The voice is tired, and drags like heavy grocery bags. The bruises under cloudy blue eyes match it. The pallid, sickly grey skin really seals the deal.
“Will,” Nico says, stepping carefully around the puddle of blood, “Will, carino, I can do that.”
Will doesn’t hear him. Or, he can’t stop: the brush drags back, and forth, back, and forth, back, and forth through the rusty stain, suds a squeamish, soiled near-orange, and his scarred hands are dyed an awful crimson all the way to his elbows. The width of the stain only grows, and soapy, bloody water splashes against Nico’s boot.
His voice is softer this time. Careful. There is no use chiding him when he is like this, when he is far away; not that Nico takes great interest in chiding him anyway. That can be Chiron’s job. Kayla’s. Cecil’s, even, if things are particularly bad. No, Nico prefers this, even as a lump grows in his throat: he prefers to angle himself in front of the window, crouching by Will’s side, sliding his hand down his arm until it rests by his elbow, squeezing. Stilling, holding him in place.
“Will,” he whispers, squeezing his elbow again. “Will, this can wait.”
“It’ll stain,” Will says hollowly.
Nico rubs his thumb against overhot flesh, against still-glowing veins.
Nico doesn’t ask why. He can hear it, anyway, the haunted edge to his voice, the grip of his cracked fingernails on the wooden brush handle and the long, faraway look at the cabinet in the far corner, oversized and resting atop the only carpet in the room.
He keeps his voice soft. He lingers, for a moment, keeping a gentle hand on Will’s arm. He can’t feel exhaustion, can’t feel exertion, not like Will can, but he has eyes, has ears. He can feel the slow drag of his heartbeat and the hard edge of his muscles. Back, forth, back, forth. The sun dips lower and lower. The infirmary grows dark, and Camp is still. Quiet.
Nico stands, stretching his back until it pops.
“Hold on,” he says, aware Will is not going to be doing anything else. “I’ll be right back.”
It is late and the stain is huge. There is not much to be done for blood on old hardwood, but Nico gets a mop, anyway. Fills a bucket, hours in soap, leaves the bleach behind. The less on Will’s skin the better. And he walks back to where Will is kneeling, still, and dips the mop in the bucket, swipes up a stripe of red. It is not gone, not completely. But it lessens, a little, and Will slows, stops.
“There wasn’t even half a chance,” he says softly.
Nico grimaces. “You tried for hours.”
“Useless.” He straightens like a furled, gnarled tree. “I knew, from the beginning.”
There is nothing Nico can say to that. Nothing he could say, then, because he knew it, too. Saw the shape of the wound and the size of the blood puddle. Heard Will’s knees hit the floor, watched the sun beams bend. Watched Will get desperate.
“You are not a god,” Nico tries, Nico softens. “Not infallible, Will. Not at fault.”
He reaches for his shoulder. Holds, squeezes. Lingers.
Will crouches back down and keeps scrubbing.
