain as it oozed out of his skull. As he sat, exhausted, hands shaking, next to Nico, and embroidered twelve shrouds. As if Yan and Gracie are his, rather than Apollo’s.

“You forgave them so your siblings wouldn’t grow up bitter,” Nico realises. “Oh, gods, Will.”

He shrugs again, picking at his nails. “For me too. Grudges aren’t healthy.” He tries for a teasing smile. “You’d know.”

“I would.” Nico tries to smile back. It’s easier than he thought it would be, although it fades back into something serious quickly. He reaches out, linking his hands with Will’s to stop him picking before he bleeds. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know.”

“Not in front of anyone.”

“You’re admitting it in front of me,” Nico points out.

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

“You get it.” He looks down, voice quiet. “You get me. I can —” He meets Nico’s eyes again, a kind of helpless smile on his face. “I dunno. You’re safe. You’re okay with me, even when I’m ugly.”

“Even then,” Nico echoes quietly. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear again, even though none were loose. His fingertips linger, and the skin under his touch warms. “Especially then.”

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

He slumps forward until his forehead rests on the swell of Nico’s shoulder, breaths warming the air between them. Nico tries to match his rhythm — in, out, in, out. Hold. Out, in.

“Can we — hide here, for a little bit? Just a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico murmurs, squeezing his wrists. “I’ll hide you as long as you need.”

A Thief's Only Enemy

(BASED ON OPLA!Nami) cross-posted on ao3 !!

Nami, the trees whisper. Its tangerine drops against the soil like a ripple in the sea. She remembers the wind passing by the orchard, the dots of tangerines in the horizon, the smell of citrus making every air she breathed worthed and sour. 

Her tongue catches the taste. Her words become citrus. 

Once and now, the trees would whisper her name. Nami, Nami, Nami— our daughter, look at the curiosity—She doesn’t know what that means. Quite frankly, Nami doesn’t recall a memory that whispered her name the way the tangerine trees would. She couldn’t remember what it had meant, what it had sounded like. She couldn’t remember the significance of names. Of course, the significance of names other than Mom, and Nojiko. 

Nojiko, who is her sister, (who isn’t her sister), whose skin reaches more than a tree’s roots, underneath the soil, nurturing and caring. Who had held her, who squeezed her tighter, closer, protectively when Belle-Mere had found them. 

Then, there was her mother, oh, sweet mother. Who had said “I just knew” undoubtedly, who had been the first one to answer her questions truthfully, who had left her knowing that she and Nojiko were loved. 

(This is what life first stole: her name. It is buried until Nojiko and Belle-Mere latches themselves in her heart. They make a home there. They pump her blood and provide for her. This is what life first stole: when the home is in flames and the trees rots—when her mother fell with her skull-cracked, blood spilling between the gaps of wood, the soil carries her sacrifice. The village carries her body, they dig beside a wide tree of tangerines, they place her there. She is buried there. With a piece of Nami and Nojiko ever-beating love for each other.)

You are my daughters, I will not deny that. Nami remembers, she remembers many things. She remembers Arlong’s stupid gun, his stupid smile. She remembers Nojiko’s spiteful look when she left with Arlong. She remembers the way her sister’s blue hair reflected the emotions she felt. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: the tranquillity and war of sisterhood. She thought of the consequences because her mother had told them to be as strong as boys, and that, if they survived, good times will come. Nami knew—you see, she was a thief, then and now, thievery is mixed up with trickery—that her village would not survive Arlong’s grasp. He is a fishmen, no human in their village could deny that they were scarred with his ever-growing laughter the moment he claimed them. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she would take back: sisterhood.)

Nojiko’s hair never went past its original length, she still looks like her sister: Nami’s sister. 

Arlong’s tattoo says otherwise. She would breathe in, her hands were bruised from labour. She used to love the lines that curve to make the islands, cartography offered newness other than the mundane shackles around her once soil-covered ankles. Nesh tears pickled her citrus-covered face, her hair would be dried. She would hug her chest, carry the weight of the knowledge she possessed. 

(This is what life stole from her: freedom. The ability to breathe the citrus air, or the raw wind against her skin. Of course, Nami would grow out those shackles, she knew, her mother had told her and Nojiko that their bodies were not meant to stay in this shape. She had known that she would not stay in this vessel of a tiny girl. Yet, she could not bring herself to hope. To hope that she would live one. This is what life stole from her: freedom. The freedom to make friends. The freedom to have ridiculous hope). 

Nami grew. She had to. For Coco Village. For Nojiko. For her mother. She had to. She learned how to keep her hair the same shape, she learned to observe the sky while slipping berries out of a stranger’s pockets. She learned the meaning of her name from a stolen book, how reflecting her eyes could be in the ocean. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: a life surrounded with fishmen that would go after her, wherever she went. And she had all but herself to blame, the moment her foot made contact with the wooden floor, the moment she had blurted out that she wanted to join. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she thinks she would never get back: a life she calls her own.) 

