✩ ━━━ bonus, the lament of nico di angelo.

IN VENEZIA, HIS MAMMA HAD HUNG A WEATHERED AND DISCOLORED CROSS ABOVE THEIR HOME'S THRESHOLD. A token of both protection and faith bestowed upon them by a nun, as Maria had explained, her smile emanating an inherent warmth that Nico struggled to recall. Now, in an entirely different century, within a completely different country and a lifetime empty of his mother, the image of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ persisted flawlessly in his mind. It remained razor-sharp even as his mother's face began to blur in certain places, gradually fading from memory.

Nico was never able to figure out whatever veneration his mamma had for that old cross. Every day, as they stepped over the threshold of the front door, Bianca and his mamma would bless themselves, their fingers moving from forehead to chest, whispering a prayer under their breaths in a ritual that sanctified their entry into their home. Nico would avert his eyes each time, mumbling his way through a half-hearted imitation; he could not face the sight of sunken ribs and pierced flesh without fear and discomfort creeping into his heart. To him, it was just a mutilated man, suspended in agony on a piece of wood.

Maria held the belief that Jesus' suffering brought hope and salvation to the world. But now, with his mamma gone, Nico was left alone to seek the beauty concealed within nailed hands and exposed ribs.

In the modern world, Nico finds himself with an endless amount of free time. Gone are the days of attending a Catholic academy in the early morning and going to mass each Sunday. He no longer has to sit quietly in a pew for half of his life, listening to the priest's sermons about sin and redemption; he'll never again have to endure the sight of his sister struggling to sing in the choir. The cold sensation of his mother's pearls against his skin is a memory he'll never relive.

Both Bianca and his mother are gone; sua nonna, le zie e gli zii dovevano essere ormai morti. Cugini, amici d'infanzia e le suore che una volta gli avevano insegnato se ne sono andati tutti: erano vecchi già allora, quindi sicuramente le loro ossa ora sono polvere nelle mani del tempo... solo polvere, proprio come ciò che restava della sua casa d'infanzia dopo che fu distrutta.

Everything is gone. Nico is left utterly alone in the world, and the sight of Jesus on the cross does not bring him any solace.

His sacred heart could continue to bleed.
There is no beauty in suffering, only the ugliness of pain and injustice. And if his mother had intended for him to feel different—to smile at the sight of a corpse who supposedly died to redeem him—then she should've found a way to stay with Nico and impart to him whatever faith she believed in.

He emerged quietly, joining him at the pew.

"You're supposed to kneel at this part," Micah pointed out, redirecting his gaze to the crucifix suspended above the altar, where Nico's unyielding eyes were focused. The pain etched on Jesus' visage seemed almost tangible, transcending the confines of wood and paint.

Surrounding them, the air carried hushed whispers of prayers mingled with the faint aroma of incense. Bowed heads and clasped hands encircled them. It was a breathtaking cathedral, stumbled upon while wandering through Midtown; its grandeur echoed in its soaring ceilings and intricate stained glass windows that filtered rich, vibrant colored light into the sacred space. The peaceful atmosphere was broken only by the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the vast halls as worshippers moved quietly from one station to another, reverence palpable in every gesture and word. It lacked the genuine warmth he remembered from his humble neighborhood church back home.

"Are you Catholic?" Nico asked slowly, studying the ornate altar with disinterest. The people wore good clothes made from elegant and high-quality materials, but they paled in comparison to the black velvet dresses and white gloves favored by his mother.

Micah shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. He seemed exhausted, his skin a sickly pale shade. If Nico asked, he would lie and insist that he was fine—there was no point in pressing further. "No, not really," the son of Hypnos said. "Hisa used to be very devout, but then she met my father, and everything fell apart. It made her go through a whole spiritual crisis, I guess. Questioning everything she believed in. Most of my childhood was spent learning about different religions and all sorts of philosophies. We used to visit a mosque one week and a church the next—Sunni Muslim, Jōdo Shinshū, Mahanubhava, Faism, Jainism."

"And what religion did she end up choosing?" Nico asked, disillusioned.

Micah's smile bittered. "I wouldn't know,"

He returned his gaze to the sculpture of Jesus; his serene expression seemed to mock him.

The son of Hypnos didn't speak again until much later, when mass had ended and the cathedral had emptied out. Nico admired that about him. Percy tended to be forceful and short-tempered with Nico, constantly blurting out words without much forethought and then regretting them later. He grew nervous in silence and filled it with invasive questions or unnecessary chatter. On the other hand, Micah chose his words with precision, carefully weighing each one before uttering them. When he spoke at length, it was usually to distract or obtain something from the conversation; when he remained silent, it was because he believed it held greater significance. Micah refrained from pushing, a jarring difference from Percy's relentless need to rip words from Nico's throat, even if it would hurt them both in the process.

He knew Micah was worried—he has ever since Bianca joined the Hunters of Artemis and left Nico behind—but he also knew that Micah respected him enough to share his concerns if he ever wanted to talk. Nico wanted to so badly. But how could he speak? How could he possibly articulate the depths of his thoughts when he himself struggled to understand them? It felt as though his thoughts were trapped in a labyrinth, tangled and convoluted, with no clear path to escape.

To Nico, Micah felt immovable.
Invincible, as though nothing could ever perturb the son of Hypnos. Micah carried himself with an air of omniscience, as if possessing knowledge of every facet of the universe. In his presence, Nico's secrets and shames seemed so mundane and inconsequential that there was no compelling reason to keep them hidden.

"God scares me," Micah confessed then, his voice light and seemingly indifferent, and it mirrored the same carefree attitude he had always displayed, but Nico could see the uneasiness that prevented Micah from sleeping soundly or eating enough to stop the rings on his fingers from slipping off. He felt that uneasiness, too. He was born with it instead of his mother's faith.

Nico wanted to question him—ask why a thousand times, like he used to as a kid, in the way that drove Percy insane with the urge to choke him out—but Nico hasn't been that kid in a long time. "Same," he agreed quietly. He didn't speak further, and Micah's lip rose with amusement.

At the rear of the altar, close to the sacristy, Hisa Matsuoka stood poised in a sleek black dress, her elegant hairdo framing her like a vision. She conversed with a group of priests, exuding an air of authority akin to that of the arcangelo Gabriele, issuing divine commands to them with authority and grace.

Nico watched her from a distance, his mind swarming with pointless memories.

Beside him, Micah flashed a grin. "She believes I'm sick," he clarified; Nico knows he is. "Her logic is that if a psychiatrist can't treat me and the Greek gods have forsaken me, at least Jesus might show kindness in healing me. But she plans to visit a temple afterward, so I don't know if her faith is truly in God or if she's just covering all her bases."

