Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will can't remember the last time he slept. Or ate. Or sat down for a reason that wasn't to do a procedure. He's so exhausted, but he's also so wired he feels like he could never sleep again. He knows it's bad when he starts hearing things— if there's one thing about Will, it's that he doesn't hear things usually. His Hephaestus-kid-powered CIs are miles better than any other mortal models that could even dream of existing right now, but they’re still far from perfect. He still misses a decent amount of what people say, especially when he’s tired or overstimulated. Sometimes, he just doesn’t have the energy to keep focusing on hearing and thinking in English. These past few days have truly brought a new definition to bone tiredness.

The son of Apollo just discharged the last patient from the battle back to their bunks. That had been the goal: to get everybody nice and healed in time for the rites tonight. Or, at the very least, in the kind of shape that their siblings can take care of them after this point. The infirmary staff is running on fumes at this point and they’re wrecked for supplies. Nonetheless, the infirmary is buzzing alive with other medics cleaning and trying to get things for cabin calls. Mostly, it’s just yelling trying to find supplies that don’t exist anymore— he really needs to talk to the Stolls about a supply run. Everybody keeps asking him questions every ten seconds and he can feel his mind melting away with each question. Almost none of them sign to him, it’s harder for them and he never complains. 

So Will makes the executive decision to not deal with this shit anymore. Maybe not the most responsible decision he’s ever made in his life, but so be it. The place probably won’t go up into flames if he disappears for like thirty minutes, right? He just needs thirty minutes of not hearing anybody or thinking about medicine. Then he can go back to being the perfect Head Healer or whatever. When was the last time he even had a break anyways? 

He makes his way to the only quiet place in the whole infirmary: Beckendorf's workshop. It’s tucked away and sound proofed, mainly so the noise of the metal grinding doesn’t bother anybody. Not that it could bother Beck or Will, the sounds are usually too high pitched for their range of hearing. He all but collapses on the couch. Ever since the Great Prophecy started ramping up, the son of Hephaestus has had less and less time for working in the infirmary. Instead, all of his time goes towards making weapons and armor. He’s not mad about it, he just misses having Deaf company sometimes. Will rests his head in his hands, pulling off his processors for the first time since the battle started and relishing in the silence. 

The battle. 

The battle that killed Lee. The brother that Will was closest to, both being strong healers and it being unspoken that Will was next up for Head Healer. His arrows and textbooks sitting on his bed like they’re going to be used again. Loved again. But they won’t be.

And Castor. One of his first friends here at camp who actively tried to learn ASL for him. Who he had spent countless days with. The image of Pollux being alone for the first time in his life haunts Will. He doesn’t think he’s seen Mr. D around yet, but he also can’t remember who he has and hasn’t seen at this point. 

And five more of his siblings. All of their bunks are sitting empty, like they’re waiting for them to return. He feels sick at the idea of going back there and seeing all the abandoned objects. Lila’s hair ties on the bathroom sink, Imani’s guitar on the floor, Mason’s poetry notebook sitting on his bed waiting to be opened again. 

The metal clanging of weapons and armor rings in his ears. It's far worse than any sounds from the forges. It's constant. It's grating. He dreams of being able to stop hearing it, dreams of it being out of his range of hearing. But it’s not. And it crashes in his head.

The cyclops and hordes of monsters roaring. So loud that even a hearing person could barely understand their fellow soldiers. All these horrible noises that set off every danger alarm within Will. It takes every bit of self-control to keep himself calm enough to keep moving. To keep healing. To be a good field medic.

The screams of pain from demigods. From both sides. The sounds of his friends, current and former, dying in the place supposedly safe for them. He can't tell what direction it's coming from— because it's coming from everywhere. Nobody is safe. Everybody is hurt. It pulls at his soul so tightly that he thinks his heart might explode.

The smell of blood looming in the field and it’s painting his hands. He wishes it was just paint, like what his friends would use to make art. But it doesn’t smell like turpentine or musty art supplies here. The only things he can smell is blood, sweat, and ichor. The putrid smell of them mixing with the fires dashing the grass. But mostly just blood. And he can't get it off his hands. It's caked into the grooves of his hands and nail beds. He can't stop to wash them. There’s no time to. There’s too many dying kids.

The silence when it all ended. The only time Will really, truly hated being Deaf. He can't stand the silence. Which is ironic, considering he spends so much time trying to get people to understand that hearing drains the energy out of him like nothing else. Regardless, even with his CIs at full blast it isn't enough to drown out the phantom sounds that plague his mind. Every sound feels like it wants to kill him, but he can’t stand the idea of being left with himself. 

He looks at a clock hanging in the room, it’s the afternoon. It's been three days. The funerals are today. He made the deadline for clearing the infirmary. He's spent the last three days trying to save as many demigods as he could. Even the fighters for Kronos that were too injured to be extracted. At the end of the day, they’re all just kids who are trying to fight for something better than what they have right now. Well, at least that’s what Will’s been trying to tell himself to keep it together and be a half decent medic. In wars, the medics are protected, they serve both sides indiscriminately. Helping out the demigods that could easily be his siblings is the least that he could do.

And you failed. 

Will's hands are raw. Apparently because his healing powers are so linked to his light manipulation powers that’s a thing that can happen. Especially since Will doesn’t need hymns to heal, unlike every other healer, he draws purely from his own energy. Lee found an old, old book one time that explained it when his hands ached the first time after healing a major injury without any hymns to help. Apparently, the ichor in Will is too strong for his mortality when he pushes his powers too far, that it happens a lot with demigods with rarer power manifestations. If there’s one thing that Will’s learned in all his time at camp, it’s that the Greek world does irony like none other. 

I did what I could. 

It wasn't enough. Fucking pathetic. 

The burns on hands are just a small price to pay. He didn’t really know that he could push his powers so far that they could do this to him. Like it didn’t seem real to just hear about, that the limit was so far away that it was basically unreachable. But the pain is what he deserves. His friends are dead. His siblings are dead. He can handle burns. Lee wouldn't complain. Lee isn't here to complain anymore. Pathetic, weak, sad excuse of son of Apollo. It should’ve been you. He died for you and this is what you are. Burnt because you can’t handle the job you don’t deserve to have. 

The scalpel in his pocket feels heavier and heavier. The scalpel that has been sitting in his pocket for days now, barely having a chance to be sanitized and sharpened between cases. Almost subconsciously, it finds its way to his hand. The cold metal feels like a relief to him. The ridged metal handle feels beautifully familiar. Then it moves to his arm. He barely feels it as it draws blood. He barely feels anything at all. Like he’s a passive bystander in his own life, watching from the outside. He sees phantom images of dying campers behind his eyes. They blur together with the red on his arm. Nothing feels like it’s real. At the same time, everything feels far, far too real. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

Suddenly, the lights flicker and he feels somebody stomping on the floor. Will flinches and his head shoots up to see Beckendorf. He didn't think the teen would come anywhere near here for at least a few weeks. If I had the choice, I would be anywhere but here. Or maybe I only want to be here. He freezes— realizing that his bleeding arm is on full display with the scalpel in the other. Will doesn't even have a chance to try to make up an excuse because Beckendorf turns around and walks away without saying a word.

Fuck. He hates me. I'll never be anything compared to Lee. Everybody hates me here. I should've defected when I had the chance. At least then I wouldn't be alone. But you're always alone. You deserve to be alone. You deserve to be dead—

Before Will can spiral more, Beckendorf returns with bandages and a damp rag in his hand. He quietly sits down next to Will and takes the blade from his hand, tossing it into a basket on his desk. He gingerly grabs his arm and starts cleaning the wounds then gently wraps the bandages around them. Will knows it’s supposed to hurt, but he can’t really feel it. He’s just grateful that Beckendorf isn’t asking any questions. 

“I thought I'd find you here,” Beckendorf signs. 

Will sighs in relief, the idea of having to understand anything but his first language sounds miserable. There's no need for them to speak orally in the infirmary anymore. Lee's not here like he always was. He was only conversational and couldn’t keep up with all the Deaf phrases that he and Beck use when they sign. Plus, being the counselor and Head Healer, Lee just didn’t have enough time in the day to get fluent. Will realizes he hasn’t acknowledged Beckendorf yet and shrugs in response. He doesn't know what he could possibly say. 

“I miss him too. I miss him so fucking much. I keep thinking I'll see him again,” Beckendorf says, “I know you haven't left here at all.”

Will nods. There's a part of him that cannot fathom speaking right now. In any language. He just feels… frozen. Stuck. Beckendorf puts an arm around Will and pulls him into a side hug. Usually Will doesn’t like being touched when he’s like this, but there’s a few people who are an exception to that. Albeit, Beck’s the only person left at this point. They sit together in silence for what feels like forever. 

“Lay down, get some rest. I'll be right here,” the son of Hephaestus insists. 

Will shakes his head. He signs very small and close to his body, it’s almost imperceivably, “I can't stop seeing them.”

Beckendorf nods empathetically, “I know. I can't stop seeing them either. I carried all of them to the amphitheater today. I’m here now though. Don’t forget that. I’m here, you’re safe.” 

“I should've been better,” says Will. 

“There was nothing more you could've done. Sleep, Will. I'll wake you up in time for the funerals,” Beckendorf reiterates. 

Will's too exhausted to argue. He closes his eyes and grows more and more tired. As he’s laying there, Beckendorf rhythmically drums his fingers on the boy’s arm. Will feels the older boy also take off his hearing aids, relishing in the bliss of silence. He can only imagine how hectic his last few days have been— Demigods get angry when their weapons and armor are broken. Will’s finally able to relax just enough that he allows sleep to take him.