(my thoughts are always on the tags!!) ♡ PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG TO SUPPORT ME.

the most important thing when i write dipper and mabel is to understand that they are not stan and ford.

that's not to say that there aren't similarities. obviously, the twins have dynamics that can be compared to each other in a myriad of ways, both separately and together.

but it's so very vital that dipper is NOT a 1:1 ford. and mabel is NOT a 1:1 stan.

dipper has ford's love of rationality and mysteries, but he has stan's love of stories and family. mabel has stan's pure chaos, but ford's pre-bill trust in people.

dipper and stan both approach the world with cynicism. young ford and mabel approach the world with wonder.

stan was the twin worried about being left behind, just like mabel. ford and dipper both wanted to carve a path for themselves and their future.

mabel was so scared of losing her brother that she accidentally caused weirdmaggedon, just like stan was worried about losing ford that he accidentally sabatoged ford's science project/collegiate future. but dipper was the one who fought like hell mostly by himself in the apocalypse for three days to get her back, just like stan worked for thirty years to save ford. there is nothing dipper wouldn't sacrifice for mabel.

in my humble opinion, this is why the pines family dynamic is so damn compelling. they aren't carbon copies because that's not how people work. there is a sincerity, an honesty, a relatability between all of these characters and their flaws.

mabel and dipper aren't just the younger version of their grunkles. they are a crazy mishmash of the best and worst traits swapped around and punted to the moon and back.

exploring each micro-dynamic is so fascinating. i love this weird little family.

Billy practice, i was bored and had time,

Billy boy <3

Hi again, I'm back with another fandom!

I have been dragged into another fandom and I of course wrote more fanfic about it! Arcane my angel with a disorder....

My wife's favorite character is Viktor, so as a gift I've written part 1 of a 2 part character study and I'm actually very proud of it! It's not explicitly JayVik yet but we have a healthy bit of jealousy and yearning.

worthy

Hello! I am back from the dead, this time with a new fandom. Whoops. Take it away, Fruits Basket 2019!

Heads up, this contains references to suicide, self harm, and pregnancy. Akito uses they/them pronouns because I am a they/them and I say so. 

***

Akito sits in the darkness of their room, the screens closed. The shadows darkened, stretching across the room as the sun set. They watched it, as the shadows overtook the pale skin or their feet, traveled up their thin body, chased their fingers. It lingered on their neck, then swallowed up their face. Akito closes their eyes.

The shadows were all they had, now. Everyone was gone. Well, everyone but Shigure. But sometimes, they thought the shadows and silence were better than his pity. 

After the zodiac curse had been broken, Akito had become a shell of a human. Who were they, without the god they had always been? What were they, now that the part that had made them up had been severed? Akito avoided mirrors now, avoided those dark and haunted eyes that they hardly recognized. 

They drifted, most days. The staff probably thought of them as a ghost - a haunted thing, not quite here, not quite human. 

What did you do when holiness was stripped from you? What did you do when your life became as inconsequential as anyone else’s?

Akito’s eyes open, straying to the corner of the room when someone - Shigure, most likely - raps their knuckles against the frame of the door. 

“What?” They snap, and they can hear a bit of the old Akito. Bile rises in their throat. 

The door slides open, and there’s the rustle of a kimono before it slides shut again. A hand slides through their hair.

“It isn’t good for you to sit in the dark like this, you know,” Shigure murmurs. 

Akito allows themself to linger in the simple touch. Their long eyelashes flicker, and they tip their head a bit to look up at him. Shigure’s dark eyes were shadowed with worry. They flick their tongue over their bottom lip, gathering their strength.

“My head hurts.” They murmur, letting their hand tangle in the soft fabric of his kimono.

His gaze softens, his hand coming down to hold theirs, sitting down on the floor beside them. “Do you want me to call Hatori?” 

“No,” they whisper. This wasn’t the kind of hurt Hatori could fix. How could they ask him to, anyway? They had been so awful to him. To everyone. It was a wonder anyone had stayed at all. Besides, how did you fix a heart so fractured? Everyone had taken a piece of them when they had left. 

Shigure casts a measuring gaze of their small form, swallowed by swathes of fabric. They wanted to spit something nasty at him, drive him back. Don’t look at me, they wanted to beg. Don’t tell me what you see. 

The worst part was, Shigure had always been the one to stay. He’d been the one to comfort, to calm, to council. He was a rock, stable and stubborn. Harsh words hadn’t done much to him. 