Sii vicino a lui nei momenti di debolezza e dolore; sostienilo con la tua grazia, affinché la sua forza e il suo coraggio non vacillino; guariscilo secondo la tua volontà; e aiutami sempre a credere che ciò che gli accade qui è di poco conto se tu lo tieni nella vita eterna, mio Signore e mio Dio. Nico couldn't figure out why he persisted; throughout his entire life, God had consistently ignored him. He saw no reason for it to change now. Still, as Micah directed them to leave, a quiet Amen left his lips.

As they walked through the streets of Manhattan, footsteps lost amidst the city's frantic noise, he found himself stealing glances at Micah. The son of Hypnos wore his winter coat unzipped, noticeably cold with his flushed cheeks and reddening knuckles, but Micah seemed to relish subjecting himself to minor tortures like that; there was no changing him. His ill-fitting shirt hung loosely like a shroud over a dead body, revealing collarbones so sharp and pronounced that they resembled the jagged edges of shattered glass. Micah was never muscular, but the skin of his checks clung desperately to the contours of his skull, accentuating his gaunt appearance in a way that made Nico think of a decomposing corpse sinking into itself.

Percy must be out of his mind with worry.

"Were you looking for me?" Nico asked, absentmindedly kicking his foot against the fractures on the pavement. A nagging thought crossed his mind, wondering if Percy had sent Micah on a scheme to lure Nico back to Camp Half-Blood, or Hisa's apartment, or even his own, just as he had done countless times before. Nico has been ignoring him and all his Iris messages recently.

Micah smiled. "I'm always looking for you, Nico." He said it like a broken bone healed poorly—as if the absence of Nico always hurt, but he had grown to tolerate the pain, and now he simply lived with it, unnoticed unless someone asked him directly.

It was all in his head. Nico had tasted affection once, and it clung to his gums like a lingering sweetness, failing to be washed away even when he bit his tongue and washed his mouth with blood.

"I'm here," Nico replied, and if God were real, he would have heard the desperation in Nico's voice and condemned him for lying anyway. But Micah wasn't God—no matter how much he tried to be—and he couldn't see the cracks in Nico's heart that were slowly breaking him apart. So, he swallowed his pain and tried to smile back.

"For now," Micah knew.
Nico agreed. "For now,"

The Empire State Building stood visible from St. Patrick's Cathedral, just down the street, within a mile's reach. Micah didn't seem to care at all. "McDonald's?" He offered instead, as if his cousin hadn't died a few steps away. Nico accepted; he knew Micah wouldn't eat anything. He was difficult like that, but Nico wasn't any better. He had lost his appetite years ago. He still followed Micah like a stray dog, still hoping for someone to pet his matted fur, and praised him for his obedience.

Nico would never be better.

Micah bought four Happy Meals.
Mindlessly, out of habit, he split it unevenly. He gave Nico eight of the twelve nuggets and handed him the three bottles of milk. He kept one of the burgers but arranged all the apple slices on a napkin for them to share. Nico wondered how Ethan used to react. Did the son of Nemesis demand equal portions, or did he just take what he wanted, laughing with a mouthful of fries as he stole more of Micah's food?

Realizing that he was serving a ghost, Micah stood still for a moment, his hand hovering aimlessly over the toys, readying for a demanding, "No, Itoko! They are mine!" that would never come again. Ethan is dead, and Bianca died, and somehow, in a world of selfish gods, love is still the most terrible curse of them all.

Nico handed him one of the milk bottles. Two and two—they would be even.

The son of Hypnos accepted it with a nod. Neither of them ate, but it felt human.

─────

In Venezia, the older men in his neighborhood used to call each other frocione in a laughing manner, as if it were such an obsurb thought to be attracted to other men that it was almost comical. Nico never understood why they found it amusing. He heard stories of 'those people' being beatened and ostracized—driven to suicide or out of town, murdered, unmourned by family and the community that raised them. All that remained of them were unattended funerals and unmarked graves—worth evidence that they existed at all, their lives erased, and the sin of those who tormented them forgotten.

When Nico was ten, Percy watched Micah with a resentful gaze, as though the son of Hypnos had forcibly torn his heart from his chest, leaving behind a hollow cavity and shattered ribs that would never mend. "I love him," Percy confessed to Nico, gripping his chest as if the realization of it would forever hurt. "But he doesn't feel the same way about me."

It had scared Nico, imagining the son of Poseidon as one of those froci buried without love.

Oh, he remembers, mumbling quietly through the wish to lie to Percy. To tell him what he wanted to hear—that Micah did love him and Percy would never be like those unmarked graves. But the words remained unyielding in his throat, as if God had wrapped his hands around his throat and silenced him before he could speak cardinal sin.

Bianca could be the one to tell Percy instead, he had reasoned. She held a love for God in every aspect that Nico feared. She could tell Micah how Percy felt after the quest. That way, all of them could be happy.

But Bianca died. Those graves remained unmarked; Percy has Micah, but it was in the same way a distant star gives light to the Earth—a mere trace of what could have been before betrayal and loss devoured them.

Nico has searched for hope in all corners of the world. He will never find it.

Maybe it was that same realization that drove all those froci to their deaths.

At least they died true to themselves; Nico couldn't even manage that.

─────

Hades stared at him with the utter disdain and disappointment only a father could truly have. He is lonely, Nico recognized. So unbearably lonely that it angered him to see his son be the same. But it was hard; Nico has his father's eyes—his nose, too—and they are more alike than either of them cared to admit, so if Hades is alone and Nico is, too, then what does that say about them?

His father always stared at him with eyes like cold, unrelenting steel.

What a terrible thing it is to be born unlovable.

They dined in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. The weight of their mutual reticence was almost suffocating. "You're not dead yet, Niccolò." His father would say; and Nico could speak Italian and English, Greek and Latin, but somehow he couldn't find the words to respond to that. The weight of his father's disappointment hung heavy in the air, asphyxiating him. Hades will never love him the same way he loved Bianca. Nico would never love himself the way Bianca loved him, either.

So what? He wanted to reply. He couldn't.
God's hands never left his throat, it seemed.

─────

Percy told him that Micah could recite poetry as if it were his own heartbeat, each word flowing effortlessly from his lips in endless languages. Nico couldn't do that, so he tried to write instead. It went something like, this is a poem: him.

Him, him, him.

