With that, the infirmary door opened. We hadn't had any patients since Connor and Katie left yesterday, so I had been focusing on Nico.
Maybe a new patient would take my mind off things.
As long as it wasn't Drew...
I quickly rubbed my eyes from the dried-up tears and turned to face the door.
A short figure stepped in, rubbing his eyes. I could tell he'd been crying.
"Harley?" I asked, surprised. He was one of the newest members of the Hephaestus cabin — Jake Mason's youngest sibling. Everyone loved him. Even though he was a little psycho with his inventions, he was also an unreasonably cute eight-year-old.
Right now, though, he was crying. Well, sobbing, really.
I got out of the chair and walked up to him, Kayla and Austin following from behind.
"What's the matter, little guy?" I asked, putting on the softest, gentlest voice I had — the one I used when treating little kids.
"I-I scraped m-my k-knee when I w-was building s-something," he whimpered. His big brown eyes were watery, his bottom lip trembling, and he looked so innocent and sad I almost cried myself.
(Okay, sometimes I laugh when little kids fall, but if they're actually upset, I don't... usually... sometimes.)
"Can I have a look?"
"Yeah..." He nodded, letting me lead him over to one of the infirmary beds.
"Austin, go get some antiseptic wipes and a band-aid... and some of those stickers."
Austin pointed at me like I'd just committed a personal crime. "Why do I always get sent for supplies? What am I, your errand boy?"
"Exactly," I said, deadpan. "Now move."
Kayla smirked. "You're faster than Will, so yes."
Austin grumbled, "Faster and better looking," as he stomped off to the supply room.
"Not even close!" I called after him.
Kayla gave me a look. "Will, aren't you supposed to be the most mature one at camp?"
"Allegedly," I said, sticking my tongue out at her.
She immediately stuck hers out back at me.
From the bed, Harley giggled, wiping his eyes. "You guys are weird."
"You're not wrong," I muttered.
Austin returned, tossing the wipes into my hands with exaggerated force and holding up the sticker sheet like it was a rare treasure. "Got your precious dinosaur stickers, Your Highness."
"Thank you, my loyal subject," I said with a regal nod.
Kayla side-eyed us and slipped on some gloves. "Right, Harley, the antiseptic is going to hurt a little. It's just gonna sting for a moment, okay?"
Harley nodded, sniffing. Kayla wiped the wound; Harley hissed but luckily didn't flinch.
Austin whistled. "Wow. Braver than most of the Ares cabin."
"That's because Harley's got more sense than they do," I said, tossing the dirty wipes in the trash. "And better manners than you."
Austin put a hand over his heart. "Ouch. Right in the feelings."
Kayla grabbed one of the band-aids. "Now, do you want a green or blue dinosaur band-aid?"
He thought for a moment before saying, "Green."
Kayla smiled, unwrapping it and placing it gently on his knee.
"You're all good to go, Harley! You were very brave — most people scream at those wipes," I said with a grin.
"Like Will did when he was twelve," Austin added immediately.
"That was an allergic reaction, not screaming!" I shot back.
Kayla raised an eyebrow. "Sure it was."
Harley was giggling again, clearly entertained by the chaos more than the medical care.
But then his smile faded. His eyes wandered.
I raised an eyebrow and stood up, hands on hips. "What's up now, lil' guy?"
He covered his face with his hands and started to cry again.
I knelt down, resting my hands on his small shoulders.
I was confused — it couldn't have been because of the injury, because he'd stopped crying about that five minutes ago.
"I-I miss L-Leo," he whimpered.
Leo was his older brother, and had been missing, presumed dead, for about four days now. After he and Festus exploded into the sky, the Hephaestus cabin had been... off. Sure, Harley had only known him for about a month, but I knew how fast demigods became friends — especially half-siblings.
The whole month Leo was here, building the Argo II, Harley had been attached to his ship. And Leo hadn't seemed to mind.
I put my arms out for a hug, and like I expected, Harley ran straight into them. He was shaking.
I ran my hand gently through Harley's messy hair before pulling back just enough to see his face.
"I'm sure Leo's okay," I said softly. "Knowing him, he's probably on some island flirting with everything he comes into contact with."
Austin snorted. "He's probably building a robot girlfriend right now."
Harley's lips twitched, and I watched his little mischievous grin creep back in.
"Okay?" I asked.
He nodded.
I patted his shoulder before he ran off again, already looking less weighed down than when he came in.
"Gods," I sighed, watching him go, "I hope that doesn't become a daily thing."