“Alright,” He concedes at last, settling in beside them. His hand held theirs, like they were something precious. Something worthy of holding close. Akito swallows a lump in their throat and stares at the blank wall in front of them.

How did one find purpose after it was stripped away from them?

They throw up their dinner that night.

***

“You’ve got a high fever,” Hatori tells them in that flat voice of his. His back was to them, writing something in the chart they knew contained pages on pages of ailments they’d contracted over the years. “I’ll send you back with some fever reducers. You’d do well to rest. No strenuous activity for a few days, at least.”

Akito wants to laugh at that. When had they ever done anything that required more physical energy than a tantrum? 

Hatori turns back to them, fixing them with his stern gaze. It was funny, they think distantly, you could hardly tell he was half blind, with the looks he gave his patients. 

“Shigure tells me you haven’t been eating well lately.” His voice snaps them out of their head.

A familiar flash of rage wells up, but they’re too tired to do anything other than hold their hospital gown a bit tighter in their small fists. Their small mouth twists down at the edges, and they have to look away from Hatori. 

“You know you have to eat, Akito,” Hatori says, in that voice he used when they were a child and refused to take their cough medicine or sit still for a checkup. “That’s probably what’s caused your fever.”

“I’m not hungry,” they hear themself say, in a voice that does not belong to Akito. None of them belongs to Akito. 

Hatori gives them a brief, disapproving frown. It rips through them, right to the core. Severs them in half, shatters their torn heart and makes their insides bleed. Didn’t they see? Why couldn’t they see?

“Well, starve yourself if you want. But I highly recommend against it.” He says, in a short, impatient tone he never would’ve used before. 

He turns again, opening a cabinet to pull out a bottle, to give them more pills to choke down. Something desperate claws its way from their gut, scraping against their mouth, leaving gouges in their throat. 

“Hatori,” they say, this side of desperate. 

You have to know I didn’t mean it. You have to know that wasn’t me. Please, please know. Please forgive me. Please be gentle with me. 

Hatori turns to look at them, and they can see the annoyance in the crease of his brow, in the harsh line of his mouth. They can feel the hatred simmering beneath his skin, can feel the way he wishes they were dead. 

Or maybe that was just them. 

Their desperation dies in the face of it, withers to nothing. The small burst of mania vanishes, and they hold his gaze, struck dumb and mute.

“Yes?” He prods in that gentle way of his.

Akito tips their head forward, their temples pounding. “I’m sorry.” They say, their voice a whisper. 

The silence that follows threatens to drown them. They feel it rising from the floor like a flood, menacing and desperate and horrible. Akito looks up, and their breath catches in their chest. 

Hatori looked… shocked. Hatori looked like he had when they’d dug their thumbs into his eye, like he had when Kana had screamed, like he had when they’d laughed in his face and shook his blood from their fingers.

His blue eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly open. Akito bleeds, their insides cleaved apart. 

Just as soon as it appeared, Hatori shakes the shock away. He shakes the look away, into that mask of passivity he always wore. “Well,” he says, turning to their chart. “Let me go get the pills for you.” He closes the thick binder, hurrying from the room like Akito was a fire that threatened to burn him to ashes. 

The door slides shut behind him. Alone in the office, Akito puts their head in their hands and weeps. 

***

“I want to go away.”

Shigure’s hand pauses where it was tracing their pale hip. They were naked, sweat lingering in the swampy heat of a midsummer night. He props himself up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, looking down over them. 

“Away?” He repeats, his hand tracing the slight of their body. Akito lets it ground them, nodding. 

After another minute of silence, Shigure hums. “Where would we go?”

We. Akito’s insides twist at the word. They didn’t deserve we. They didn’t even deserve me. They deserved it. Monster, tormentor, demon. All the things Kyo had been wrongfully labelled and more. 

“I don’t know,” they say callously, pushing their hair from their face. “Away. Not here.”

This earns them a small curve of an amused smile. “Well,” Shigure sighs. “I have been meaning to take a vacation. Think about where you’d like to go, yeah? I’ll make arrangements. Hatori will have my head if I steal you away without a proper exam.”

Akito can’t help but indulge the wave of selfishness that makes them turn, makes them wrap their thin arms around him and hold on tight. They let themself feel relief when he pulls them closer with an arm around their waist and buries his nose in their sweat-damp hair. 

You don’t deserve this, they remind themself. You are on borrowed time. You have never earned this.

“Are you alright?” Shigure asks in that delicate way of his. Akito knows that delicateness is born from fear, from the need to step on eggshells. 

“Fine,” they answer.

***

“America, huh? That’s exciting.” Mayuko leans forward over the table. 

It was a wonder that Hatori and Mayuko had come to dinner in the first place. Shigure had been the one to ask, though, and Akito didn’t miss the way Mayu watched her words around them. 