─────

Hisa Matsuoka has a garden on the rooftop of her apartment building. It's neat and organized, with perfectly trimmed hedges and state-of-the-art watering systems. It was mainly for vegetables and herbs, she explained; flowers wither too quickly once cut and require more maintenance. She did not like them. But she had a soft spot for poppies for the simple reason that 'Hiroki used to suckle on their blossoms as a baby', so she devoted a small corner of the garden entirely to them. All the same, she frequently complained at the sight of poppies, overlooking the fact that she had dutifully nurtured them for nearly two decades.

"Too much effort," she complained once again. Strands of black hair stuck to her forehead as she wiped the sweat from her brow. It was winter, but Hisa did not seem to know how to take a break. "Staking and deadheading, pruning and weeding. It's never-ending."

The son of Hades listened diligently, even though he didn't know much about gardening. He had arrived to visit Micah, but Nico found out from Naoki that his brother had disappeared early in the morning without a word. When Nico was about to leave, Hisa swiftly yanked him from his shadows and demanded that he join her for lunch. I do not do well with loneliness, the woman explained; Naoki had snorted and Hisa had glared at her eldest son, but Nico had nothing else to do, so he stayed.

There had been no lunch. In a rush, Hisa prepared Zōsui—a rice soup prepared with dashi broth, shiitake mushrooms, and eggs. She eyed him for a while before serving a second bowl overflowing with chicken and vegetables. She hauled everything to the rooftop, ignoring Nico's offer to carry the tray, and settled him onto a cushioned chair with a view of the city skyline, instructing him to eat. She did not join him; instead, she removed her coat and meticulously inspected her garden for issues that, to Nico, seemed nonexistent.

The resemblance between her and Micah made Nico ache.

If Maria had lived, would he have grown to be gentle like his mother? He doubted it. His blood is all Hades, a legacy that he will endure until his body decays and beyond that, too.

"Hyacinths are easy to grow," Nico mentioned, remembering a comment Persephone had made once. Hisa nodded in agreement. "Yes," she replied, a streak of dirt marking her cheek as she unstuck the hair from her brow. "But they aren't poppies. Now eat the chicken before it regrows feathers and flies away."

Nico listened.
He felt like a child, sitting on the table as Maria hummed in the kitchen, savoring the warmth of his soup while telling his mother what the nuns at his academy had taught him that day. Zōsui tasted nothing like stracciatella, and Hisa was not like Maria, silent in spite of being a musician, but it wasn't bad.

Nico spoke without intending to. "My father said I'm not dead yet," he shared, and he remembers being five year olds, ordered to pray for salvation for a sin he had not committed until the skin of his knees was raw. "I'm not sure what he meant by that, but it made me feel..."

Sad. It made him feel sad.

Hisa considered it thoughtfully, in between adding mulch to the thyme and chives. "Maybe he meant that there is still so much life ahead of you, Nico," she suggested. "You have a future to look forward to, but it is up to you to make the most of it. He could be worried that you are not taking advantage of the opportunities that come your way. Tell me, are you happy?"

No, he isn't.
Recognizing his answer in the silence, Hisa continued. "Parents have a way of knowing these things, you know. They can sense when their children are struggling, even if they don't say it out loud. Unfortunately, gods are brutes with the way they speak. They're both too much and not enough. Heaven knows that Hypnos is a mindless, endless dialog box, rarely living up to his promises. Hades could be like that, in his own way—his words are short and painful, but his intentions are filled with love and concern for you."

"My father doesn't love me," Nico denied. He stabbed angrily at the chicken, but he had a spoon, so it barely did any damage. "He doesn't care about me."

"Maybe not," Hisa conceded. "But then again, maybe he does care. It could be that Hades expresses his love for you in a way that differs from your expectations of what love should be. Emotions manifest distinctly in everyone, Nico. That includes gods. It can be challenging to comprehend or identify all of them. It's possible that Hades cares for you in the only way he can, even if it might not be immediately apparent or conventional."

It was a bit cruel of him, but Nico asked her. "Don't you blame him for leaving? Aren't you resentful?" But Hisa continued to nurture her garden, her hands diligently probing and digging into the soil. A woman like her has probably asked herself that question a million times over the years, enough to never be burdened by it.

She looked up for a moment, and her eyes moved to the poppies.

For the first time, she smiled at the sight of them, pained but full of grace, like the son of a carpenter realizing he would die on a wooden cross.

"I used to," she replied, "but I am his mother. I have to understand and forgive."

Hisa spoke pragmatically, as if she were speaking of a novel with an okay ending; Nico didn't understand. "He did not leave for selfish reasons," she explained. "So it is hard to blame him. Hiroki lost a friend when he was young. It changed him in ways I couldn't fully comprehend then." Her expression became a little lost, just for a second, as if she were transported back to that moment in time.

She sighed and continued, "It might sound quite awful, but I was relieved when my parents passed, so death never frightened me. I do not comprehend the emotions he felt, and Hypnos is very fond of his brother, so we did not know what to do. Hiroki has always been kind and polite, refusing to burden others with his sadness. He suffers in silence. And in that suffering, I suppose, he reasoned that change is the only way to prevent it from hurting everyone else. Children dream wide and far, setting goals beyond any logic. They believe in their dreams with such conviction that they are willing to leave everything behind, even if it means leaving their loved ones as well, because they don't know anything else. It is the awful responsibility of a parent to know when to step aside and when to forgive when their child's dreams take them away from home."

Nico couldn't tell if Hisa knew about Nyx's involvement in Hiroki's disappearance. Would she feel the same if she did? Would she still forgive Hiroki if she knew the bloodshed it had taken her son to achieve his dreams? Would she still support him, knowing the sacrifices he had made and all he had lost in the pursuit of his ambitions? Did Hades truly care about Nico?

The bowls in front of him were empty.
Hisa stood up, stretching her arms above her head, and walked over. "Stay for dinner," she said, placing the dishes on top of each other in a neat stack. He stared up at the woman, noticing the graying hairs at her temples and the lines etched on her face. You're not dead yet, Niccolò, he heard his father's harrowing voice.

He swallowed before agreeing. "Okay,"

─────

Although Micah's towering stature nearly obscured the daughter of Aphrodite as she entered the room, Silena Beauregard had a gentle grace that couldn't be overlooked. She is beautiful. Since the loss of Charles Beckendorf, she must've cut her dark-bronze hair to rest gracefully on her shoulders, a subtle frame that accentuated her delicate features. Her eyes had taken on a new depth as well, the captivating cerulean hue shining even more intensely than before. It seemed like the grief she carried lent a poignant innocence to her, a haunting elegance that captivated those who dared to meet her gaze.