Austin grinned. "Bet you ten drachmas it does."
Kayla crossed her arms. "Bet you both five he comes back before lunch."
I nodded towards the door where he had just left. "I think he might be our next daily patient by the way he's running." He was running very unsafely, I even saw him run straight through the archery range , while they were shooting.
The clock was ticking. I really didn't want to go face Nico—what if I did something else that ruined whatever we had even more? I was stupid for thinking I had a chance of dating him, sure, but was I really that stupid to think I had a chance of being his friend?
But of course I had to go. He was my patient, after all, and it would be horrible to just ignore him, especially after I was the one who convinced him to come into the infirmary in the first place.
I grabbed some bandages and antiseptic wipes. I was going to have to clean and re-bandage his shoulder wound. I also grabbed some gloves and a clipboard.
I knew how much he was struggling with food. I'd had patients like him before, but not as bad. So I hoped that knowledge would also apply to Nico. I'd ask if he had any safe foods—if he didn't, maybe I could ask what foods reminded him of home or made him feel safe. Hopefully he had at least one. And then I could make it for him.
I hoisted the medical satchel over my shoulder and walked down the corridor to his room.
I knocked.
"Come in," he mumbled—so quiet I almost didn't catch it.
"Hey, Neeks," I said, keeping my tone light. "I'm here to change your bandages." I pointed to the satchel at my side.
He looked me up and down, eyes narrowing like he was deciding whether or not that counted as a valid excuse for me bothering him. He muttered something—probably "okay"—before carefully tugging off his hoodie. Well, my hoodie. But I don't think he cares.
"Alright, just sit still for me," I said softly. I tugged on my gloves with slow, deliberate movements, the faint snap of the latex breaking the quiet.
Luckily, the bandage hadn't let any blood soak through, and as I unwrapped it, I saw that it had healed a lot. Still, the stitches and skin around it were red and sore.
I braced my hand against his good shoulder before leaning in. "This might sting, but I'll be gentle," I murmured. I pressed the antiseptic wipe to his skin in small, careful circles, pausing whenever I felt him tense.
Nico stayed quiet, but his jaw tightened, eyes flicking down like he was trying not to react. I kept my voice low, just enough to fill the silence. "You're doing great. Almost done, promise."
Once the wound was clean, I patted it dry with a sterile pad and began winding fresh gauze around his shoulder, making sure the fabric didn't pull against his stitches. My fingertips brushed the warm edge of his collarbone before I pulled back.
Once I'd finished wrapping it up, I had an idea. He was still in pain—what if I used my powers to heal it? I hadn't used them since Lou Ellen told me off for overexerting myself, but... Nico was a good enough reason, right?
"Neeks, can I try something real quick?" I asked.
His eyebrows shot up, and he inched away just a little. "Like what?" he asked suspiciously.
"Well, you know how I'm a child of Apollo..."
He nodded—slightly more concerned this time.
"I can heal people—with my powers," I explained. "And I was just thinking maybe... I could try healing you?"
One of my eyebrows arched. His followed suit. We stared at each other for a solid minute.
"Sooo...?" I prompted.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine."
I grinned—probably the biggest grin I'd managed all week. "You won't regret this, di Angelo."
I took a deep breath and pressed my hands gently to his shoulder. He flinched at first, his muscles going taut under my palms, but—just like I'd guessed—after a moment he sighed and leaned into it.
Healing someone wasn't just fixing skin and bone. From an Apollo kid, it was like letting the sun wrap around you. Not a campfire's warmth—something bigger, deeper. The kind of heat you felt in your chest when you remembered a safe place, or a voice that told you you were home.
I closed my eyes and focused, drawing the good energy in my body down my arms, funneling it into my hands. When I healed, I always tried to ease something inside the person too—just a little. That meant taking in a fraction of their pain, their weight.
Nico's was... different. I felt the cold first, like black water lapping at my wrists. Heavy. Thick. The kind of darkness that didn't just block out light—it made you forget it had ever existed. My breath hitched, and I fought to keep my hands steady so he wouldn't notice.
But then he exhaled—a sound halfway between relief and exhaustion—and I risked opening my eyes. His head had tilted slightly toward me, eyes closed, shoulders slack. A faint blush bloomed high on his cheeks.
Gods. I didn't realize how dizzy I was getting until my head started to dip forward. That was my sign to stop.
I pulled my hands back and checked the wound. The angry red had faded to pink, and only a small, neat scar remained.