“Yes, well, Akito was very insistent.” Shigure says with his devil-may-care attitude, reaching for his drink. Mayu looks over at them, gives them a thin smile. 

“I think it was a terrible choice,” Hatori says, not for the first time. 

He’d tried to argue them out of it, at first, but had broken after Akito had gotten up to leave, taking it as them going to lash out. They’d stopped at the door, realizing why he’d flinched, and left with a slam of the door. Just to feel the walls shake. Just to feel anything other than the dark pit that yawned in their stomach. 

Akito holds their chopsticks a bit tighter, shooting Hatori an annoyed look. They see him pause, see Mayu tense. They feel Shigure’s gaze on their head. 

“You know Akito,” Shigure interjects, before Akito has any idea of what to do next. “Stubborn to the very end.”

The tension in the room relaxes, and Shigure goes back to teasing the newlyweds, leaving Akito to pick at their rice in silence. They hardly say a word that night, but Shigure fills their silence enough for the two of them. 

When they bid Hatori and Mayu a goodnight, Akito watches them and wonders what it’s like to be in love with something other than self destruction.

***

San Francisco reminds Akito of Tokyo in all the worst ways. There are too many people, too much noise, too much smog. The cars are loud, the people are loud, and they hardly understand a lick of English. This had been a terrible idea. Hatori was right, as he usually was. 

Shigure seems to be having the time of his life, however, and Akito tries their best to join him in his excitement. After they spend a day sleeping off their jetlag, he drags them around the beachside city. They visit Nihonmachi first, and Akito finds peace in the familiarity of it. 

Here, the people had no idea who Akito was. Here, Akito was just a foreign visitor, someone who could be anyone. It felt freeing, and for the first time since they could remember, Akito relaxed. 

They were the first to speak when they ordered food. They bickered with Shigure, who seemed shocked that they were even speaking in the first place. They traded stories with the shop owners and their children, reveling in the wide eyed innocence of youth and the nostalgia of days long passed.

They felt sad when it was finally time to go, time to retire for the night. But Shigure was as familiar with their body as they were, and he could see as they pushed through the tiredness into dangerous territory. He had to practically carry them from the district, back to their hotel.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” He asks in the shower that evening, holding them up as their body submitted to the weakness it had always known.

They close their eyes as he drags a warm, soapy cloth down their spine, and they let themself smile. “Yes,” they say, and they mean it.

***

On their final day, Shigure drags them to an old Catholic church, citing he wanted to do some research for a book he’s writing. 

The structure is odd to Akito, very western. The religion was even more foreign, hardly making sense to them. But the building had a haunting, empty quality about it that they could sympathize with. 

Shigure leads them into the large building, into a huge room with stained glass windows depicting men and women and children. Akito was sure they meant something, but to them, it was just pretty imagery. 

They’re left by the altar as Shigure goes to track someone down, likely to interrogate for his book. They watch him go, left to take in their surroundings and hope that nobody tried to speak to them. Akito looks up at the wall above the altar, and wonders if this religion had any truth to it, too. 

They had been a god, once. They had been revered, feared, respected, obeyed. They had been worshipped, too. But being a god had been such a horribly lonely existence. Everything had been so dark, so crushing, so significant. The slightest act of defiance had sent them into a rage, and in their attempts to draw everyone closer, they had only succeeded in driving them away. 

Akito lowers their dark gaze to the altar, and wonders if sacrifice had ever been necessary in this religion. They wonder if it would matter if they had sacrificed themself, bled out on a stone cold slab for their own glory. 

They wonder if it would matter now, if they could bleed to death, if they could atone with their blood. Would that fix anything? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? They were already bleeding. Most days, it threatened to choke them. 

Akito wondered if Shigure would miss them. If Hatori would. They had left such a stain on their lives, shaded everything dark for so long - what would happen if they just disappeared? If god was no longer God, what did they do? Who were they? What purpose did they have?

“There you are.”

Akito jumps, gives a sharp breath, and looks up into a worried Shigure’s face. 

He chuckles. “Easy, it’s just me. Lost in thought? Has this place managed to convert you? Now, there’s a thought. God being led to God.”

They know he means it as a joke, but they can’t help the vitriol in their tone. “I am not god anymore,” they hiss, and the emptiness where their soul had split in two aches.

Akito watches the amusement fade from his face, watches as Shigure sees them. Here, in this western holy place, where they are nothing but an insignificant piece in the universe. Akito watches those grey eyes widen, watches his mouth thin, watches the understanding settle and the pieces click.

They want to cry in relief and scream in horror.

***

“Akito,” his voice is so gentle. They don’t deserve gentle. “Akito, look at me.”