Without a doubt, if Nico had to choose the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, it would be Silena. In her presence, he couldn't help but sense a comforting familiarity, as though they had known each other for a lifetime.

She smiled warmly at him, her expression filled with genuine care. "I haven't seen you in a while, Nico," she said, her voice filled with warmth and sincerity. "How have you been?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "Hisa invited me for dinner," he replied, trying to justify his existence. "But the recipe she chose took a while to cook; then she said it was too late for me to leave, so she told me to stay over for the night. I didn't want to impose, but she... insisted."

If the son of Hypnos found it strange to see Nico in his bedroom, he chose not to comment. Instead, he casually ruffled Nico's hair as he passed on his way to the bathroom.

"That's good," Silena said with a smile. "I wouldn't have seen you otherwise." Her gaze softened as she glanced toward the door where Micah had disappeared. "Sometimes, it's good to let others worry over you, even if it feels like you might be imposing. It shows that they care about you."

Nico wondered if Silena loved Micah—at some point, before Charles Beckendorf and Percy Jackson. It would explain why she stared at him with such tenderness. But Nico knew better than to pry into someone else's heart when he guarded him so closely, so he kept his thoughts to himself. "I guess," he replied, fiddling with the book Hisa had handed him like a pacifier. "But I've always been more comfortable taking care of myself."

Silena nodded understandingly, her eyes radiant with empathy—she's so beautiful.

"I can see why it would be difficult for you, Nico," she told him. "But it's okay to lean on others sometimes. We all need support, even the strongest of us."

Micah emerged from the bathroom, shirtless and godlike. He was impossibly slender and tall, his ribs seemingly wanting to burst through his skin as he stretched; his veins emitted a simmering gold glow, a testament to the ambrosia still burning through him. He did not look human.

"Silena is fixing my hair," Micah explained to Nico, sitting on the bed next to the daughter of Aphrodite. Nico cast a glance at the white strands of hair scattered among black. The son of Hypnos had no clue why his hair had suddenly turned that way.

"I like it," Silena said, brushing through his hair gently. "It's a unique look."

A look of discontentment crossed Micah's face. "I look like a raccoon," he denied, running a hand through his hair. Silena laughed softly and sat next to Micah on the bed; it felt like self-harm, watching the way her hand touched his bare shoulder.

Nico read his book. He opened it to a random page, uncaring of the content, but the Fates and God must be friends, conspiring to shame the son of Hades, because as Silena and Micah discussed what color would suit him best between smiles, they would touch—on bare shoulders, hands gracing one another, the meat of Silena's thighs pressed to Micah's back—and Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar existed to mock him.

"There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It's like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction—every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour."

The words on the page blurred.

"Where's Percy?" Nico asked abruptly. Silena's laughter faded; her smile faltered.

Micah stared at him with a discerning expression, as if seeing something in Nico that others couldn't. It felt repulsive to be seen so explicitly. "He went to sleep early," the son of Hypnos answered. "Sally's wedding is tomorrow, and he wanted to make sure he got enough rest. He's been helping with all the final preparations in the morning."

"It's why I'm here! I'm making sure Micah looks the best for his pretty boy!" Silena chirped like a princess, her sweet voice trying to rekindle its former cheerfulness. She is beautiful, and kind, and compassionate; the perfect girl in every sense. Nico might hate her.

The son of Hypnos stares, and stares. His eyes are not like Hades—burnished and all glorious, the golden eyes of the protogenoi—but they burn the same on Nico's paper-thin skin.

And it made sense. Micah and Percy are soulmates, and Silena and Charles were soulmates, so there was nothing suspicious between the two of them—it was just Nico proving how much of a friendless freak he is, unable to understand how natural touch came to others. But he was upset, for some reason, and he couldn't control it—because why was it so difficult for him to see others express affection and intimacy? Why was Nico cursed with the compulsion to overanalyze every touch, each glance, every interaction, all in an effort to prevent any discomfort or unease in others? It was exhausting—always feeling like an outsider in his own skin, constantly second-guessing his every move. Nico didn't want to feel this way. Nico didn't want to. He hated himself deeply, so deeply that it consumed him. He will be one of those forgotten froci, buried hated in an unmarked grave because God hated him—He made Nico fucked up, disgustingly filthy, full of sin—and maybe that is why Nico never believed in his mother's merciful God.

All the tears and blood he shed as a child, pleading for forgiveness, were in vain. Jesus would never die for Nico's sake. He ignored every prayer, every act of repentance—his baptism was meaningless; he must've failed his third sacrament, and there would never be any reconciliation between him and Divine. Nico felt abandoned, condemned to a life of eternal suffering.

It was cruel. God hated him, but at least the son of Hades was better than Him in that aspect.

He could never, ever hate him more than Nico hated himself.

Thin arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace.

"Oh, Nico," Silena murmured, her tone filled with heartbreak. "Oh, Nico..."

Of course, the daughter of love would notice the lack of it. His shoulders trembled, and his fists clenched, battling against the threat of tears. It was humiliating—he hadn't comprehended how much he yearned for human touch until that very moment. And Silena continued to murmur soft, comforting words in his ear, but his mind was fixed on Micah. Unshed cries muddled his vision, rendering the son of Hypnos into a figure whose face resembled that of a classical painting of angels, smudges of golden paint, and soft, heavenly light. Pure in suffering and radiant in offense—beautiful in every way he was deemed filthy.

He wishes he could be an angel, too.
Nico reached out blindly for the older boy.

Micah accepted his hand carefully, interlacing their fingers together.

He pulled him close, and Nico surged to his feet and collided against him with desperation, burrying his head in Micah's stomach. Micah held him tightly, like he understood; and his collar bones pressed against Nico's temple, and he was too thin—it was uncomfortable, like hugging a skeleton—but Nico didn't care. In that moment, all he could think about was the safety that Micah's arms provided.

"Cry," Micah told him; it wasn't a gentle 'you are allowed to cry' or an empathetic 'it's okay' but a hardened command. He did not give Nico any chance to hold back his emotions. Nico let out a choked sob, and his fingers dug into Micah's skin. He could feel the beating of his heart through his fingernails—alive. Alive.

Nico did.

─────

He is a stray dog.

It was hard to think of himself in any other way—he had tasted affection once, and it stuck to his gums like a lingering sweetness, always tempting him to return when an unbearable hunger ravaged his soul. When it's cold, he thinks of the warmth of their doorway. When he's in pain, he wants to run to them for comfort, tail tucked between his legs. A part of him tries to justify his insatiable appetite; if they had no intentions of keeping him, Micah shouldn't have shown him kindness. If they did not want him, Hisa should've let him starve.