He blinked his eyes open, meeting mine. His dark irises were softer now, almost warm.
"Will... that was... amazing," he whispered.
HE COMPLIMENTED ME. Okay, stay professional, Solace.
I sat up straighter, forcing the dizziness away. "Cool, right?" I said with a grin.
He nodded.
"So, Neeks, I had another idea," I started. "You know how you struggle to eat? I've dealt with patients like you before, and I find the best way to help is to figure out their safe food."
He frowned slightly. "What's a 'safe food'?"
"It's kind of like a comfort food," I explained, keeping my tone slow and careful. "Something you associate with home, or with safety. Doesn't have to be healthy, doesn't have to make sense. Just something that feels like... yours."
Nico stared at the blanket for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "When I was younger, my mother used to make this... pasta al forno. It's like baked pasta, but she made it with béchamel sauce and little bits of ham. It took her hours. She'd only make it when me or Bianca were sick."
I nodded, already committing every word to memory. Even though I didn't tell him, my brain was already running through the ingredients and how I could pull it off. It wouldn't be easy to make—not at camp—but if it got him to eat... I'd figure it out.
"That sounds amazing," I said honestly. "I've never had it, but I'm willing to bet yours was the best."
He gave me a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.
"Wait here, Neeks," I said, slinging the satchel back over my shoulder. "I'll be right back."
His eyebrows knit. "Where are you going?"
"You'll see," I said, grinning as I backed toward the door.
I rolled up my sleeves like I was about to duel the god of cooking himself. Not that I knew who that would be — which felt like an automatic loss — but still. The point was the sleeves. They made it official. Serious. Professional. Like I actually knew what I was doing.
Alright, di Angelo, I thought. If this is what it takes to get you to eat, I will Gordon Ramsay the Hades out of this kitchen.
Of course, the actual Camp kitchen was full of campers — dangerous witnesses to the fact that I was about to commit culinary war crimes — so I took the only logical route.
Chiron's private food storage.
Now, the thing about Chiron's food storage is that it's not just food. It's the food. The good cheese that never gets used for group dinners because Chiron says it's "too special for casual eating." The imported olive oil he guards like a dragon hoarding gold. The dried figs that I'm ninety percent sure were stolen from a Roman senator's pantry in 300 BCE.
It was hidden behind the big wooden pantry in the Big House, tucked away like some mythical treasure trove. You had to know exactly where to press on the paneling to get the door to swing open — which, fortunately, I did. (Don't ask how. The official answer is "Kayla told me," but the real answer is "I have a photographic memory and saw Chiron go in here once when I was twelve and nearly fainting from hypoglycemia.")
The second I pushed open the door, I was hit with the smell of herbs, dried goods, and "Chiron will literally kill me if I take this." The air in there felt heavier, older, like the pantry itself knew it was forbidden.
I glanced around. Coast clear. No campers in the hallway. No sound of Chiron's hooves on the floorboards. No Kayla catching me red-handed and giving me the world's most judgmental big sister face.
"Alright," I muttered under my breath, "Operation Steal for Healing is a go."
My hands moved quickly, but not so quickly that I couldn't admire the sheer quality of this stash. I started pulling out boxes of pasta, jars of sauce, blocks of cheese, packets of spices I couldn't even pronounce. I paused to sniff a jar of dried rosemary like I was about to cook for a Michelin-star restaurant instead of a kid who routinely forgets to eat.
Halfway through swiping an expensive-looking bag of imported flour, I heard the unmistakable creak of a floorboard behind me. My heart jumped into my throat — I've faced monsters without blinking, but this? This was dangerous.
"...Are you stealing from Chiron?"
I turned to find a scrawny Hermes kid standing there, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between suspicion and awe.
I gave my brightest, most wholesome, sunbeam smile — the kind that could make Mr. D give me an extra popsicle in summer, the kind that made parents at visiting days say "Oh, what a polite young man!"
"Do you really think he's gonna believe that I — the golden boy child of Apollo — would steal from him?"
The Hermes kid blinked. "...Fair point." And left, still looking vaguely impressed.
I let out a slow breath. Crisis averted.
I smirked, stuffing the last jar into my satchel, tucking the cheese safely on top, and hauling my loot to the infirmary. If Chiron ever asked, I'd just say I was "borrowing" it for medical purposes. Which, technically, I was. It's just that my definition of "medical" was a little... broader than his.
I'd just laid everything out on the counter — pasta, sauce, cheese, spices, the stolen bag of imported flour that was absolutely going to make no difference whatsoever — when the door swung open and Austin strolled in.