Shigure had closed the door to their hotel room and looked at them, and the tears had not stopped since. They hated how he looked at them, with gentle understanding, with pain, with sorrow. They hated it - so why did they want it?

His fingers tilt their chin up, his other hand coming up to wipe their tears. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and they break. 

“I am not god,” Akito says, reaching up to clutch his wrists, their fingernails digging half moons into his skin. “I am not god, so - so what does that make me? Who am I? Why - Why didn’t I die, why was I left?” 

They sob, their head tilting into his palm, dark eyes closing tight against the pity that was surely in his eyes. Their small body shakes, and they want nothing more than to curl in on themself and hide away for good. 

“You weren’t left. I’m here. Hatori is here.” Shigure says when their tears pause long enough for them to suck in a breath. 

Akito tears away from him, clutching at their elbows, shaking their head. “You shouldn’t be,” they gasp, “you should be far away, you should have left me behind. I’m - I’m a monster, I’ll always be a monster, nothing will change that.

“I don’t know who I am, Shigure!” They wail, dropping to their knees, their frail body conceding against the whirlwind of pain and suffering they’d been stuffing down. 

Not moments later, he’s kneeling in front of them, hands hovering over their shaking body. Akito can feel his unsurity, can feel his hesitation. Why revive a dead beast, why fix a broken altar? Why not leave it to rot, leave it to fester, leave it for the maggots and the flies and the plants. 

Shigure takes them in his arms when they have no tears left, when they are left shuddering and shaking and broken. He pulls Akito against him, holds them close, and whispers in their ear, “You are Akito.”

“I wish I were anyone else.” They whisper, face pressed to the fabric of his dress shirt. 

“No,” he hushes, pulling them back to look at them, his grey eyes serious. “No. The world would be so different without you, Akito.”

Maybe it would be better, they don’t say. 

“What do you need?” Shigure asks, and Akito lets themself be selfish.

“Worship me,” they breathe, letting desperation take over.

Shigure’s gaze darkens a bit, and Akito prays it’s with desire. He picks them up, pulls them into a kiss, and they hold onto him like he would somehow save them against the tidal wave of self hatred and misery.

Before they can take it back, he lays them down and worships at the altar of a long dead god.

***

“I told you that going to America was a bad idea,” Hatori snaps, his stress palpable, despite it having been weeks since their trip. They had been bedridden for days, unable to stomach anything or stay awake enough to even try. Akito knew all of their ailments were mostly mental, mostly emotional. They were starting to wonder if Hatori really knew the depth. If they really knew, either.

“Sit still,” Hatori mutters, setting up a phlebotomy kit. Akito didn’t think blood work would help anything, but didn’t have the energy to argue it. They don’t even flinch at the needle, and Hatori fixes them with something close to a worried expression. 

“I’ll get this processed and be back within the next couple hours with the results.” Hatori says, taping a cotton ball to the crook of their pale elbow, pulling away with the small vial. When they don’t respond, he sighs and walks out of the room. 

Akito can hear hushed conversation from the outside of the room. Likely Hatori speaking with Shigure. Their fingers tighten on the blankets, their eyes drift to the door open to the outside. 

The door slides open, announcing Shigure’s presence, and they roll over to look at him. He smoothes over his troubled expression with a smile, going to sit with them, rest their head in his lap. 

Akito buries their face in his thigh, relaxes as he tangles his fingers in their dark hair, pretends to be alright for his sake. They were doing a lot of that lately; pretending to be alright, just so that worried expression of his faded away. 

They stay like that, drowsing in and out of sleep, Shigure’s hand in their hair. It remains for the hours it takes for Hatori to get back. 

When he does, it’s with the door slamming open, jostling them awake, and Shigure’s sharp, “Hatori!”

Hatori freezes in the doorway, staring at Akito, then straightens and walks over, handing Shigure a piece of paper. 

Akito watches him scan it, reading the results as he usually did. Although before he can scoff and hand it to Akito with a tease about scaring them to Hatori, Shigure tenses. His eyes go wide. 

“What,” Akito says, their voice cracking from non-use. 

When they don’t get an answer, when the tension rises in the room, they push themself up and snap, “What, Shigure?”

Shigure jumps, glancing down at them, then gives them a thin lipped smile and hands them the piece of paper. “Read for yourself.”

They take the paper, sitting up. Their dark eyes scan it, reading over the results. Normal, normal… Everything looked normal. Just as they’re about to look up and give Shigure and Hatori a piece of their mind, their gaze freezes on the very last result. They read it again. And again. 

Their gaze lifts, flicking from Shigure to Hatori. Then they start to laugh. It’s an ugly, manic thing. Hysteria creeps up their throat, breaking through the fog that had claimed them. 