Chapter Text

Will dreams of Lee that afternoon. It’s not a nightmare or anything, just an old memory with him. It was no special day in particular either, just another day where everybody had snatched a moment of free time. Probably during February— after the chaos of the solstice but far enough from the start of summer session to start panicking yet. The entire old group; Luke, Castor, Pollux, Lee, Beckendorf, Silena, the Stolls, and Ethan; are just lounging around in Cabin 12 with Will just like they always would. Languages are switching every ten seconds, but nobody ever feels lost. They’re all laughing and trying Castor’s latest questionable drink creation while Beckendorf passively works on a personal project. It just feels warm.

Will doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it when he wakes— Nostalgic longing for what once was or hatred for how everything’s changed now. When he slyly looks around the room, he sees that Silena’s in the room sitting on the other side of Beckendorf, spinning in the office chair. Beck’s signing one-handed with her, albeit slower to make sure she can understand him fully. Silena’s damn near fluent at this point, but following one handed signing is no easy feat. 

“Did you see him? Was he here? I didn’t see him,” Beckendorf asks with a neutral face, a tinge of worry shining through.

Will can’t quite read his expression, it’s somewhere between grief and curiosity. He didn’t have to see the context of the conversation to get that they’re talking about Luke. Ever since everything happened, Beckendorf’s been avoiding using Luke’s name sign. He doesn’t have it in him to give a new one and the old one hurts too much. Will just fingerspells it now. 

Silena shakes her head solemnly, “I don't think he was here. He just ordered it. Or the Titan. I don’t get the difference yet. But with Percy’s timeline he said in the meeting… I don’t think he could’ve been here, right? Gods know where he was, though. I did recognize some people though, defectors. I think I saw Alabaster.”

Beckendorf takes a deep breath, “I didn't think he would kill our best friends. They were my best friends. We were his family.”

Will can read that. It’s what he’s been feeling ever since the battle. Fuck, ever since Luke first defected and word spread across camp. He didn’t even say goodbye to Will, or anybody for that matter. Well except Percy, who he tried to kill. A part of Will still refuses to believe that the Luke he knew would do that. That at some point, somebody’s going to come and say “Sike! It was a big prank!” and everything will go back to how it was before . I guess Beck is in the same boat as me with that. 

“I know, Charlie. I know,” Silena replies, she then notices Will watching them and warmly smiles, “Look who's awake just in time. Hey there, Will. Sleep okay?”

Beckendorf shakes him gently, as if to say hi. Will sits up more and looks at the time— the funerals start in 30 minutes. He feels rested, but also way too emotionally exhausted to be panicking in the way he normally would be if he had woken up this late any other time. He still feels sick to his stomach at the idea of talking. 

“Go get cleaned up. I gotta get ready too,” Beck says, then turns to his girlfriend and SimComs, “Babe, can you whip up an outfit for Will? I’ve got some fabric and a sewing machine in here you can use.” 

Will leaves before he can see the end of the conversation. He knows it’s rude. He didn’t even answer Silena’s question. And not even to mention the fact how rude it is in Deaf culture to just walk out like that. Maybe I’m just the worst person ever. Nonetheless, he’ll either come back to something nice to wear or he'll wear what he has on right now. Even though he looks like shit, objectively, his clothes are stained to Asphodel and back at this point. Stained with blood and ichor, monster dust still embedded into the threads. He shakes his head to push away that reminder and try to keep walking down the hallway.

He walks into the infirmary bathroom and actually looks at himself for the first time in days. His curls are a wild frizzy mess. His face is greasy and his eyes show that he hasn’t slept in days before the short nap he took. Will's nails are caked with blood and dirt, he still hasn't had the chance to thoroughly wash his hands and has just been using gloves and magic wards to keep it safe. He splashes some water on his face and runs it through his hair, trying to look marginally more alive. Then, he washes his hands until he can't take the pain of the boiling hot water anymore. They feel tainted. Never clean enough.

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

Will braces himself against the sink, trying to calm himself down enough. You’re in the bathroom. You’re in the bathroom. You’re in the bathroom. He splashes some more water on his face and takes a deep breath. He can’t afford to fall apart yet, there’s too many people around. There’s things to do. Not yet, Solace. He looks down to his arm and sees the bandages that are wrapped around it and firmly grasps it with his other hand. The pain shocks him back just enough that he can be presentable again.

Reluctantly, he puts his processors back on, wincing at the sound of the ambient noises of camp. He can’t decide if it feels like stabbing or if he welcomes the distraction yet. Still in a daze, he wanders back towards the workshop. Will glances at the clock, apparently he spent fifteen minutes scrubbing his hands. Silena's now wearing a lacy black dress and a simple rose gold necklace Beck made her for an anniversary. Beckendorf has a black suit on with a deep bronze dress shirt with copper embroidery laced through it. His tie’s fabric looks like intricately etched celestial bronze, matching the rings adorning all his fingers. The teen doesn’t wear them very often on account of his days primarily consisting of working with metal, but he always wears the one that’s shaped like doves wrapping around his finger. For Silena.

On the door a suit his size is hanging. It's a simple black suit with a white shirt that has a pattern of golden hyacinths and ravens adorning it. A simple golden tie and pocket square complete the look. It’s nicer than anything Will’s owned since one of his mom’s stylists fit him for the CMAs years ago. He doesn’t get to go out like that anymore though, when was the last time I was able to go home? The prophecy ramping up made any semblance of normal disappear. Will knows he'll be expected to speak alongside Michael. He knows he looks horrible, but at least he'll be dressed nicely. Maybe it’ll be enough that not everybody sees how awful he feels. 

“Fuck!” Will sharply signs as he angrily huffs under his breath. 

His fingers are hurting too much to get a good grasp on the buttons, the burns feeling brand new again. Come on Will, don’t be weak. They’re just buttons. You can do buttons. It’s just a shirt. You’ve done this a million times before. Will thinks back to his first Winter Solstice at camp and getting all fancied up in the Hermes cabin. The way that Luke smiled as he helped everybody, the Stolls timidly asking Will for help. They still tie their ties with Eldredge knots even though they’ve grown enough to fit into adult sizes now. Will usually does too, but he can’t get his hands to work. And his arm hurts so much. And his brain feels like it’s on fire. And the feeling of the fabric makes him want to die right now. It’s just too much to deal with. He hasn’t even buttoned his shirt yet, he can’t think about the tie. 

Beck waves to get his attention and signs, “Come here, Will. Let me help you.”

“I can do it myself. I should be able to do it myself,” Will frustratedly insists.

“Maybe,” Beck shrugs, “But that doesn't mean you have to do it that way. We get by with a little help from our friends. That’s what they say, at least.” 

The older boy carefully buttons up Will’s shirt. Despite the fact that he towers over Will and is easily three times as strong as him, it's a more delicate touch than Will's ever seen somebody have. He carefully ties Will’s tie, making sure it's not too tight and overstimulates him. Beckendorf then puts some hair product on his hands and runs it through Will's hair. He takes a pack of wipes from his desk and gently wipes Will's face. It feels refreshing. I don’t deserve to feel refreshed, though. 

“I'm not a baby,” Will argues. 

He hates being treated like this, like he’s useless. Hearing people always do that when they realize he’s Deaf, and so do neurotypical people. It’s like a switch. As soon as he drops the act, it’s like they think he can’t do anything himself. Not that Beck is either of those things, but it didn't stop it from feeling like that. 

“I know you’re not. But sometimes, being cared about feels good. You've been cooped up in here for days taking care of other people constantly. Let somebody take care of you for just a minute. Please, Will,” Beckendorf explains himself.

The son of Hephaestus reaches for a drawer and blindly digs around it, then pulls out a vial of nectar from his desk and pours it over Will's hands. Will’s slightly surprised that he even has it in here. Then again, Beckendorf is always prepared for everything. His workshop is like an endless void of materials, yet somehow still perfectly organized. You don’t deserve to be healed. He’s wasting his supplies on you. And Silena’s staring at you like some freak show. 

The self-deprecating spiral is interrupted when Beckendorf reaches into that same drawer and pulls out a granola bar, “Eat. I haven't seen you stop to eat any of the times I've been here. It’s no real meal, but it’s something at least.”

Will stares at his friend. He doesn't remember ever seeing him in the infirmary since the battle. Surely, he would’ve taken notice of that, right? He eats the granola bar, staring blankly into the distance. It doesn't taste like how he knows it should. It tastes bland. Everything seems more bland now. It’s like the world is covered with smoke. Just like the battlefield was. Like a mist cast over everything. A blur. The smoke and dust bellowing through the air, so thick it practically renders Will’s sight useless. The only thing to guide him is the painful pulling at his powers. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

The older boy taps Will on the shoulder and he flinches back into the workshop. Beckendorf and Silena look worried. They shouldn't be. I'm not worth the time. They look like they want to say something, but Will doesn't have it in him to think in English right now to communicate with her and Beckendorf’s fidgeting with his hands in a way that seems like he's at a complete loss for words. It’s not very often that happens. But that’s me, so much of a problem that not even the most experienced people at the camp can help you.

Will glances over to the clock again, the funerals start in 5 minutes. Wordlessly, he gets up and walks to the amphitheater. The pyres are all lined up, the campfire seemingly disappeared. One by one, each counselor assumes their place in the center in their respective spots, the losses having been so high that all the cabins lost at least one sibling. Everyone looks so stoic, so confident as they stand there and watch their siblings and friends file in as the sound of crying gradually fills the air. Will can’t help but feel like he doesn’t belong up there.