But Nico di Angelo is such a dog. He loves like one, too.

He'd love them even if they beat him like a bad mutt. He'd love them even if they held him down by the neck and euthanized him mercilessly. He loved them illogically, beyond reason—in spite of, notwithstanding.

Neverending; Nico will love them forever.
With claws and a mouth full of teeth to prove it.

─────

Micah did not like being at home.
He'd leave at the light of dawn and return well after dark, constantly finding reasons to linger outside for as long as he could. He couldn't shadow travel without his wings, so Nico could hear him whenever he opened the window to the fire escape. He did it discretely, quietly enough for mortal ears to overlook it. As December drifted by, January arrived with a harsh, penetrating cold that crept into every part of the city. Day by day and night by night, Nico would wait for Micah's fading footsteps, counting the hours until he would return.

When he began accepting Percy's Iris Messages again, he mentioned it with concern.

The son of Poseidon said Micah didn't like it—he did not like the way Hisa and Naoki looked at him and expected him to be Hiroki. It was difficult for all of them. They had waited for him, and he had built a life without them. It was bitter, and family is complicated, and it will take time for them to rebuild the trust and connection that were lost.

Nico responded, oh, okay, and that was that. They talked for a while longer, catching up on everything that had happened in each other's lives in the time it took the son of Hades to accept his calls again—then Sally puked and Percy ended the call.

Alone with his thoughts, Nico wrestled with the concept of family, his ears attuned to Micah's departure, bracing himself for another night without sleep until he heard the return of the son of Hypnos.

Really, what the is family?

─────

Micah liked to visit a park near the Hudson River.
They played a strange game there: Nico would try to find the most bizarre, non-human remains he could sense, Percy would will the water to bring it to them, and Micah tried to identify whatever mutated creatures died in the polluted river. It was gross and unpleasant, and the smell was enough to make anyone else gag, but it was their twisted way of bonding, even if they had to wake up at 5 a.m. before Percy had class and Nico's tutor arrived.

"It might be a beaver," Percy suggested through a wide-mouthed yawn.  Micah narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, assessing the carcass. "There's beavers in New York?"

"Yeah," Percy replied, scratching the side of his head sleepily. "They are the state's official mammal. I remember learning about it in school."

It might have been the early-morning sky, painted in hues of purple and burnt-orange, or the indescribable way the fragile glow of the sunrise brought out the hidden colors of Percy's eyes—the green within them illuminated like emeralds in the soft light—but something caused Nico's heart to twist.

"I'm gay," he blurted out. 

Micah and Percy turned to him.

"No shit," the son of Hypnos told him. "We're half Greek, but you're also Italian."

"Oh, dam," Percy mumbled sleepily; he yawned again, and Micah shoved his finger into his mouth, gagging the son of Poseidon before turning to Nico and saying, "Saw that? When you get to our age, don't let anyone shame you out of it, Nico."

Nico didn't understand. Percy sputtered and blushed, and he pushed Micah, shouting. "He is a kid, jerk!" And Micah laughed, grabbing the son of Poseidon by his jacket when he tried to run away and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Percy yelled the entire time, awake in a way that wasn't entirely related to sleep or anger now—Nico could tell he was just pretending to be mad because it amused Micah.

And sure, Percy would never look at Nico as anything more than an annoying little kid, but the son of Hades preferred it that way, truthfully.

Nico only really liked Percy for one reason, either way.

He was the only one who could make Micah smile the brightest—like a sun sparkling into existence.

─────

Naoki Matsuoka doesn't like Nico very much.

He's good at hiding it, though. He takes Nico out shopping every now and then—buys him new clothes and creepy, macabre-stuffed animals he thinks Nico might enjoy. He brings back overpriced sugary drinks from college and, like any good older brother, he helps Nico with his homework when Micah and Hisa are busy. He even flashes a smile when he manages to solve a tough problem on his own. He almost convinced Nico that they could be family when he offered to teach him the guitar, spending two whole weeks hunting down the perfect one—a sleek black instrument with a skeleton design etched into its body, the kind of morbid touch Nico adored.

Naoki does all of that, but there's no masking the way his eyes harden whenever Nico's half-blood status slips into the conversation—a silent judgment that lingers despite all the brotherly gestures.

Nico wasn't sure what to make of it. Naoki was like a tightly wound-up doll, each emotion tethered to a delicate string, ready to snap with the slightest pull.

And he snapped when Nico, with all the innocence in the world, asked if Micah could play the guitar too.

Naoki's face twisted into a scowl, his voice laced with bitterness as he snapped, "Oh, my godly brother? Of course! He can do everything, you didn't know?"

"And the violin, because he was born a prodigy." The mortal added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He used to play the piano keys too, before deciding he was too good for it at five-years-old. It took me three years to even learn how to sit correctly on the bench! Oh, and did you know he paints like a master? It's truly awe-fucking-inspiring how he effortlessly excels in every artistic pursuit known to man. With how perfect he is, you would think he is the son of Perfectous, god of perfection." Naoki's words were laced with a mix of envy and resentment, his frustration palpable.

Nico stared; Naoki sat up. "It's so unfair," he continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I've worked my ass off to improve my skills—to be smart, to be talented. I mean, I've payed like a thousand dollars to buy skincare products from Korea, because Camille said those are the best, and I still get like a pimple every other day. Look at my nose! Full of blackheads. And you are telling me that guy was in literal Hell for years and still has perfect skin? Fuck, dude! It feels like no matter what I do, I can never measure up to him! It's as if he was born with all of the world's good things, while I'm struggling just to breathe."

The son of Hades didn't know how to react.

Then Naoki began crying, overwhelmed, and Nico truly didn't know how to react.

"When he left," Naoki told him, snot dripping from his nose, "it felt like time stood still and all of us stopped moving, waiting for him. I thought that—I thought, well, maybe this is my chance to learn something, so when he came back, he would be impressed and decide to keep me because I would finally be useful to him. But time passed, and everyone started moving again, and I'm still awful at everything. And they're all walking again, moving forward because Hiroki is back and they think I am right there with them, but I'm not. I'm still standing there, one disappointment after another, holding onto the memories of my little brother—and... And he won't even look at me anymore."

He left before Nico could even reply.

He slammed his bedroom door shut, and heavy metal music blared from his speakers, shaking the walls of the apartment—then it paused, and he cracked his bedroom door slightly, and said: "You forgot to add a decimal point to the quotient and bring down another zero!"