Shigure lets out a chuckle, seeming relieved by this. Hatori even seems to relax.

Akito reads over the words again, their fingers gripping the pages, sweat crinkling the edges where it rested in their palms. They hiccup suddenly, a sob choking them. A tear leaks down their cheek, blotting the ink on the paper. They take a breath, trying to compose themself.

And then Akito begins to scream.

***

“A psychotic break.” The psychiatrist says, sitting back and clicking his pen, writing something down. Adding more to Akito’s already full chart. “I’d say major depression and possible PTSD. Normally I would prescribe something, but with the pregnancy, I would say just keep an eye on it. The scratches are cosmetic, more Hatori’s area of expertise.”

The psychiatrist gets up, casting a glance at Akito. More pity. Akito felt sick of it, sick of people looking at them like they were on the verge of breaking when they had already broken.

“Someone needs to be with Akito at all times,” the doctor continues, tucking his pen in his pocket. “No leaving her alone. Especially not this early in the pregnancy. We don’t want anything to happen to the baby.”

“Of course, doctor,” Shigure says, leaving his watchful place at Akito’s side and going to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Anything for the family head.” The man says, exchanging one last handshake with Hatori, who had been lurking in the corner, before taking his leave. 

The room is silent, and Akito can feel the scratch marks on their cheeks itch. One or two would surely scar, they had made sure of it. After Hatori had broken the news, they’d screamed their voice raw and had tried so hard to claw out of their skin, out of a body that was not their own. 

It had taken Shigure holding them down and some sort of sedation shot from Hatori before they finally relaxed, blood pooling on the floor beneath their face, breathing erratically. Shigure had yelled at Hatori then, demanding why he’d broken the news like that, accusing him of not knowing how close to the edge Akito was. 

Akito had never heard Shigure yell before, let alone argue with Hatori in a way that wasn’t teasing, and it was only their sluggish panic attack that brought the two from each other’s throats. They had cried pathetically as Hatori had stitched their face while Shigure called around the Sohma family in search of someone who could deal with this better than they could.

Now, they felt numb in a way that was almost a relief. The pain from their face kept them grounded, and sometimes they moved too fast to feel the stitching throb in time with their heartbeat. It reminded Akito that they still had one. 

“Akito,” Hatori starts, sounding all sorts of worn out and frustrated. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or Shigure? We could have prevented - this.” 

The two men look at them, and they look back. “Why should I?” They settle on. 

Shigure’s grey eyes flare with anger, and Hatori looks like he’s swallowed something sour. 

“You’re carrying our child,” Shigure starts, his temper flaring, before Hatori cuts him off. 

“Explain yourself.” The doctor’s blue gaze pins them in place.

Akito sits in silence for a while, chewing on their words, trying to find the right ones. There were no right ones, though, and so they sat in silence.

***

Akito spends their days by a mirror, after the third month. Their body is so small, and the curve of their belly comes quicker than they imagined. Pregnancy wasn’t all bad, they had decided. It made them more tired, sure, but at least now they could justify their exhaustion with the fact that they were growing an entire human within themself. 

Hatori made weekly visits, setting a strict schedule and diet. They had been made to keep a journal by their psychiatrist, as much as they hated it. But it had helped some. They were able to write out the darkness that threatened to eat them alive, purge it all before they went and sat naked by the mirror, watching their child grow within them. 

Shigure was their shadow now, more so than before. Akito could hardly do anything without him there. He had taken to sitting in the corner and reading or writing while they went about their day. He was there in the night, to calm them from the night terrors they had, always ending with a small child and their hands covered in blood, fingers curled into cruel claws. 

But it was getting to him. They could see it, even if he didn’t mean them to. 

“You should go visit Ayame.” Akito suggests one evening during dinner, prompting a coughing fit as Shigure chokes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” He rasps, after they patiently wait for him to finish, their gaze steady on him. 

“You should go. Visit someone. Get out of here.” 

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Akito hums, sipping their tea before sitting back a bit, one hand resting on the swell of their belly. His gaze follows. 

“No,” they say at last. “But you need it. I’ll call and make the arrangements myself, if I have to.”

“Akito,” Shigure sighs. “Who will stay with you?”

They smile faintly, tipping their head back, closing their eyes. “I doubt they’d want me to come. Either of them. We have the servants, and Hatori is here weekly. I’ll be fine.” 

Shigure hums, his gaze uncertain.

***

Akito realizes very suddenly one night that they would do anything for their child. 

It was one of the rare occasions when Shigure had left them alone, and they had taken refuge in the mirror once again. They were sitting against the wall, mirror in front of them, a hand cupping the side of their belly. It had become a nightly ritual to sit and watch themself in the mirror, familiarize them with a body that now did not belong only to them.