Chapter Text

Will stands in the center of the amphitheater among the funeral shrouds next to his brother Michael Yew, the new Head Counselor of the Apollo cabin. They go cabin by cabin in numerical order. Chiron and a vaguely familiar pale kid take turns reading the rites, siblings say a few words, then they burn the shroud. It becomes like a routine, a heartbeat, after a certain point. Will feels like he could recite the rites at this point— and he’s awful at speaking Ancient Greek. All of the counselors are dressed in their Winter Solstice outfits. For a lot of them, it’s the only fancy clothes they own. He hates that they've become funeral outfits now. 

Will and Michael switch off speaking about their siblings. Their six dead siblings. Six dead kids. Then it comes to Lee. The last one. Will is supposed to talk. Key words: supposed to. Michael looks at him with this expression that Will’s too tired to try to decode. Maybe he’s pissed that Will can’t get his act together and just finish his job. Or maybe he’s pitying the poor Deaf autistic that’s embarrassing himself in front of literally everybody. Michael’s the master of those kinds of expressions, ones that are so cryptic and in limbo that not even Beckendorf can get a good read on them.

Will opens his mouth to talk, but every word feels like it gets stuck. He's not crying. He just can't force himself to talk. There's this really small, subconscious, twisted part of him that looks in the crowd for Luke to interpret for him. As if his warm, smiling face will be there and already on top of it and signing to him that it'll be okay. That he's got this. But Luke isn't there. And Lee isn't there. And Castor isn't there. And anybody else who can interpret is standing in the center next to him. The camp he fell in love with is gone. Dead. Everybody is gone.

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

Will shakes his hands at his side, silently scolding himself for stimming in front of everybody. He firmly grabs his hands, sliding one up his arm to his bandages. The pain brings him back. Beckendorf signs something very small to him, it’s almost imperceivable. You can do this. Just talk. Will takes a deep breath, and just starts signing. They don't need to understand him. What matters is that Will knows what he's saying.

“My first day here, Lee introduced himself as a hospital whose mom is S-P-P-O-L-L-O. He got a lot better at signing later on, don’t worry. He was my brother, but he was also a best friend— to me, to Beckendorf, to so many people. Lee always knew what to say, how to teach just right, what people needed to heal. I… the world doesn't feel right without him here. To Lee, we won't stop loving you. To Elysium and back.” 

Everybody that needed to understand did. A couple of campers do a Deaf applause while the rest of the campers clap. At that, Will joins hands with Michael and they light Lee's shroud. Smoke cascades into the air as the golden threads burn away. The rest of the funerals pass like a blur. He zones back in at Castor’s— the last one of the night as Cabin 12. His heart breaks when he sees Pollux break down over the pyre. The twins always talked about how loud it felt when people were upset, Will can only imagine the roaring in Pollux's head and heart right now with everybody and himself included. It hurts Will to be there and he doesn’t even have powers of madness.

And just like that, everybody starts to clear out of the amphitheatre, but Will stays exactly where he is. Standing among the smoke. He's motionless, staring into space. He doesn’t need to look to see that everybody else is gone, Lee’s empty pyre staring daggers into him. When his heart stops hurting from the pull of everybody else around him and it's only his own pain left, he drops to the ground. 

For the first time, he feels tears start to stream down his cheeks. As Will sobs on the cold hard ground, a part of him longs for Lee or Luke or Castor or Ethan to come and comfort him just like they used to do. But all of them are gone. Dead or defected. Wanting him dead. The battle plays over and over in Will's head. He swears he can feel the sulfuric monster dust caked onto him again. Even though he washed it off days ago and his clothes are clean.

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

“Will!?” A voice yells out. 

Will looks up, it's too foggy to see. That's strange, the weather didn't say anything about fog. And we don't get weather here. Are the gods that angry with me right now? Where is Mr. D? Did he do this? Why can’t I see anything? Not being able to see is always ten times scarier to Will than any other hearing camper. He still relies on his sight so much that he feels like he’s flailing aimlessly without it. Sure, he knows ProTactile and that plenty of DeafBlind people are out there, but being a demigod just makes him feel like a monster’s going to kill him. Oh gods, I’m going to die here. I’m going to get killed and nobody will even care and—

“You need to calm down, Will. I can't find you in the fog,” the same voice shouts. 

Will tries to listen, but he just can't stop crying. He can't stop missing everyone. He can't stop seeing the battle. He can’t stop hearing the battle. It’s roaring in his head, and taking off his processors wouldn’t help. Everything is way too much and far too little. Nothing is right. And Will is just stuck there.

Something touches him, a hand. He looks down and sees that it’s adorned with rings. On the ring finger are a row of small, ornate doves. It's Beckendorf. That’s weird, I should be able to know his voice. I hear it so much. Are you that much of a failure? Are you that fucking out of it? What’s wrong with you?

“Is that you, Will?” the voice cracks, catching on their breath and devolving into a bad coughing fit. 

Then Will realizes why he couldn't recognize the voice. It's hoarse. Really hoarse. And congested for that matter. He looks up to see Beckendorf wearing a surgical mask. He looks pale and sweaty, It doesn’t take a doctor to tell he has a fever. His eyes are glossy but unmistakably honed in on the son of Apollo. A look of recognition washes over his face and Will doesn’t even have to respond. Not that he can right now, his hands shaking too much to sign.

In all his years of knowing the teen, Will has never seen him catch so much as a cold before. His immunity rivals that of the Apollo cabin. Even bugs that have swept through the whole camp and working in the infirmary, he never got sick. Beckendorf doesn’t get sick. Will can’t bring himself to look at the son of Hephaestus, his gaze fixated on the ground.

“I'm here, Will,” Beckendorf pauses to cough, “You're not alone.”

Beckendorf grabs Will's hands and repeats his words in ProTactile. And he doesn’t stop— even through coughing fits so bad he has to let go of one hand because he ends up getting sick. Like a mantra. Over and over. 

Eventually, Will calms down enough that he's no longer completely hysterical. Without a doubt still hyperventilating, but at least more aware of what’s around him. He pulls his hands away. That's when he realizes what's happening. The fog around him is an eerie black and green. It's his plagues. He's what's causing the fog. He's what's making Beck sick. Leave it to him to completely lose control and end up hurting everybody including himself. Gods, what I would give to just die here right now. He’s going to hate you forever for this. He can't spiral anymore because he feels a firm tap on his shoulder that snaps him back. 

“Will, look at me,” Beckendorf signs, “I am okay. You will be okay. You need to breathe. The fog will lift when you're ready for it to.”

Beckendorf takes one of Will's hands and holds it over his chest. He takes slow and deliberate breaths for Will to copy. Will can feel that the teen is obviously struggling to hold back coughing, his breath stuttering just slightly. His vitakinesis is trying to tell him something, but he can’t process it. It’s too much. His mind can’t handle anything right now. Nonetheless, Will does his best to copy the older boy. Gradually, the fog starts to dissipate and Will’s no longer actively panicking. Just feels like he’ll start panicking again any second. It's only then he gets a really good look at Beckendorf, who looks even worse than he did before. In the distance, he sees a group of counselors wearing masks. Some of them are coughing too, but nowhere near as bad as Beckendorf is. 

“Can you feel it? Adi told me it felt like a pressure on your chest, in your soul, pulling you like it’s a thread,” Beckendorf asks, Will nods. The older boy continues, “Good. Follow the string and pull it towards you. Keep pulling it until it feels like you're holding a ball of it. Then imagine your healing pulsing through it. Like you’re wrapping it up.”

Will follows the instructions, moving his hands in the air and feeling the illness drawn towards him. He clasps his hands together and focuses all of his energy on it, his hands subtly glow. Then it feels like a wave of sunshine and he releases it. He looks at the teen, who looks better than before. In the distance, other counselors stop coughing and take off their masks. Will feels too ashamed to look at them and goes back to staring at the slightly ashen ground. 

Connor is first to reach them. He immediately pulls Will into a tight hug. For a brief second, Will gets confused and thinks it's Luke. He gets a better grasp on reality when Travis joins moments later. It feels like Will is a scared kid in the Hermes cabin again, sleeping on a dinky cot with the roaring sound of the cabin around him as he struggles to keep up. But then it’s the Stolls and Ethan there. He smells sweat on Connor’s suit, it's not particularly smelly but it's salty. Suddenly, the feeling of the suit fabric is making him feel suffocated and he pushes the two brothers away. It feels like the boiling heat of summer and Greek Fire roaring around him. He’s back on the battlefield.

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

Then something firmly taps his leg. Will is pulled back to the amphitheatre and he notices that he's digging his nails into his arms. Somebody puts their hands over his and Will flinches away. He looks up to see his friends watching him with expressions of pain and worry. Will can't help but feel guilty. 

“I think I saw Ethan. He was here,” Will says, monotone. His first time orally speaking since he first disappeared to Beck’s workshop, “He was missing an eye.”

Travis solemnly speaks up, “I fought him.”

“How could he do this? How could they both do this? How is this fixing fucking anything?! How could they kill our friends? I thought we were friends…” Will angrily rants, “They learned ASL for me! I spent how many fucking hours, days, years with them! I keep thinking I'll see them like it used to be, but I won't! And now Lee and Castor are dead! Do you think they even feel bad? Do you think that they would think it's justified?” 

“I don't know Will, I don't know,” Beckendorf replies, shaking his head. His voice isn’t so hoarse anymore, still not quite what Will’s used to though.

“I watched—” Will sharply inhales, trying not to sob, “I watched the cyclops bash Lee's head in. I watched him die. He died because I couldn't hear the fucking cyclops behind me. He died because I'm a shitty son of Apollo! And I could swear, I saw Ethan watching out of the corner of my eye and felt like Luke was there too. I could feel their souls. Their pull.”