He slammed the door shut again.
Nico looked down at his work; he had forgotten.

Naoki doesn't like half-bloods, but maybe he had right to, Nico considered.

─────

He couldn't figure out precisely when Micah had taken up smoking, but Nico stumbled upon the son of Hypnos perched on the rooftop with a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. Seated on the edge of the building with his feet hanging over the side, in the farthest corner away from Hisa's poppies, Micah took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke that mingled with the night air. Nico watched him silently, wondering what thoughts were swirling in Micah's mind as he stared out into the city skyline. His disheveled hair and heavy-lidded, exhausted eyes revealed the toll it had taken on him.

Unsure of how to approach him, Nico removed the winter hat off of his head and walked timidly.

He placed the knitted hat on Micah's head, adjusting it to cover the reddened tips of his ears. "You look awful," the son of Hades said.

On any other time, the son of Hypnos might have laughed or flashed a smile, but right now, he took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled—spiteful, he blew it at Nico's face.

He blinked through the acrid smell. The tendrils of cigarette smoke swayed in the air like ghostly apparitions, intertwining with the icy atmosphere, shrouding them in a haze of white clouds.

Micah stared at Nico with the eyes of a serpent, his gaze piercing through the haze.

"Are you lonely?" The son of Hypnos asked.

"I guess," Nico answered truthfully; the scent of tobacco and ash reminded him of Venezia. "Not a lot, though. It used to be worse."

"I see," Micah replied. As an afterthought, he added, "I'm sorry about Bianca."

Nico had heard those words before from Percy, Chiron, and even his father. At the time, they were hollow, devoid of true understanding. But there was something to the way Micah said it that made his eyes briefly flicker in his direction.

"She shouldn't have abandoned such a precious brother," Micah spoke plainly, devoid of any attempt to soften his words or consider their impact. And Nico knew she did—she did abandon Nico as soon as she could, eager to do what was best for herself even if it meant leaving Nico to fend for himself. He had grown accustomed to this miserable truth; he had not quite accepted it but lived with it like a scar. Yet, hearing it articulated by someone else, especially Micah, worsened the pain.

The words hovered in the air, lingering like a bitter taste in Nico's mouth, an unwelcome reminder of a reality he couldn't escape.

"At times, I can't help but think I could've saved her," Micah admitted. "I know Ares. I know Aphrodite, and Hephaestus. I know the Junkyard—Gods, Nico, I proposed the creation of it. I should've joined them on the quest, but I was... I was tired. I was so tired of Percy and his heroics, and his goddamn eyes whenever I told him to stop. I was tired of Annabeth and the camp—"

Nico wanted to be angry deep inside, but he tried to be angry for so long that it proved to be useless. He had spent countless nights replaying the events in his mind, wondering what could have made a difference. If Percy could've done something different, or if the Hunters of Artemis could've intervened—if his father could've split open the earth and saved his sister, or simply put her body back together—but it never changed anything. The pain and guilt remained, gnawing at Nico's heart like the maggots that ate away at Bianca's corpse underneath all that garbage.

So he swallowed the bitterness and the old anger, burying them deep within himself, and said, "You can't keep chasing ghosts, Micah," because that's what the son of Hypnos had told him back then, when the resentment threatened to engulf him and Minos' hand was the only one he could see. And Micah looked at him, lost for words, unable to see his—and Nico realized that Micah isn't well.

Micah isn't well.

─────

Family, Nico hypothesized, feels like half-assed birthday wishes. Rushed and half-hearted at best, falling short of what they could've been. A regret carried for years and years on end, wondering if you had been given just one more minute, one more chance, would things have turned out differently?

Hisa had gone red in the face; she had to remove her glasses and breathe deeply to calm herself down. Naoki hurried to the bathroom, pushing past Nico—a bloody trail the only evidence that he had even entered the kitchen—while Micah simply sat calmly on the breakfast table, like nothing had happened at all, eating his pickled vegetables like he hadn't broken his brother's nose.

Nico watched in disbelief, unsure of how to react to the calamity unfolding before him.

"Want my salmon?" Micah offered him politely, preparing him a plate of rice and a bowl of miso soup. The son of Hades approached the table cautiously, accepting the meal with a hesitant nod.

With each bite, he caught Hisa muttering Hypnos' name in an enraged undertone, as if casting a curse under her breath. Nico glanced toward her, his eyebrows furrowing with confusion.

"She hasn't changed," Micah told him, as if those words meant anything to him.

"I guess..." Nico settled and ate his salmon as Hisa stalked out of the kitchen with a frustrated sigh. The tension in the room lingered, and Micah acted oblivious, even as his knuckles bled on the tablecloth and his hands trembled enough that the soup dripped out of his spoon enough times that he simply sat up and left, too.

The son of Hades ate breakfast alone.
He doesn't know what family is.

─────

Nico arrived one winter morning and never quite left.
It would be spring soon. He doesn't know what family is, but he was given his own room. It stretched out in length, just barely decorated with a clock and curtains. There was no bed yet, but the built-in closet contained a collection of weathered books and old winter clothes. Half of the walls wore a dark coat of charcoal-colored paint, with the rest revealing exposed brick. A soft glow spread throughout the room from the only window, dim and barely there—just the right amount of sunlight.

It felt good.
It could be perfect, even.

─────

On sleepless night, Nico headed to the rooptop garden and discovered Hisa's poppies were stumped beyond recognition, fiery petals scattered on the ground like blood splattered after a violent murder.

Next to them, laying on the ground, Micah smoked a cigarette.

Nico tried to picture how the son of Hypnos used to be before everything—when he used to suckle on floral blossoms, loved his brother, and played the violin for his mother with fingers that danced effortlessly across the strings like a tiny cherub serenading the heavens. Nico hurt for that child. He hurt for Micah, too, because he sees the way Hisa stares at her son now, as if lamanting. How did someone so loved end up like that?

Nico carries so much sadness and guilt. It never felt like it would ease.

What about you? He wanted to ask Micah, What about you? How guilty are you?

Nico dropped to his knees beside the son of Hypnos. It wouldn't cause any pain, no matter how long he knelt. The skin on his knees had toughened and become calloused early in his life. 

Carefully, he began to pick up the poppies; it felt like penance.

 "I'm sorry about Ethan," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own heartache. What else could he possibly say?

Next to his hand, where he reached to grab the blossoms that crowned Micah's head, a droplet of water landed on the ground—it soaked into the gravel and disappeared like it never existed.

Nico knew it wasn't raining.
He continued to pick up the petals, one by one.