The journal was starting to help. Shigure had started taking them on walks, after Hatori made a comment concerning their pallor, which Akito thought might also be helping. The dark cloud that was their thoughts had not gone away, but something was drowning it out for now.

It was dizzying when they realized all at once that it was because of their child. 

What was creation to a god, if not everything? What was closeness to a god, if not the definition of their existence? Akito was not a god anymore, but they were creating, they were close, and their child was safe where they could reach. 

When they felt the cloying fear of abandonment, they set a hand on their belly and realized they were not alone. When they spun out, got lost in the spiral of who am I what am I how can I go on, they could look in the mirror and think, I am a creator. 

The first time the baby kicks, it shatters Akito in a way that makes them want to pick up the pieces and put them back together, but better this time. They sit up, stare at their wide eyed reflection in the mirror, then scramble to their feet. They’ve hardly got a robe on when they run into Shigure in the hallway. 

“Whoa!” He grabs them by the elbows, his gaze searching, scanning for something wrong. “Where are you going?”

But Akito only gives him a grin that’s as blinding as the sun and takes one of his hands, pressing it to their belly with a soft, “Feel.”

They stand there for agonizing seconds, heads bowed, focused, before a tiny foot kicks into the palm of Shigure’s hand. 

Akito laughs, and for the first time, their joy is not twisted by some sick sense of destruction.

***

Tohru ends up stepping in, because of course she does.

It’s more of a surprise to see Kyo behind her, his angry gaze fixed menacingly on Akito from where his partner can’t see. The promise of protection over Tohru is comforting to Akito, in a way. Unnecessary, but comforting all the same. 

“Oh wow, you’re so big already!” Tohru gasps when Shigure steps aside to let them in. Akito tips their head to the side, then looks down at themself. It was nearing six months at this point, and they did not waddle, whatever Shigure might say.

It had taken a long time, but Akito had finally convinced Shigure to go out on a break, to do something for himself that wasn’t a trip to the store or a meeting with his editor. He, Ayame, and Hatori were going away for a weekend. There were mentions of Yuki, but Akito did their best not to pry. 

It was hard, unlearning manipulation. But they were determined to do it - if not for themself, then for their child.

“Come in, come in,” Shigure fusses, ushering the two in the door. “Tohru, I’ve got a list of instructions and phone numbers and anything you might need on the fridge. I’m only a phone call away.”

Akito gives him a look. “I won’t go into labor.”

Shigure winks. “Oh no, that’s for if you miss me too terribly. I’ll have no choice but to come home at once! You may lie to yourself, Aki, but Tohru could never. Isn’t that right?”

Shigure turns to a flustered and confused Tohru, who gives a faint. “Ah… no?”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Shigure pats Kyo on the back as he passes, then takes Akito’s hand and leads them to the front door with him. 

They watch as he slides on his shoes, trying to ignore that old voice that wanted to beg him to stay, accuse him of playing favorites and leaving. He seems to hear their inner turmoil, and looks up, giving them a soft smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He murmurs, taking their face into his hands and tipping it forward to kiss their forehead. “Try not to torment those two, please.”

Akito holds onto his wrists, their long eyelashes flickering. “Alright,” they murmur. He smiles against their skin, pressing a kiss to their lips before pulling away. 

“See you Monday,” He calls over his shoulder, stepping out the door and leaving Akito on the step.

Akito stares at the door, fighting the urge to run after him. They’re startled out of it by Tohru, though, who gently takes their hand. 

“Come on,” she says kindly, pulling them away from the door. “Are you hungry?”

“Huh?” Akito tears their gaze from the door. “Oh. No.”

“Well, I’ll start on dinner anyway.” Tohru nods, leading them to the sitting room off the kitchen. “Here, you sit and rest. Shigure said you get tired around this time, anyway.”

Akito gives an annoyed sigh, and notices how Kyo tenses, ready for a fight. “He would say that. Bastard.”

Somehow, Kyo and them are left in the same room together, alone. A thousand memories wash over Akito, and they choke on some of the darkness that liked to linger around everything Before. Their hands itched for their journal.

“So,” Kyo starts, always unable to sit in silence. “How’d you get that?” He taps the side of his cheek.

Akito brings a hand up to touch the angry scar on their cheek, then snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Kyo bristles, then seems to remember something and takes a measured, deep breath. “I couldn’t care less, actually.” 

“Then why’d you ask,” they sit back, rolling their eyes. 

“You know, you’re still a real asshole, despite what Shigure says.” Kyo snarls, and Akito blinks. 

A small part of them wanted to jeer and taunt, to threaten and win. Their hand twitches, finding the ample curve of their belly, feeling the small life beneath their skin. They take a steadying breath. 