“Luke wasn't here,” Michael plainly states, scaring Will. When did he get here? I don’t remember seeing him walk over here?

Beckendorf looks like he's about to talk, but then abruptly turns away with a coughing fit. Then Will remembers why they're all there around him. Because he poisoned them all with his plagues. His anxiety ramps up all over again. 

Will begins rambling, “They've only ever come out when I was fighting. Why did it happen if I wasn't in battle? It shouldn't be able to do that.” 

Will tries to control his growing panic. Who all saw the secret he tries to hide so intently? The secret that had Luke on his doorstep begging him to defect to be a healer for Kronos. A healer and a deadly bioweapon. The secret that broke his friendship with Ethan in the end. Could Lee still be alive if he had agreed to join Luke? If he wasn’t such a freak, would Luke and Ethan still be here? Would everything have been okay then? No battles. The battle. The monsters erupting from the ground he used to play on. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

“You're reliving it constantly. You keep getting this blank look in your eyes, like you can't quite tell what’s going on. It takes me a couple times to get your attention. Wherever you are, it isn't here. Of course your instincts take over when your body constantly thinks it's in danger,” Beckendorf calmly says, “It happened the moment you let yourself feel it. The first moment you felt you didn't need to mask anymore.”

Will tries his best to focus on what's in front of him. He's in the amphitheatre. Beckendorf is sitting next to him. The Stolls and Michael are sitting right across from him. A group of other counselors are standing behind them. Everyone is dressed in their finest clothes, adorned with homages to their divine heritage. He feels the concrete beneath him. He can't really hear anything. He smells smoke. 

It smells like the arrows that soared above him in the field, like deadly shooting stars across the afternoon sky. Trailing behind them are puffs of smoke and ash that rains down on him and pollutes the sky. It smells like the Greek Fire bombs being launched all around him as he weaves through enemies trying to get to the wounded. It smells like the last arrow he sees Lee launch before his head’s bashed in. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

“He needs to get out of here,” a voice snaps him back to the present, “It… It shouldn’t be our cabin yet. I can barely go in there.”

“Will, I’m gonna carry you,” Beckendorf says, “We’re gonna go to my workshop. Everybody else is back at their cabins, the only campers out still are just us counselors.”

“You’re still sick, I’ll carry him. Don’t want him to have a fuckin’ head injury from you dropping him too,” a different voice says. 

He knows that he should be able to recognize everybody’s voices by now, he’s been at camp for years. Anybody that’s there right now has been at camp for as long, if not longer, as Will. He feels guilty. They’re doing so much for you and you can’t even tell their voices apart.

Chapter Text

Before Will knows it, he’s sitting on the couch in Beckendorf’s workshop next to the son of Hephaestus. Everyone else is crowded around him— all sitting on the floor except for Silena, who’s sitting at her partner’s desk. Will hates that he’s taking up everybody’s time like this. That he’s being so dramatic. He should be able to deal with this, everybody else lost people too. 

A hand touches Will’s back and he flinches. He’s always jumpy around hearing people, scared he’s going to miss something they say and get hurt. When he remembers where he is he tries to make himself smaller, feeling guilty that he doesn’t trust the people in the room more. Nothing in the room feels real. Like he can’t tell what noise is in his head or actually there. A hand waves in his field of vision.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked. I couldn’t get your attention,” Beck explains in ASL, “Hearing too much right now?”

Will runs his hands through his hair as he attempts to look more composed. He knows he’s convincing nobody and starts to sign, “I don’t know. I need the noise to stop hearing it all, but hearing is making me wanna kill myself right now.”

A gallery of small gasps fill the room at the blunt confession. He’d be more concerned, but honestly he’s just impressed they were able to keep up with how fast he was signing. Will was under the impression that most of them weren't fluent enough to understand Deaf-Deaf signing. Beckendorf doesn’t look worried though, which means he understood what Will’s actually trying to get at: That having to process English is far too overwhelming right now, but he needs something to hear or else his thoughts are going to get to him more.

Quietly, Beckendorf stands up and reaches for a basket sitting high up on a shelf, then sits back down next to Will.

“Might be loud while I look, lots of metal,” Beck quickly signs a warning. 

Will nods and looks over the older boy’s shoulder. It’s filled with various bracelets and necklaces, different CI processors, miniature models of the weapons, and prototypes of toys and other machines. Then Will realizes: it’s Beckendorf’s basket of everything he’s made for Will over the years. He digs out a box and smiles. 

“Aha! Here it is!” Beckendorf exclaims, “This was meant for your birthday. So I’m early, but you’ll get something else too.”

The son of Apollo opens the box to reveal a compact pair of over ear headphones that are made of a golden colored metal and etched with an intricate design.

“They connect to the projectors for music, or whatever iPod else you wanna use. You can make it noise cancelling if you want too. But I remembered you were talking about how the mortal headphones make music sound weird, so I fixed that. Listen to some music, and we’ll just sign here to talk. Hearing but no hearing,” Beckendorf explains.

Will smiles, just oh so slightly that almost anybody would miss it. Everybody except for a Deaf person. The person that mattered most saw it. He puts on the headphones and Beck connects it to some instrumental music, knowing that lyrics would be too much right now. 

“ASL only for now. I’ll interpret if you don’t know enough to say what you wanna,” the son of Hephaestus SimComs to the group. 

“Beck, let me check you out. You still sound pretty sick,” Michael insists. Will feels bad that he hadn’t noticed. He should’ve been able to feel it.

“It’s just a cold. All I need is some sleep and ambrosia,” he waves off his friend, “Plus I can’t hear how I sound, so it doesn’t matter.”

“That might just be the literal worst excuse I have ever heard in my life,” Michael facepalms, “Last I checked, unless every single medical book ever has lied to me, being Deaf doesn’t mean you don’t get sick.”

Beckendorf clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “But being a demigod does!” he cracks a smile and abruptly turns to cough, “Ignore that.”

“Not when you decide to take a sauna in plague fog when everyone tells you it’s too dangerous! Gods above, Beck! You don’t know what it could be! What if it’s something bad? Plague powers draw on viruses already in you, vaccines included. It could be fucking like… TB or some shit! Did you forgot that you were really fucking sick out there? You’re still really fucking sick! You can’t do this shit, you can’t be taking these risks left and right like this. It’s reckless, Beck!” Michael lectures.

“Michael, I’m not taking any risks. I’m trying to take care of my friend,” Beck replies, completely unbothered by the criticism.

“And I’m trying to take care of mine,” Michael spits back, standing with his arms crossed, “I’ve watched you fight. You fight like you’re invincible and news flash: you’re not. Take ten fucking seconds, practice what you preach, and try to realize how sick you are. Listen to yourself! Look in a mirror!”

“Charlie, you can’t hear how much you’re wheezing right now. It’s too high-pitched for you to hear,” Silena calmly interjects.

Silena moves to sit on the arm of the couch next to him and puts her arm around him. Beckendorf pauses for a second to listen to his girlfriend, he looks at her with an expression as if to ask if she’s telling the truth. She gently grabs his hand and brings it to his chest. She doesn’t need to speak or sign for people to get what she’s asking him, for him to just try to feel it. After a few silent seconds Beckendorf moves their hands to his lap, the couple’s fingers still laced together. 

“Fine,” Beckendorf reluctantly agrees, “Somebody talk to Will. He needs a distraction. Connor, didn’t you see the new Star Wars movie? Will likes Star Wars too, talk to him about it.”

Will silently places his hand on Beckendorf’s back. He knows that his brother would take longer to assess, his vitakinesis is far weaker and he usually relies on purely mortal methods. If Beck's breathing is as bad as they’re saying it is, speed is better. You would’ve been able to tell sooner if you weren’t such a horrible healer. You should be able to tell at first touch. As soon as he focuses, he gets the read. 

“It’s bacterial pneumonia. Lower right quadrant mainly, but a few other suspicious spots too. Not deadly, just miserable,” Will plainly states, then starts spiralling, “I should’ve been able to get it all, fuck! You shouldn’t be sick at all right now. This is my fault. Why couldn’t I get it all? And now you’re sick and worrying about me whe—”

“This is what I was trying to avoid. Now he’s exerted his powers even more and is worked up again,” Beckendorf scolds the group, then he shifts himself so he’s more in Will’s sightline, “Will, I’m okay. I’m sick, but I’m okay. Let me worry about you right now. Your only job is to let me worry about you.”

Will ignores the older boy and continues his rapid spiral, “Oh my gods. Now everybody’s gonna hate me. They’re gonna hate me like when Ethan found out. They’re gonna try to get me like when Luke found out. Nobody else can know. Fuck! So many people know now!”

“What do you mean that he tried to get you? And that Ethan hated you?” Clarisse asks, fire in her eyes. 

Will is frozen. A part of him forgot everybody was still there watching. It makes him panic even more. How much were they understanding his signing? He was throwing in so much slang and signing so fast, as he does whenever he’s signing with only Deaf people, that he didn’t think that any of the hearing people here would be able to understand him. 

“Ethan didn’t hate you for your powers, he was jealous of all you had. That’s on him, not you, Will. And Luke—” Beckendorf sharply breathes in, making himself cough on accident. Everybody anxiously waits as it takes him a couple minutes to recover. He waves them off and reaches for a bottle of water on his workbench.