─────

Percy was worn down, rigid like a skeleton propped on a couch, on the verge of collapsing bone by bone; stiff, lifeless. Micah emerged from his bedroom as if it were his coffin, bloodshot-eyed with matted hair. The tears streaming down his cheeks were tinged with the golden hue of ambrosia.

Percy looked at him—and for a second, every hardship they had endured disappeared.

He stood up on shaky legs, and as Micah mumbled his name tiredly, Percy accepted him completely.

Nico looked back down at his book.

There's no quiet place here on earth for our love, he read, not in the village and not anywhere else, so I picture a grave, deep and narrow, in which we embrace as if clamped together, I bury my face against you, you yours against me, and no one will ever see us.

Nico worried.

On the first day of spring, Micah took him to an apartment on the other side of New York. The key had an old and damaged sticker of a smily face on it, barely clinging to the metal. When he unlocked the door, the son of Hypnos breathed like it was home.

Terrified, Nico entered after him.

It was small, with two shut rooms and a tiny kitchenette. The faded yellow walls enclosed worn and mismatched furniture, covered in a thin layer of dust. Each dead plant had a sticky note with scribbled names and small doodles.

Framed pictures of Ethan Nakamura lined the walls, capturing moments of laughter and love over the years. A middle-school graduation picture of the boy on Micah's shoulders, screeching with joy as Micah grinned proudly—certificates of perfect attendance and academic achievement neatly displayed on the tilting shelf. A picture of Micah wearing a birthday hat and frosting on his nose, blurred and smudged with a thumb print on the side. Polaroids of Percy stuck to the fridge with cute-patterned tape, almost lost between the stacks of crumbled takeout menus and grocery lists; Ethan's favorites and Itoko's favorites, circled in different colors and sharpie-drawn stars. The kitchen table, cluttered with textbooks and notebooks; an empty fish tank with a sign that read Coming Soon: Francis the Fishy Friend sat in the corner, decorated with a plush toy of a squid in the in the meantime. Handwritten notes from Ethan dotting the window—do not feed the rats and notice: the birds work for the bourgeoisie—and above it, there was calendar labeled in red. Today's date was a marked with a big smiley face: Ethan's Fourteen Birthday!!

On the verge of tears, Nico finally understood why the son of Hypnos felt like he didn't really belong anywhere. Micah already knew what it felt like—to have someone love him unreservedly, greedily and possesively. To have a small piece of a heaven waiting for him to return a world full of cruelty. Nowhere could be home to him again after Ethan; Micah's home died.

On the windowsill, a vase cradled wilted poppies like memorial flowers on a forgotten grave.

"When I die," the son of Hypnos told him, "just leave me here."

─────

Nico couldn't sleep.
He kept thinking, Micah isn't well.

─────

The son of Hypnos wore sickness like a perfectly tailored suit: purposeful and charming, custom-made to conceal the cracks beneath. But he continued to fracture, his pretense of composure slowly crumbling, like the chipping of an ancient statue that wanted to return to the soil of  its birthplace. Nico watched, unable to do anything as the once omniscient and invincible Micah now seemed to be unravel ever-so-slowly, thread by golden thread.

─────

Hisa discovered Micah's routine of using the fire escape to leave and confronted him one evening. Her eyes were filled with concern and worry as she spoke, "Hiroki, you are my son!" she emphasized, as if Micah couldn't comprehend it. "I know you're trying to protect us by keeping your struggles hidden, but we're here for you. You don't have to face this alone again."

Still, she hired someone to seal the fire escape with a lock, hoping it would dissuade Micah from leaving. Her son observed the act with a serene smile, akin to Jesus watching Judas betray him. He did not speak and simply kissed her cheek.

"You're right," Micah lied. Hisa nodded, but her eyes betrayed her doubt.

Nico wondered who Judas was, and who Jesus was.

─────

Silena came over again, holding a black plastic bag around her wrist.

Naoki froze at the sight of her. When he regained his composure, he went to his room without a word. Silena tried to call out to him, but her voice was lost in the noise as heavy-metal music blared from his speakers, loud enough to drown the entire world.

She sighed and headed to Micah's room.

Nico and Hisa ate dinner alone again.

─────

Micah smelled like cigarettes all the time now.

"I have dreams of him." He told Nico, sitting on the ground and staring at the sunless sky. He bleached his hair again, white strands like a ghostly halo around his head. "He's searching for me, unable to find peace. I try to help him but I can't find him. The underworld is restless. Everything is shifting. I don't know where he is, or why my uncle hasn't taken his soul."

Frightened, Nico drew his knees to his chest.

"The Great Stirring is happening," Micah told him. "You can feel it as well, can't you? Everything is off. Monsters are migrating, the gods have gone silent, and the balance of the world is teetering on the edge."

The temptation to pray crossed his mind.
He decided against it. No one ever answered.

─────

Although it was late at night, all the lights remained on in the corridor; everyone understood that darkness unsettled Micah. Nico had gotten up to use the restroom. On his way there, he heard hushed voices, seeping through the slightly ajar door of Micah's room.

Naoki tries, but he's a bit unused to being a brother.

"Nobody blames you," Naoki insisted. "Yeah, a couple of people died, and... And it's painful like nothing else. I know you miss Ethan. But you're good, okay? Everyone thinks you're a hero. Isn't that what you always wanted? You're good, Hiroki. No one is hurt anymore. There's still people who love you, still so... Let's cheer up, okay? We're all okay."

When Hiroki finally spoke, he said, "I'm not."
"I'm not okay." He repeated; his voice sounded strained, as if he had been crying.

"What about my pain?" Hiroki asked his brother. "What about my hurt?"

At that, Naoki falls silent.

Nico thinks of Bianca.
She wouldn't do a better job.

─────

Family, Nico realizes, feels like half-assed birthday wishes. Rushed and half-hearted at best, falling short of what they could've been. A regret carried for years and years on end—but somehow still unforgettable, always carried within his heart with the hope that they might change his life for the better in the future.

He woke up to the sound of shouting.

"You're not fucking listening to me!" The son of Hypnos yelled at his mom, the loudest Nico has ever heard him be."I need to find him, I need to be there! They're going to take him away if I'm not there!"

In the dimly lit living room, an air of hopelessness enveloped everything; Micah's voice tore through it like a jagged blade through charred flesh. The words spilled from his lips with an intensity that reverberated off the walls, each syllable a desperate plea. His eyes were wide with horror and frustration, locked onto his mother's gaze, demanding acknowledgment. His bare chest was covered in scratches, and the tips of his fingers were mangled, as if he had ripped off his own nails. His breathing was ragged and shallow, and his chest was heaving with each desperate gasp.