“Shigure likes to see the best in everyone, I think.” Akito says. They can tell they’ve thrown Kyo off - he looks stricken, not too sure on how he should react now that Akito hadn’t risen to the bait. 

“Didn’t know you had a best.” He mutters sullenly, sitting back and eyeing them suspiciously. 

Surprising even themself - Akito laughs. “Neither did I,” they admit. “But he seems to think so.”

Kyo sits back, staring at them long and hard. Before, Akito would’ve gotten pissed, would’ve lashed out at anyone who tried to make them into anything they weren’t comfortable with. But these days, they were desperate for a definition that wasn’t cruel monster worthless pathetic that their brain supplied them when they tried to do it themself. They’d done so much damage to the Cat, the only thing they could do now was draw his own conclusions. Whether or not they had changed, they recognized that they did not have the right to beg for a forgiveness that they didn’t deserve. 

The redhead frowns after a moment. “You’re different, somehow.” He states, always to the point. “It’s… weird.”

“Weird,” Akito hums, thinking about this for a moment. “I think I can live with that.” They decide, nodding. It was worlds better than anything else they had come up with. 

Kyo shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn, you used to be so good at eviscerating me the second I got in here. What the hell? Is this some kind of game?” His voice raises, and Akito stares steadily at him.

“Is this funny to you?” He accuses, getting to his feet. “Do you think you can just change overnight, and we’re supposed to just accept that?”

“No, I don’t think that.” Akito cuts in when he pauses to take a breath. They watch the fight turn to disbelief again, watches Kyo stare at them in open confusion. They wait until they know he’s listening, and then they take a breath.

“Look,” they start, and pause, closing their eyes a moment. “I don’t expect you to accept anything. I hurt you,” they hear his teeth click shut, watch his fists clench. “And what I did was unacceptable. If you want an apology from me, I - I’ll give it to you. But that’s… I have so much to atone for.” 

They look at him, really look at him, and sigh. “I owe you an apology. But you don’t owe me your forgiveness.”

Kyo and Akito stare at each other for a long time, long enough that it takes Tohru opening the door to the kitchen and seeing them to break it. 

“Uh… guys? Is everything okay?”

Kyo snaps his gaze away to Tohru, some of the tension melting from him. “Yeah,” he says, flicking his gaze back to Akito. “We were just talking.”

Akito notices how his tone softens for her, how his gaze melts a bit, and they wonder to themself if Shigure looks at them like that.

***

The moment Tohru and Kyo are gone, Akito pulls Shigure to what had become their room, stopping once the door is closed and stepping into his space. They let out a breath, relaxing when his hands cup their face, their own resting on his chest. 

“Did you miss me?” He asks, his tone teasing.

“Yes,” Akito says, without hesitation. He doesn’t even blink - this is not new, this dance they’re doing. It’s an old thing, one they’ve played for years and years. “Shigure?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” They say, and then, “Will you marry me?”

If I am not worthy of this, they think, then you are, little one.

***

The day Shiki Sohma graces the Sohma household with her presence is a long and arduous one. Akito is in labour for two days, and the household breathes a collective sigh of relief once the cry of a baby being introduced to the world rings out. 

Akito is not ashamed when they cry as Hatori lowers her onto their chest. They kiss her tiny head, hold her tiny body, and realize. 

This is who they were. Akito Sohma, creator of Shiki Sohma, and partner to Shigure Sohma. They were the head of the Sohma household, once the bearer of a dark curse, and a survivor of being split in half. 

Shiki cries for the world, and Akito cries for her and the future they would fight to give her. Their daughter would not bear the suffering her parents had. They would give their daughter the world, and maybe one day, she would give it back.

Doing the Six Fan-arts Challenge :)

And testing digital painting on my phone :)

1 - Old Thor (Marvel)

2 - The Gronk (Starlord / 2000 AD)

3 - San/Princess Mononoke (Ghibli)

4 - Jad & Yula (from Time Masters by René Laloux & Moebius)

5 - Joker (DC Comics)

Only One left !

carrion and the smell of decay (wip)

Jessie doesn’t tell her mother that the mud in their yard, the sweet smelling, warm earth that her childhood was soaked in, has the same consistency as congealed blood. She doesn’t tell her father that she knows what the inside of a man’s skull looks like, brain matter and bone shards scattered across cracking stone. She doesn’t tell her parents a lot of things. 

But they know, dear god, they know. 

She’s humming some old lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was young. The words are half lost on her, but the meaning still rings true. Alicent cradles her daughter, her sweet, lovely girl, her darling Helaena, and whispers, breathes i love you, oh my sweet child, my flesh and blood, i love you.

There is blood soaking through her white shift, there is blood trickling through the cracks of the Red Keep. Helaena does not cry.

altars made from your own bones on ao3