Beckendorf continues like nothing happened, “And Luke. I want to believe he wanted you because he cared about you so much. He loved who you are so, so much. He only ever wanted what was the best for you, that’s what he wanted for everybody. He got lost along the way. And that’s why it hurts so much. Your powers are gifts from your father, they are in your soul and woven into your being. They make you who you are in all of your creation, in all of your beauty. They are as you as being Deaf is you, and that is why we love you.”

“You’re one of the longest time campers and was the closest to Luke besides me and Beck. Your cabin lost the most siblings. You get to be sad and angry and everything in between,” Annabeth says.

“And whatever you wanna do, we’ll be here for you,” Travis warmly smiles, then it turns a little devious, “Like if you need an Ares Cabin prank, for the soul.”

“Stoll, I swear to all and any gods you better fuckin’ not,” Clarisse shoots back, then it looks like she gets an idea. She starts SimComming, “Hey Will. I swear on the River Styx that I won’t tell anybody about your plague powers until you let me, tell them yourself, or somebody’s in danger and they’re the only fix.”

Thunder booms above, loud enough that Will can feel the vibrations on the couch. His eyes go wide, there’s no way that was real. There’s no way she would do a soul-binding oath on his behalf. They barely even talk! The only things they have in common is being at camp forever and being friends with Silena. Not that he’ll admit it, but hearing Clarisse say that took a huge weight off his shoulders. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Will sternly says. 

“Don’t tell me what to do. Worth it,” Clarisse challenges.

Connor shrugs, “I swear on the River Styx that I won’t tell anybody about Will Solace’s plague powers unless he lets me, he tells them himself, or somebody’s in danger and it’s the only viable solution.”

Another thunderclap rocks the room. Will relaxes slightly more, just enough for Beckendorf to notice. Nobody else notices, though.

“Is that what you need? Our word?” Beckendorf asks. Will shrugs, earning a skeptical look from the older teen. “Stop trying to please us, say it how it is.”

“I want everyone to swear that they’ll keep my secret. Like how Clarisse and Connor did. I don’t… I can’t fucking calm down without it I don’t think. Everything is going so fast right now and I can’t stop wanting to fucking die and thinking it would’ve been better if it was me and it keeps flashing back to everything,” Will blurts out in rapid signs, his whole body buzzing with anxiety. Suddenly, the lights feel too bright and his suit fabric is suffocating him, “Gods, I can’t have another fucking meltdown. I’m gonna have another fucking meltdown.”

“Hey, hey, hey. You’ve got this. I’m here. We’re here. Here, hold this. I’ve got you.” Connor crouches down in front of Will and pulls something out of his inner suit jacket pocket. It’s a handmade tangle fidget that’s hard black plastic and covered in small, dull spikes, “It’s supposed to hurt enough to help but not actually hurt. I like twisting it over my knuckles, give it a try while I get other stuff.”

Will takes the tangle and tightly grasps it in his hand. The spikes feel good against his palms. He twists the toy in his hands, following Connor’s recommendation. It makes him nervous that both of his hands are occupied and he can’t sign, but it feels worse if he lets go of it. He hates feeling so stuck. He hates himself. 

Connor returns, “Weighted gel pad, I know you don’t like how most fabric feels right now. And a different poke-y fidget for one hand only. Focus on the way they both feel, how your hand is moving. You’ve got this, Will. You’re gonna get through this. Let yourself move how your body wants to.”

Will apprehensively starts to rock back and forth as he runs his hands over the things Connor gave to him. He feels each individual spike dig into his fingers and the gel pad in his lap shift around. Everything he sees, feels, and hears is in his control and feels just right. For the first time in days, he feels calm enough to exist in the present. Connor is mirroring Will’s movements, as if to tell him it’s okay. And it works.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess right now,” Will addresses the group. 

He finally processes that there’s Beckendorf, Silena, the Stolls, Michael, and Clarisse surrounding him. Even though they all spoke to Will, his brain just couldn’t piece it all together until now. He glances at the clock and realizes that it’s been over two hours since the funerals ended. Slightly more rational than before, he tells himself that he’s not wasting their time. Even if he doesn’t believe it. 

“We’ve all had time to be messes before this, trust me,” Travis reassures, “You should’ve seen how the counselor debrief went.”

“Yeah, Stoll #1 here sobbed harder than you did. Messed up all the door locks, took us forever to fix them all,” Clarisse adds.

Silena chuckles a bit, “Just don’t admit that you were upset too. But seriously, Will, the meeting took all day. Not a dry eye in the room the whole time. Everything about this sucks,” the rest of the room nod in agreement.

Annabeth pensively rocks on her feet. She then speaks up, breaking the agreement to stick to signing, “I swear on the River Styx that I won’t tell anybody about Will Solace’s plague powers unless he lets me, he tells them himself, or somebody’s in danger and it’s the only viable solution.”

Immediately after, Travis, Michael, and Silena follow with the exact same promise. One by one in succession. Four claps of thunder boom in the sky above. Will feels a mix of guilt and relief now he knows that his secret’s safe. He knows he should trust them innately, they’ve spent gods know how long sitting here watching him freak out. He tries to take a deep breath, running his hands up and down his legs anxiously. One of his hands wanders to the bandages hidden under his dress clothes and he squeezes it. Beckendorf puts his hand over Will’s and the younger boy looks him in the eye. Finally, Will breathes.

Chapter Text

The other demigods, having all taken an oath on the River Styx, stare at Beckendorf in anticipation. The son of Hephaestus looks worse for wear now that Will isn’t actively panicking. It’s funny how much less fuzzy the world can get when I’m not in the throes of panic attacks and meltdowns . Will looks around the room and notices each of the six counselors noticing how sick the older boy is one by one. The expressions quickly turn to concern, even though Beckendorf’s face says that he’s completely unbothered. It looks like Silena’s about to say something about it when she’s abruptly cut off.

“I swear on—” Beckendorf starts speaking, but his breath snags and he starts coughing. He switches to ASL, “Fuck, I can’t talk orally right now. But I mean it. I promise, Will. You’ve got my word. I’ll do it later.”

That’s the disadvantage of vows on the River Styx, they don’t work in ASL. Mainly, they just work in Ancient Greek and the language of the where Olympus is centered. Sometimes exceptions are made, but to be safe it’s best to stick to orally spoken Ancient Greek or English. Yep, the Greek world and the gods are oralist, in case that was a question. But of anybody here that Will trusts to keep his secret without a soul-binding oath, it’s Beckendorf.

“It’s okay, I trust you,” Will signs, yawning, “I’m exhausted. I think I’m gonna go to sleep.”

“The couch folds out to a bed,” Beckendorf signs, “I’ll set it up. You guys can sleep here too, I can get cots or sleeping bags.”

Silena gives her boyfriend a stern look. She doesn’t have to say a single word for everyone to get the point. It’s a silent scolding of him suggesting he’ll be doing anything when he’s so sick. But Beckendorf waves her off and turns his attention to Michael.

“You need help getting set up here?” Beckendorf asks his friend. 

“No offense Beck, but sleeping in the same room as two Deaf people who have no idea how loud they are? No thanks, Will’s enough for me. Kid’s always dropping shit in the middle of the night and not noticing. Page me if you need anything, I’m sleeping in the infirmary. Anybody else is welcome to join too. It just got deep cleaned,” Michael says, heading out the door. 

The Stoll brothers leave shortly after to join Michael, basically being shooed out by Beckendorf who insists there’s nothing they need help with. Annabeth wishes them a good night, then goes to join the other three counselors in the infirmary to sleep. The only people remaining in the workshop are Will, Silena, Beckendorf, and Clarisse. Will takes off his new headphones and is about to take off his processors when he hears Clarisse speak.

“Get up you three, I’ll set up the bed and shit. Don’t die while I’m making the bed. The paperwork is the last thing we need,” Clarisse orders. 

“You don’t need to, I can do it,” Beckendorf unconvincingly argues back in ASL.

“Don’t do that lying shit with me. What was it you said to Will earlier? Your job’s to let me do this? Yeah, that,” Clarisse says.

Silena helps Beckendorf to his chair and Will awkwardly idles. Beckendorf doesn’t look happy, but he neutralizes his face before knocking loudly on the desk to get the daughter of Ares’ attention.

“Clarisse, stop,” Beckendorf firmly signs, “Why are you doing this?”

The sound of his hands slapping against each other with the signs makes Clarisse flinch just slightly. So minutely that only Will seems to notice it. She freezes mid-motion, her hand holding the fold-out bed in the air still, as if she’s a kid that’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. If Will didn’t know any better, he’d think that Beckendorf scares her.

Clarisse then relaxes slightly and puts the mechanism down, her tone softening, “You have no clue how horrible you sound right now. Silena’s too nice to tell you. The pitch is too high for you and Will to hear. Just… Just let me do this. I’ll get out of your hair after this. I know you never liked me much, but I’m not letting you fuckin’ die by setting up a jank ass bed.”

Beckendorf turns to his girlfriend with the same quizzical look he gave her earlier, looking for confirmation. As if to ask that surely he doesn’t sound that bad. And surely he isn’t that sick. Will studies his friend, it sinks in how ill he looks despite trying his hardest to keep up appearances. Almost as though he feels like he has to keep it together for everybody else’s good or something.

Silena purses her lips and nods slowly. She takes Beckendorf’s hand and brings it to his chest for the second time that night. But this time, she moves her fingers in a way on him that mimics his breathing, shaking them slightly to show him how crackly and tight it sounds. Will guesses that if he tried to use his powers to scan Beckendorf again, it would give a way worse image than he got earlier in the day. But Silena doesn’t look frustrated or anything, just sad that her partner can’t tell how much pain he’s in. 