He didn't even knock. Just pushed it open with the confidence of someone who had never once in his life respected boundaries.
"Whatcha doin'?" he asked, dragging out the words like he already knew this was gonna be good.
"Cooking," I said firmly, dumping pasta into a pot of boiling water. "For a patient."
Austin's eyebrows shot up so high they practically hit his hairline. "You? Cooking? Oh, I have to see this trainwreck."
He slid up onto the counter, right in the middle of my workspace, his sneakers squeaking against the stainless steel. I shooed at him with the wooden spoon, but he just leaned back like a cat making itself comfortable, all smug and sprawled.
"Don't you have actual patients to look after instead of sitting on Nico's future food?" I muttered, reaching for the spice packets.
"No can do, sir. The infirmary's empty. You're my entertainment now."
I reached again for the seasoning. "Austin. Move."
He tilted his head innocently. "Move from where?"
I sighed, tugging at the corner of the packet now clearly crushed under his thigh.
"You're literally sitting on it."
He grinned, unbothered. "Oh, am I?"
"You are the worst," I groaned.
He shrugged. "Nah, I'm just making sure that when you do eventually ask your moldy 'friend' out, he rejects you because he knows what awful food you make. And then I won't have to deal with having a moldy ass, crippling ass, actually stinks-of-fucking-death, is-actually-molding-by-the-minute, and — based on your checklist about his health — a fucking moldy ass boy who's old enough to be your great grandfather and, as soon as that Lotus Casino magic wears off, he's gonna look like a fuckin' dried raisin."
I froze, wooden spoon halfway to the sauce pot. "...What?"
Austin just shrugged again, totally unfazed.
"Are you—" I set the spoon down very, very slowly. "Did you just insult my cooking and my taste in men in the same sentence? Because I do not appreciate you talking about Nico like that, and if you ever talk like that about Nico again," I waved the wooden spoon in his face. "I'd just like to remind you that I know every bone in your body and how to break them without weapons." I smiled sweetly. He flinched, actually looking terrified for a second.
I blinked at him. Remembering he hadn't even met Nico before. "You don't even know him!"
"I know enough. You like tall, dark, like one hundred years older and depressing. Which, to be clear, is not a healthy type." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "You should try branching out. Maybe date someone who doesn't look like they'd write poetry about graveyards."
I glared. "I'm not even gonna comment on how that foul language is not allowed in my infirmary."
He snorted. "You've literally told Connor to 'fuck off' once after he came into the infirmary barefoot."
"Out," I ordered, pointing at the door with my spoon.
"Make me," Austin challenged.
I turned back to the sauce, stirring with a slightly murderous focus, determined not to let my cooking — or my dignity — go down in flames.
Unfortunately, Austin took my silence as permission to lean forward and whisper directly in my ear, his voice low and sing-songy: "That sauce smells like feet."
I jerked away, glaring. "Stop it!"
He grinned wider and, without warning, stuck two fingers straight into the sauce.
I shrieked. "DO NOT touch the food!"
Austin held up his now tomato-smeared fingers and licked one, making an exaggerated face. "Wow. Yeah. Definitely feet."
"Get out of my kitchen!" I flailed at him with the spoon, splattering a bit of sauce onto his shirt.
He just grinned, unbothered. "Golden Boy Solace, caught red-handed committing culinary homicide. Truly, a moment for the history books."
"You're impossible," I muttered.
"And you," he said with a smirk, "are gonna thank me when this all goes wrong and Nico breaks up with you before you start dating."
I stopped stirring again. "...What is wrong with you?"
"Maybe you should be questioning yourself for liking crusty ass men like that corpse bo—"
"Austin. Shut. The. Fuck. Up." My voice was low, but my whole body felt tight, like a bowstring pulled too far.
He blinked at me. I stared back. I always did a disappointed stare whenever my siblings were talking bad about each other, or other campers. I always made sure everyone in the Apollo cabin was kind. And I didn't tolerate them talking bad about people behind their backs, I said if they had anything to say about someone, they could say it to me instead. It mostly worked, except when they stepped over the borders of funny, and just downright mean. They were growing children, sure, but that didn't give them the excuse to be mean.
"Austin, remember what I said, no rude, or mean language is allowed in my infirmary or cabin, Nico has been through a lot, and its horrible to talk about him like that, imagine if it was you in that situation." His head dropped down in shame.
"Now, Austin, I think its best for you to go finish up some of the paperwork."