A furious expression burned Hisa's face. "He is fine," she insisted sharply. "So do not yell. Use your words, Hiroki. Explain to me why you believe he's in danger, and we will talk."

Naoki, barely awake, was on the phone on the other side of the living room. "Hey, Sally. I'm sorry for calling so late," he was mumbling. "But he's freaking out again, and... Yeah, could I speak to Percy? You know how it is..."

In the absence of Hypnos, Micah began experiencing nightmares, far more severe than ever before. He would start yelling about the earth cracking open to swallow them, unable to be calmed no matter what anyone said. His fear was overwhelming, triggering his powers spiraling out of control—mirrors shattered and walls cracked under the sheer force of his panic. Grotesque creatures emerged from the shadows, like nightmarish apparitions from another realm. They slithered and crawled out of Micah's mouth and eyelids until they filled the room, their twisted forms contorting and writhing in the air. Anyone who touched him fell unconscious. The screams of the neighbors pierced through the walls each time they tried to sleep.

Percy tried speaking to him, weeks ago, but he said that nothing seemed to reach Micah. It was as if he was trapped in his own terrifying reality, unable to distinguish between dreams and waking life. 

The sight of Nico would send him into a panic each time, as if he were looking ats omeone who was supposed to be dead.

"I don't know what to do," Micah cried hopelessly, covering his face with his hands. "I don't know; I don't know. How can I protect them? I can't protect them—Dad, help me! Dad! Dad, please!"

Nothing changed. Micah's pleas for help fell on deaf ears.

Hisa attempted to reach out, but the woman fainted before she could even touch him. She collapsed to the ground like an angel falling from the sky, her unconscious body sprawled across the floor.

It must have been the last golden thread that Micah clung to, because as soon as she fell, he became completely undone.

He sank to the ground and crawled under the dining table. Pulling his knees close to his chest, he wept like a child.

Behind him, Naoki laughed shakily when he noticed where he had gone, a sound filled with tears. "That stupid baby," he muttered, wiping at his eyes furiously. He looked at Nico. "Percy will be here soon. I'm going to carry mom to bed and make sure she's comfortable. Stay with him."

He hadn't planned on leaving Micah's side anytime soon. Still, he felt helpless. "What am I supposed to do?" Nico asked, his voice cracking with uncertainty. He desperately wanted to be able to comfort the son of Hypnos, but Nico couldn't even approach him.

"You're half-blood," Naoki said, gathering his mother into his arms. "Figure it out."

Shallow sobs continued to echo through the room. Nico stared around the room, trying to fathom a solution—then he turned off all the lights and thought, Hisa, please forgive me. The room fell into complete darkness, save for the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows. With a deep breath, he vanished into the shadows.

He crashed on top of the dinning room table. The expensive vase of foliage shattered into a thousand pieces underneath him, and the plates Hisa had left out got kicked off the table as he reoriented himself, scattering across the floor with loud crash that echoed through the house.

Nico winced at the noise.
For a moment, Micah's cries halted.

The son of Hades settled on the table, pressing his ear against the wood to listen for any signs of movement. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Unsure if Micah could even hear him, Nico began to speak:

"You've been my hero since I was ten years old," He admitted out easily; speaking to the darkness felt familiar, like an old friend who never judged. "And it's not because you are a half-blood, or anything like that. I... I understood I was gay before I even knew what it meant, and in Venezia, back when I was born, that wasn't something people talked about. It killed people."

Nico blinked rapidly. Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued. "My mom... Mamma was Catholic, so she would've never accepted it—accepted me—so I just... tried to ignore it, even though I was scared, all the time. Because my mom was so good and the God she loved hated me., so that meant that I was the bad one. And He was everywhere I went. He was in the church, in the streets, in my home, in every corner of my life. It felt suffocating, like I couldn't escape His judgment. It would never leave my mind. I felt guilty, all the time, because I felt like I was betraying her and her faith by just existing—like I condemned her to Hell because she gave birth to me."

Nico bit his lip until it bled.

"But then I came to Camp Half-Blood," he breathed out. "And I saw you for the first time, and you acted like God had to apologize to you—like you would be the one to punish Him for even daring to look at you, much less try to judge you. It was like a revelation for me, seeing someone so unrepentant in their lack of faith. Then Percy said he loved you, and eventually, you loved him as well, and it made me believe that love could exist even in the absence of faith. It gave me hope."

Beneath him, still hiding beneath the table, Micah's shattered voice spoke full of heartbreak.

"I'm sorry—I cannot protect you; I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to anymore," Nico swore to him. "You don't have to carry the world alone anymore. We'll protect each other now."

─────

Percy arrived like salvation, dressed in a bleach-stained hoodie and shark-patterned pajama pants. He carried a worn-out backpack slung over his shoulder and held a suitcase in his hand. His eyes blazed with unwavering purpose, like that of an angel ready to sacrifice everything for his cause.

"We are watching Naruto!" he declared. "All seven hundred and two episodes."

He was also the first one to drift into slumber in Micah's arms, his head nestled in the space between Micah's chest and shoulder as as soon as the sun rose.

Nico stayed on the couch with them, watching the animated show with the volume turned off. He worried, and the son of Hypnos knew, a burden he would have to learn to accept—because family meant swallowing the bitterness of imposing, and the pain of broken noses, and the hopelessness of locked windows and brusied petals for the possibility that maybe—just maybe—one day it might all have been worth it.

─────

I love you as a brother, Nico thought but didn't say it. Please do not leave me.

Micah grabbed his hand.
It was unspoken, but Nico understood it anway.

I love you as well. Please do not leave me.

─────

When does a stray stop being a stray?
When does a stray become a beloved pet? A companion—a friend, a brother, someone needed and wanted, someone who is cherished profoundly like a son?

When does a stray become family?

Nico doesn't have the words to describe the exact moment, but he felt it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

AND THE QUEER KIDS CRIED AND THE RAISED CATHOLIC KIDS CRIED AND THE QUEER CATHOLIC KIDS EXPLODED!!!1!1!

sorry for any mistakes the tears blurred my eyes the entire time i was writing. pls point any out so i can correct it!

in some news i realized that i am nico di angelo.
in other news there's a spanish translation of the story now yay!

and in other other news THE SEQUEL STORY HAS BEEN PUBLISHED TOO!! Only Naoki's chapter before this book is completed for real

comments are the guiding light of my life pls give me a lot okay thanks for reading
bye bye!!