One time she offhandedly mentioned it to Will— that Beckendorf can never really tell what’s going on in his body. Whether it’s hunger, pain, sickness, or anything else in between, he just isn’t naturally aware. He needs all these reminders to focus on feeling it. There’s a bunch of sticky notes dotting his desk and cabin bunk that he programmed to blink every couple hours when he’s awake and there that he made to try to remind himself. She said it’s one of the biggest ways his neurodivergency shows up besides normal demigod stuff. 

An expression of guilt washes over Beckendorf’s face when he realizes, “Don’t worry about it, you can sleep in here. I have one of the nice cots in that closet with some extra bedding for you to use. Silena says I’m sometimes loud without my hearing aids to tell me to shut up, and I take them off at night. Just a heads up. Or just like, throw something at me and I’ll probably get the point that I’m too loud.”

“It’s fine. I’m the Ares counselor and I’m decent at ASL. My best friend back home is Deaf, we still talk a lot. Trust me, I know loud,” Clarisse responds, back to an indifferent tone.

“And Clarisse? I don't hate you. You're good to the people that need it, I know that. I just don't need it,” Beckendorf tries to reassure her.

Clarisse smirks, “Arguably, you do need it right now. I mean look at you. All laid up like a sickly Victorian child and shit, can’t even orally backtalk me. You're gonna need a medicine man to take care of that, damn fool.”

Beckendorf laughs in response, making himself fall into another coughing fit. The two girls look at him in anxious anticipation, but he ignores it and quips back, “You gonna go all auntie mode trying to fix me?”

“Please, you couldn’t handle that. My granny could knock you down in her grave right now,” Clarisse jokes back.

Will's still stuck on the daughter of Ares having a Deaf best friend all this time when he’s hit with a realization, “That’s how you knew what I was saying earlier! Only people that regularly sign with Deaf people would know all of that. I didn’t know you were fluent.”

He starts to try to take back his comment, rapidly signing apologies. At least he’s feeling well enough to actually understand English right now and not feel like he’s about to explode from any sound. Never would he think that he would describe Clarisse’s presence as comforting, but being in a room with some of the strongest signers in camp makes him feel like he doesn’t have to worry about being understood. Something that has become increasingly rare as the prophecy has ramped up.

“I’m not that good, don’t hype me up too much. You and Beckendorf are fluent, I just try more than other people without literal god-given language gifts or romantic motivations,” replies Clarisse, “There, bed’s ready. I’ll set up the cot over here, wake me if you need anything.”

Silena helps Beckendorf back into the bed, propping him up with pillows. Now that she’s brought attention to it, he seems more aware of how bad he feels. She curls up next to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm and her hand on his chest. As she lays there, she lightly taps the sign for “I love you” on his chest, and he’s holding the same handshape as he rubs her back. Occasionally he turns his head to cough, but is otherwise honed in on Silena. 

Will stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, not exactly sure where he’s supposed to go but surely not wanting to go back to the Apollo cabin yet. It feels like he would be interrupting if he went on the bed, but Beckendorf said he only had the one cot in the room. The idea of leaving the workshop feels like summiting Mount Everest, so getting a cot from the infirmary is out of the question. Plus then, he’d run into everybody else and then probably have to talk to them and that sounds miserable. Not that he dislikes them, but he just doesn’t want to talk to people right now. Maybe just the floor? The floor isn’t that bad. I’ve slept on floors before. Will starts cycling between anxiously shaking his hands, trying to stop himself by squeezing his bandaged arm, scolding himself, and then going back to shaking his hands. 

Silena looks up and notices Will’s rapidly growing panic. Fuck, am I being louder than I thought I was being? Did I turn down my CI settings too low? And now I’m embarrassing myself completely and they probably all think I’m a freak.

 “If you’re comfortable sleeping in the bed, then we're comfortable. It’s just sleeping. All of us are exhausted, anyways. You need some rest, Will,” she offers, cutting off Will’s spiral. 

“I’m bi,” Will blurts out, “Shit, no. I mean like, yes I am? You already know that though. But like, you probably don't wanna share a bed with me. I get it. I can just sleep on the floor or something, it's not that bad.”

“It’s not romantic in any way. No offense, but you’re kinda young. A great friend, but too young for any of us. Your whole cabin’s been gay since the dawn of time basically, it’s written into your father’s stories. And the sheer amount of times that we’ve squished like four people onto this bed just to avoid getting eaten by Harpies or caught by Chiron? Far more than you can imagine probably. Lots of late night infirmary team ‘emergencies,’ you know,” Silena replies with a fond smile at the end before continuing, “You need actual sleep, Will. Not some floor sleep. Gods know that isn’t real sleep. Also, my mom’s the goddess of love. You really think I’d judge you for being queer? Talk about me being hypocritical in like a million different ways.”

Will is stunned into silence in every language he knows. He knows it’s dumb that he’s insecure about being bi when so many at camp are also queer, but it doesn’t stop him from getting worried. His aunt he used to live with sometimes was really religious, every Sunday going to church was a whole event. His mom used to take him to a Deaf church so he’d have community, so it was different. But his aunt didn’t do that, and sometimes the messages got drilled into him a little too much. 

“Darling, I love you so much but your ASL grammar leaves a bit to be desired sometimes. The PSE mixed in can be hard to follow when the English isn’t going. At least for me,” Beckendorf lightheartedly chides his partner, then turns to Will, “Look, I’m too sick to care right now. Take advantage of a night off and get a good night’s rest. Gods know we all need it.”

“I can try again to fix it?” offers Will, feeling guilty that his friend still feels so sick from what he did earlier. He nervously shakes his hands at his sides. He’s not sure if he’s doing that to hype himself up for being able to be a half-decent healer to fix or because he’s anxious from seeing his friend so unwell. 

“No,” Beckendorf insists, “You literally had second degree burns on your hands from working so much. People have survived pneumonia for a long time without divine powers. I'll be fine while you focus on healing too, you gotta keep that brain of yours feeling good. Can’t do that all burnt out. In the literal and figurative sense.” 

Will warily nods and then gets into bed, leaving plenty of space between him and the couple. Clarisse shuts off the lights, leaving one dim lamp on and drawing the curtains closed. The full force of his exhaustion hits him. He doesn’t even have the energy to be bothered about the feeling of his suit and just chooses to leave it on. I guess that’s what a three day long panic attack-meltdown extravaganza will do to you. Just barely, he gets his processors off before he’s pulled into a beautifully dreamless and silent sleep.

Chapter Text

The first time Will wakes up it’s the middle of the night. At least judging by the fact it’s pitch black in the room and everybody else is fast asleep. The next thing he notices is that it feels like he’s boiling alive. He looks to find a mountainful more of blankets on the bed than when he fell asleep. Which he finds strange, considering it’s the dead of summer and most of the campers barely even sleep with a sheet let alone two comforters and an uncountable amount of throws. He thinks he feels the bed slightly vibrating, but convinces himself that it’s just his tired brain making up things. Next to the bed, he spots a pair of gym shorts and changes into them. Then, he strips down to his undershirt and promptly falls back asleep, returning to his peaceful rest. 

The second time Will wakes up, it’s from the bed shaking. It’s not questionable like it was the first time, this feels like an alarm. That’s strange, I don’t have any alarm clock in here to shake the bed. That’s when he looks over to see Beckendorf sitting up in the bed and in the midst of a violent coughing fit. That would shake the bed, yeah. Shit, how’d it get so much worse? How did my powers fail so much?

Meanwhile, the teen keeps hitting his chest like he’s trying to knock something loose, but doesn’t look too freaked out in his feverish state. On the other hand, Silena’s face is laced with concern as she rubs his back and holds a small trash bin steady in front of him. It looks like she’s gently talking to him, but Will doesn’t have a good enough view of her face to tell what she’s saying. Clarisse is also awake, sitting in the chair next to bed and looking worried too and holding something down low out Will’s field of vision. Starting to sit up, he reaches his hand over to try to help Beckendorf, but Clarisse bats it away.

“Go back to sleep. This has been happening all night, he’s gonna be okay. He just needs to get a good breath in. I’ll wake you if we need you. Be grateful you can’t hear him and get some sleep,” Clarisse signs, gentle but firm at the same time. 

Will is far too tired to try to argue and lays back down. But, he doesn’t fall asleep again until the bed stops shaking so much— he can’t. It just feels wrong, deep in his soul. So he lays there silently, keeping his eyes open just enough to watch Silena and Beckendorf lay back down. The last thing he sees before the room goes dark is Clarisse pouring a dose of cough medicine and handing it to Beckendorf with a glass of water.

The third time Will wakes up in the night, it’s because he’s crying and hyperventilating. He stumbles out into the hallway and sinks to the floor. Just aware enough that he doesn’t want to wake up the others, he thinks they were asleep anyways. All the lights were still off. It had been a sick cross between a nightmare and a flashback about the battle. It felt all too real. Every single one of his senses are as overwhelmed as it was during that horrible afternoon. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

He sinks his nails into his arms to try to calm down. To try to remind himself where he is. You’re in the infirmary. The battle’s over. He ghosts the motions of the signs, trying to lull himself into believing what he’s saying. It quickly devolves into another spiral. Exactly how it has been all day. Just fucking breathe. You need to calm down. You’re going to wake up everybody and be even more of a problem.You’re such a fucking problem to everybody. Just fucking kill y—

Suddenly something touches his hand. He flinches and sees Clarisse sitting across from him, then snaps his head back down in shame and tries to hide his face. She doesn’t try to pull his nails away from his arm, but rather she just starts rhymically tapping his hand. Firm enough that he can’t ignore it but not too rough that it overwhelms him. It’s just enough to keep him grounded. Against his other hand, she signs “okay” over and over again. Will eventually loosens the death grip he has on his arms. Then stops hyperventilating. Then stops crying. Then he looks at the daughter of Ares sitting across from him. 