He nodded. "Sorry, Will." He whispered, walking out.
"Its fine, Austin, just remember if you have nothing nice to say, don't say it."
And with that, he shut the door. I always cringed when I said that. It was what Lee used to tell me, and as I grew up, it kind of stuck with me, even though it aged me fifty years and made me seem like a dad instead of a fifteen year old.
The pasta was finished. I grabbed two bowls from the cupboard and filled them with pasta, letting the steam curl up and warm my face. It actually... looked okay. Like, edible. Possibly even appetising if you squinted.
I picked them both up, balancing them on my palms like they were precious artifacts. My brain was already chanting, Please like it, please like it, on a loop. I walked out the kitchen door and down the hallway, the smell trailing behind me, hoping he would like this.
I glanced up at the clock as I passed. 12:57. I'd been gone for about forty minutes. Gods, I hoped Nico hadn't been too bored. Or worse — overthinking something without me there to drag him out of it.
I knocked on the door with my foot, since my hands were occupied.
"Come in," he called through the door, voice slightly muffled.
"Hey, Neeks, I kinda need some help opening the door—my hands are full. Please?"
I heard the bed squeak as he stood up, a faint grunt slipping out, and after a moment the door cracked open.
There he was, standing in the doorway with his hair slightly mussed and his expression already suspicious. I put on my best golden retriever smile, sleeves still rolled up from my cooking crusade, probably looking like I'd been wrestling a pasta monster for the last half hour.
His eyes flicked down to the bowls in my hands. "What are those?" He raised an eyebrow, scrunching up his nose like they might be radioactive.
"This," I said, pausing for dramatic effect, "is your pasta al forno, created by the one and only, Will Solace!"
No smile. No thanks. He just stepped aside wordlessly, letting me pass like I was an annoying salesman. Which, to be fair, wasn't too far off from how I was selling this pasta.
I guessed he didn't trust I could cook. Truth was... I didn't even know if I could cook. I just hoped it wouldn't kill him.
He followed behind me and sat on the bed next to me, legs crossed. I raised my eyebrows and gestured toward a bowl. He took it without hesitation, the ceramic still hot, but he didn't flinch.
"It's probably not as good as when your mother used to cook it," I admitted, "but eating something familiar might help."
I decided it was safer if I tried it first. I scooped up some pasta and took a bite. The tomato sauce hit first—tangy and just a little sweet—with the cheese melting into soft strings that clung to the pasta. There was a faint peppery kick from the seasoning (Austin would be shocked I hadn't poisoned myself), and the baked top had a satisfying crunch. It was... not bad. Maybe even decent.
Seeing me eat, he hesitated but followed suit, taking a forkful. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and didn't gag. Progress.
We ate like that for about twenty minutes. I'd finished mine; Nico was still nibbling small bites, but honestly? He'd eaten more than I'd expected.
"Do you like it?" I asked, leaning slightly toward him.
"It's... edible," he muttered.
"Very rude, considering I spent forty minutes cooking it with my own sweat and blood," I grinned.
For just a second, I caught it—a flicker of a smile. It suited him so well it made my chest ache.
The quiet stretched between us, comfortable this time. I rested my bowl aside. "Alright, we're doing twenty questions. It's camp law."
He gave me a flat look. "That's not a law."
"It is now. Question one: favourite colour?"
He sighed, but there was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Black."
I put a hand over my heart. "Shock. Absolute shock."
"What's yours?"
"Sunset orange. Next—favourite food?"
"You already know mine," he said, gesturing vaguely to the pasta.
"Yeah, but pasta al forno is a category. I need specifics, di Angelo."
He thought for a moment. "The way my mother used to make it. With rosemary."
I nodded, filing that away like it was top secret intel. "Favourite place you've been?"
"...Venice. At night."
I couldn't stop smiling. "Mine's a toss-up between the beach in Texas or this one spot in Austin where you can see the city lights and stars at the same time."
We kept going. The questions got sillier—favourite mythical creature, least favourite cabin chore, what power you'd steal from another god if you could. He actually laughed—like a real, quiet laugh—when I told him my dream job if I wasn't a healer was "professional sunbather."
I didn't even try to hide my grin anymore. Making him laugh felt like winning the biggest prize in the world.
And sitting there, with him eating food I'd made and answering my ridiculous questions, I realised I didn't care if it was the best pasta in the world. I just cared that he was here, and maybe—just maybe—he was letting me in.
AN-
Tried to do my best.
Powerstones and reviews please.