“You gonna be alright if I go grab something real fast?” Clarisse asks, Will shrugs indifferently. She then waves in his field of vision and signs it again more firmly, “I need a yes or no, Solace. Will you be safe if I leave you alone?”

Will nods and she disappears down the maze of hallways like she knows exactly where to go. Wracking his memory, he doesn’t ever remember her ever really coming to the infirmary except for the rare times when she gets hurt or for the mandatory yearly training for counselors. Well, except for this one time when she came to yell at her brother for “being a shitass,” AKA getting hurt being on the receiving end of well-deserved revenge from the Aphrodite cabin. With how brash she comes off as, Beckendorf was definitely right that Clarisse is nice to the people that need it. 

Clarisse returns with an armful of things from the infirmary and balancing four cups of tea in one of her hands. She hands one cup of tea to Will, the tea bag has some words written on the tag. He squints trying to read it, not sure if it’s his brain pooping out for English or a language he just doesn’t know at all. Usually, his dyslexia isn’t a problem at all, but when he’s all worked up it gets a million times worse.

“Ch’ilgohwéhí’deí, Diné tea. Always helps me sleep better,” Clarisse explains, slowing down to fingerspell the words. 

Much to his personal annoyance, Will is still too tired and anxious to process fingerspelling despite her attempts to be more accommodating. The only thing he can do is give this completely lost look, not even on purpose. He just doesn’t have the energy to even pretend that he understood her. Sometimes when it’s really bad, Will’s brain just shuts down like this where the only thing he can really understand is pure ASL where things are only explained spatially and conceptually. No English involved. It’s just his hardwiring. Like Ancient Greek is supposed to be.

Clarisse catches on and adjusts her signing style, “I’m Afro-Indigenous on my mom’s side, Diné, grew up on the Navajo Reservation. The tea’s our medicine, I keep a stash of it in here so my siblings don’t get to it. They don’t know how to treat things right.”

“Thanks,” Will signs back, taking a mug, “I didn’t know that about you. Also, the tea tastes good.”

“People don’t ask, but I’m always down to talk about it,” Clarisse shrugs, “Everyone’s got an idea of what Indigenous is supposed to look like. I don’t exactly hide that I go back to Arizona for powwows. Or that I speak the language with my family and whenever I talk about my home. Or that I have regalia and jewelry in my cabin. I mean… I literally wore regalia to the funerals today. It’s not my problem that everyone’s small-minded to notice that. No offense. I mean, we don’t really talk for you to know all that.”

“None taken. My brain is too messed up right now to understand fingerspelling, but I’d wanna hear more another time if you wanted to?” Will asks.

“Don’t sweat it right now, just drink the tea,” replies Clarisse.

The two quietly sit in the hallway, sipping on their cups of tea. It feels nice inside of Will, like it’s warming up his soul. He likes seeing this side of Clarisse, the side that lets people see that she cares. It hits him that she must pay damn good attention to the mandatory counselor trainings, even though she acts disinterested, if she knew how to find all the supplies piled next to her so quickly. For the first time in days, Will is confident that he doesn’t feel like he’s on the brink of a panic attack or meltdown. Suddenly, Clarisse snaps her head up and looks in the direction of the workshop. Her brow furrows as she tries to hear what’s happening, honing in on the sounds. Or at least that’s what Will assumes, he doesn’t have his CIs on to confirm. 

Will waves for her attention, “What is it?”

“Beckendorf’s awake again. I guess the medicine didn’t really work. He’s been coughing bad all night and staying asleep for the most part, but he’s puking again right now. Kinda doubt he’s able to sleep through that,” Clarisse informs him, “Can you feel it?”

Will shakes his head, “I’m not that good.”

“Yes you are. Focus on it. There’s a feeling, a tingle in your fingers that runs up your arms and to your heart. You can feel it in your soul. You can tell your friend’s not well, just like how you could tell earlier when Beck woke up. I know you didn’t fall asleep until he did. It wasn’t because the bed was shaking, it was because it was pulling at your divinity,” Clarisse says.

“How do you know all of this?” Will asks, listening to the daughter of Ares’ instructions and realizing that she’s spot on. He’s amazed that he can feel it so exactly in his body. 

“War and pestilence go hand in hand in the apocalypse. We’re in the end of the world with the Prophecy, after all. You’re the first Apollo kid remotely powerful enough to pull this off and it’s because you have strong plagues and healing. Beck’s metaphors are only as good as what Adi knew, that’s why it didn’t work all the way earlier. You’re a good medic, Will,” Clarisse replies, “Take that feeling you caught and zoom in on what it’s made of. Like it’s grains of sand. Really feel each grain of it. That’s what you need to get at to help him. You need to clean up the sand. If you do it right, you shouldn’t get tired or hurt or anything. The plagues and healing should balance each other out.”

“I can feel it, but I’m not close enough,” Will says, feeling the phantom granules under his fingers.

“Alright, then let’s go in,” Clarisse stands up, “Just in time because he sounds fuckin’ miserable. Be grateful you can’t hear him right now, honestly.”

“You care an awful lot about somebody that you thought hated you,” Will comments as he gets up. 

“I care that Silena's okay. She's been scared out of her mind for her boyfriend all night. Come on. Just a heads up, he's not really himself right now,” Clarisse ominously warns. Will would've questioned how she knows that, but then he remembers that she's hearing and that's probably clueing her in. 

Here's the thing to know about Beckendorf: Will has always known him to be level-headed. Not emotionless, far from that actually, but he always keeps himself looking calm and collected among chaos. In every single tense situation, he always knows the exact right thing to say or do to comfort somebody. To deescalate the situation. When he's upset or mad, he never raises his voice or anything. He just evenly and firmly expresses what he's thinking. The closest thing Will’s seen to Beckendorf snapping was earlier that night with Clarisse. Even when he’s scolding somebody, it’s level-headed in a way that Will has never seen anybody else pull off without sounding fake. But Beckendorf never seems fake in any language he uses. 

Will asked Beckendorf about it once after a group of campers tried to piss him off by messing with the infirmary— knocking over stuff and stealing things. So naturally Will, in all of his autistic glory, was having a full on meltdown from all the sudden change and overwhelm from the mess. And Lee was also just as livid that he then had to fix everything and because Will was so upset. But Beckendorf just calmly gave Will something to stim with while he started putting everything away. And Will just couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how he seemed completely unbothered with everything.

In response, Beckendorf told this story about when he was visiting home in Atlanta. He was hanging out late one night with a few of his hearing friends from the neighborhood. It was Christmastime, so his whole family was in town but on their own for the evening. He was just a few blocks away from where his family lives, playing video games with his friends. Something that he does all the time when he visits. While his whole family is Deaf, he has enough usable hearing that he can get along with the kids he grew up near who don’t know much ASL. 

Beckendorf then interrupted himself to try to explain his hearing in depth. It’s kind of a taboo thing to ask about, so Will had never breached the topic before. Apparently, with hearing aids Beck can catch most speech without too many problems. He doesn’t have higher frequencies and struggles with loud environments or really quiet sounds, but he can pass as hearing with some lipreading and educated guesses. Without his hearing aids, though? He only hears really loud things that are lower pitched, like some thunder. Essentially, he doesn’t have any practical usable hearing. Which sometimes he chooses, considering so much of his mortal world is Deaf. 

Anyways, his hearing aids had died and he forgot spare batteries. It was well past 2AM, so the group decided to wrap up for the night and go their separate ways so Beckendorf wouldn’t be left out of conversations. As he was walking home alone, he was wearing a hoodie for the Deaf residential school because it was kinda chilly. Then he was crossing at this intersection, an intersection that he had crossed a million times before. He didn’t look too carefully before crossing because he didn’t see any headlights on the street and it was so late anyways. He got distracted by a neighbor’s Christmas decorations and was admiring them. Then the next second he’s being slammed to the ground with knees digging into his back and neck, bright lights clouding his vision, and guns waving in his face while his arms are twisted behind his body.

Come to find out, there was a robbery a few streets in the opposite direction and he supposedly fit the description. The police had been yelling at him from their cruiser to stop and answer their questions, but he couldn’t hear them. Gravely, he cited that he was lucky they didn't kill him right then and there. He ended up getting arrested for resisting, dragged to the police station, and grilled in an interrogation room before anybody bothered to listen to him saying that he’s Deaf. Which of course, they didn’t know how to deal with and he ended up having to just attempt to call his house without knowing if they even picked up the phone or not. It wasn’t even worth it to try to ask for an interpreter. A few days later he saw the actual guy in the newspaper, he looked nothing like him. They were both just young, Black guys.

That night, his family sat him down and gave him the talk. Not the birds and bees— the police talk. They said that he has rights as a Deaf person, but that he cannot be angry, and must always be calm. That if he showed anger or sadness or any remotely unpleasant emotion, it’s a death wish. That got drilled into him. They made him practice over and over again. It’s the only time his family has forced him to orally speak. It had to be absolutely perfect, no trace of a Deaf accent or anything other than complete control and level-headed courteousness. 

Then Beckendorf talked about one of his great uncles, saying that basically his whole extended family is Deaf. They’d lived in Georgia for generations and his family had been at the center of Black Deaf cultural movements there. It made them a target. The uncle was falsely accused and convicted of a crime back when he was younger around the 1950s. The court deemed him mentally unfit and he was tortured in medical facilities until the family was finally able to get him out. Beckendorf ended the anecdote by saying that it’s woven into his genes to be terrified of being anything but calm and collected. He needs it to survive. And Will, to some extent, can understand it, because that kind of thing is straight out of the Deaf Dark Ages. A fear that sits in the back of a lot of Deaf people’s minds. Because in the eyes of the law, they’re disabled. And gods know that the law isn’t kind to disabled people. 

So imagine Will’s shock when he walks into the workshop and his good friend Beckendorf is the exact opposite of calm and collected. Simply put, one could say that he's freaking the fuck out. Will can't exactly see because all of the lights are off still, but the fact that the pulling feeling in his chest ramps up exponentially is enough to tip him off. Something is very, very wrong.

“Silena, stop charmspeaking. It's messing with me and he can't hear you,” Clarisse firmly SimComs, “And before you suggest it, putting in his aids are just gonna make it worse.”

Will flips on the lights and sees the full picture of what's happening. Beckendorf is sat straight up on the bed, shaking uncontrollably while Silena is sat next to him rubbing his back. He looks like he's struggling for every breath, his muscles strained and coughing more than breathing. His eyes are filled with panic and he's obviously been crying, which would check because any breath he does get in looks more like hyperventilating than anything else. He looks like he’s trying to sign something, but it’s unintelligible with how he’s gripping onto the garbage can in his lap for dear life. Clarisse’s warning suddenly makes sense, she must've been able to hear him crying. 

Clarisse nudges him, “Remember, it’s just sand. You got this.”

At that, Will jumps into action and sits next to Beckendorf and places one hand on his chest and the other on his back. The teen tries to push him away, but Will persists. He focuses on the disease underneath his fingertips and the way they connect to the ichor in his body. Each individual cell tingles up his arms and to his core. With his eyes closed he picks out each of them, washing over with waves of healing and moving the disease into him. It doesn't hurt him, and he doesn't feel sick at all, it's like what he creates almost energizes him. Under his hands, he feels Beckendorf stop coughing and take a shaky breath.

Will opens his eyes to see Beckendorf covering his face with his hands. His shoulders are shaking in the way that Ethan's used to at night when he was trying to hide he was crying so hard he’s hyperventilating. Beck’s mouth is moving, but Will can't read his lips. He figures only Silena's meant to hear it because Clarisse looks like she's trying not to hear it either. 

Silena signs the word “fine” onto her boyfriend's chest over and over again. Meanwhile, her other hand’s on his back with her fingers spreading and contracting just like she did earlier. It’s controlled and intentional, like a drumbeat. The two are moving in this way where it looks like they’ve done it a million times before, but as time passes the daughter of Aphrodite looks more and more worried. Clarisse starts digging through Beckendorf’s drawers after Silena says something, but sits down empty handed and shakes her head in disappointment. That's when Will realizes what's happening: she's trying to show him how to breathe. 

Will moves the trashcan to the floor and sits in front of Beckendorf. He taps his hands with his own, the older teen gets the message and moves his hands to feel his signing. Will starts reciting ASL poems, letting the rhythm of the signs flow through him. His hands subtly glow as they move. As the minutes pass, he repeats stanza after stanza running through his whole repertoire. It's another power that Will tends to keep quiet, that he's damn good at poetry. Just not in English. 

Clarisse and Silena are just watching in awe. They had never seen Will use ProTactile before. Or seen the way he signs with only other Deaf people. Or his poetry. The room fills with an intense warmth, like the sun is shining through and illuminating it, even though it's hours away from even peeking over the horizon right now. As one of the poems draws to a close, Beckendorf moves his hands to stop Will. He takes a deep breath and looks at the healer. 

“Thank you,” he signs with two hands to really emphasize it. 

Silena taps his arm and asks how he's feeling. He pulls her into a kiss and tells her that he feels perfect. 

“You really scared me there, Charlie,” Silena fingerspells his name.

Will’s noticed that she does that a lot to really show that she means his name like his nickname, not like the sign name that everybody else uses that’s initialized with a C handshape. He thinks it’s a cute way that she shows how much she loves him across languages. It’s nice to see that it can work. 

There’s this saying that gets thrown around a lot in the Deaf community: 85-85-85. It dictates that 85% percent of Deaf people are born to hearing families, 85% of hearing families don’t learn ASL, and 85% of mixed Deaf-hearing relationships fail. He’s not even sure how true those all are, but it’s been drilled into him. Will was born to a hearing family and almost none of them learned ASL, he can’t help but think the last 85% will apply to him too. When you mix that with the fact that he knows basically every demigod around his age who doesn’t want him dead, it gets kinda hopeless. Seeing Silena and Beckendorf together tells him that it’s not a completely lost cause. Sometimes you beat the odds. 

“I scared me too. But I’m okay now, was just a little shaken up,” Beckendorf reassures Silena, “Will, let me see your hands.”

“Don’t do that thing where you play it down to me so I feel better. You haven’t had a panic attack that bad in a long time,” Silena says, unwavering. 

Beckendorf ignores her, “Will, that had to have burnt your hands. You like… superheated the entire room. I have more nectar that you should use, let me help you.”

Will wordlessly shows both sides of his hands, which are completely unharmed. Partially because he doesn’t want Beckendorf to worry and partially because he doesn’t want to get in between the inevitable argument with Silena. 

“Charles,” Silena angrily fingerspells. Yep, there’s the inevitable argument.

Beckendorf sighs annoyedly, “Silena. Stop hovering. I calmed down, that’s what matters.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. It matters that something freaked you out so badly that nothing I did could calm you down and your emergency meds are nowhere to be found. What did you even do with them? Don’t shut me out, Charlie. You kept all these muttering things and didn’t even know you were doing it,” she shoots back.

“It was because I couldn’t breathe, okay?” Beckendorf admits, “I can breathe fine now, Will got all of it and I don’t feel sick at all, so it’s not a problem anymore. Just reminded me of something that happened years ago. Don’t sweat it.”

“Holy fuck, you haven’t told her?” Clarisse signs, eyes wide in shock, “You told me, but not your literal girlfriend?”

“You were the only other Black camper here who's spent enough time in the mortal world to know what it’s like. Will also knows about it, he’s Deaf, he gets it too,” Beckendorf replies, then turns to his partner who looks even more angry, “Babe, you know I love and I trust you with my whole soul. There’s some things that I can’t tell you about. I can’t break you with some of the stuff that happens to me when I’m out in the mortal world. Fuck, I don’t even know where to start with it all. This stuff goes so far back, I swear it’s woven into each of my cells. I don’t know how to talk about all I’ve ever known.”

“It is,” Will says, well more like blurts out, “Woven into each of your cells that is.”

The other three demigods stare at him like he’s crazy. Which is fair, because it’s a bold thing for him to say so confidently. But if there’s one thing Will knows, it’s the body. 

“Generational trauma and epigenetics, that’s what they call it. Epigenetics say that the stuff you experience changes your genes, generational trauma says those changes get passed down from parents, grandparents, great great great grandparents. The way I get it, it’s not the same as you and Clarisse. I learned to understand it, you were born knowing it,” explains Will.

Clarisse silently hands the couple each a cup of tea. Somehow it’s still warm, which Will chooses not to question. Maybe she has self-heating mugs or something. Then, she pulls the office chair next to bed and tugs a necklace out from under her shirt and runs her fingers along it. Will’s never noticed it before, it’s normally hidden by the cord of her camp necklace. It’s made of small turquoise beads with a larger pendant dangling from it, all of which is set in silver.

“As much as my family are fighters, they’re also storytellers too. And there’s one thing they always drilled into me: If you don’t pass these stories down, our histories and culture dies. That I must carry it. Keepin’ all that shit inside of you? It’s bad for the ancestors,” the daughter of Ares says, swinging her legs up to rest her feet on the bed, “So tell your damn girlfriend about your shit and don’t fuck this up after you both spent years being all goo goo eyes at eachother.”

Much to Will’s surprise, Beckendorf smiles. Then starts laughing.

“Gods, I really am my father’s son,” Beckendorf jokes, “We’re better with machines than people. I really missed the mark with this one, didn’t I?”

Even more to Will's surprise, Clarisse smirks and Silena starts laughing too. Did I miss something? What’s funny?

“And I love you all the same, my dear,” Silena leans in to kiss her boyfriend.

Beckendorf smiles warmly and lightly pushes her away, “I still taste gross. Not until I brush my teeth, darling.”

“Okay, okay,” Silena surrenders, “Then tell me a story.”

And so Beckendorf begins to weave a beautiful story of his own upbringings. Of his family's deep roots in Georgia going back to when they were first forced here and fighting to pass as hearing to survive. Of how Jim Crow borne Black ASL, which his family can tell the exact origins of signs because they go back so many generations. Of his upbringing at Deaf schools and his neighborhood he grew up in. All his love and hate and pride and fear. 

As he continues, the sun begins to peak over the horizon and bloom into a beautiful burst of colors that wash over camp. The stories slow to a stop as they all stop to admire the sunrise. Seldom are most of them awake to see it. They all crowd around the window, watching the oranges and pinks illuminate the sky. 

“Jóhonaaʼéí, the Bearer of the Sun. He comes each morning to give us life. At least that's what they say,” Clarisse tells. 

Will smiles, “I like that more than what my dad does. Everyday I'm blessed that I can choose to not hear his sunrise concerts, unlike my siblings.”

 Beckendorf puts his arms around the other demigods, “In any pantheon, it means we made it through the night. And that we will make it again. And even if it's far away, we're gonna be okay.”