Chapter Text
Will Solace had never regretted bringing Nico home to Texas more than at this exact moment.
They were sitting on the floor of his mom’s living room, legs crossed over the worn patterned rug that smelled faintly of cedar and lemon cleaner. The warm Texas sun streamed through the lace curtains, dust motes glittering in the patches of light. Nico, dressed in his standard black hoodie despite the fact it was August in Texas and therefore hovering around "boiling" degrees outside, sat suspiciously comfortable. He had his knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on them, dark eyes surveying the photo album spread between them. His expression had softened into something rare: open, curious, and almost—dare Will say it—gentle.
Mrs. Solace had been the one to dump the album down in front of them, declaring fondly, “Oh, honey, you *have* to show Nico your baby pictures. Just *look* at these.” Then she’d gone back into the kitchen to fuss with lunch, leaving Will helpless, sweating, and very much trapped.
“Please remember my mother is dramatic,” Will said quickly, trying to shut the first page of the album before Nico’s deathly pale hand slipped over and stopped it. Nico didn’t even look at him; he just flipped to the first picture.
There: a two-year-old Will with blond hair sticking straight up in every direction like he’d been struck by lightning, face smeared with what looked like chocolate pudding. His eyes were enormous and blue, alive with the kind of feral energy only toddlers and raccoons could achieve.
Nico smiled. Not a smirk, not a sarcastic curl of the lip—an actual smile.
Will shoved a hand through his hair and groaned. “Gods, this is humiliating.”
“No,” Nico said, voice soft like he hadn’t realized he was speaking out loud, “it’s… cute.”
Will’s ears turned pink immediately. Of course Nico would say that. To Will, *nothing* about that picture was cute. It was utter chaos contained in a single frame: him half-naked, pudding-covered, eyes gleaming with menace. Feral. That was really the only word for it.
Unfortunately, Nico kept flipping.
“Oh,” Nico said, staring at the next one. Will leaned over, already dreading it.
It was worse. Much worse.
Three-year-old Will was onstage beside his mother during one of her performances at some town fair. She was beautifully dressed in a sequined gown under stage lights, a microphone in her hand, clearly mid-song. And little Will? He was facing the *audience*, tiny hands on his knees, denim overalls hanging off one shoulder, blond hair in curls—as he attempted, with all seriousness, to shake his little diapered butt in time to her singing.
“Oh my gods,” Will whispered, slapping a hand over his face. “Why would she keep that? Why would she *document* that?”
Nico stared at it for longer than Will was comfortable with. His expression was unreadable until he tipped his head slightly, lips twitching. “That’s…” His voice wavered, and it almost sounded like he was choking back laughter. “That’s amazing.”
Will groaned again, louder this time, dragging his palm down his face. “I—no, gods, Nico, it’s not amazing. It’s *mortifying.* I look like I was auditioning for… I don’t even know what. Toddlers Gone Wild?”
For the first time all day—and maybe in weeks—Nico actually laughed. The sound was quiet, but it tugged at something warm in Will’s chest.
“You haven’t changed that much,” Nico muttered, not meeting his eyes.
Will whipped his head toward him. “Excuse me?!”
“You still think you can dance.” The faint curve of a smirk ghosted across Nico’s mouth. “You just… should *not*.”
Will gaped at him, half offended, half stung, but Nico was already flipping again.
And gods help him, the next picture was a masterpiece of pain.
It was Will around age seven, standing proudly in the front yard with a toothy grin, missing one of his front teeth. His curly blond hair was a mop, nearly falling into his eyes. On his chest—glaring in all capital letters—was emblazoned the most atrocious T-shirt Will had ever owned:
**“DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS: IT’S GOD’S STATE.”**
Will groaned so loudly Nico actually snorted.
“Oh no,” Will said, tugging the album toward him and trying to rip the plastic sleeve out, but Nico clamped his cold fingers over the page to keep it still.
Nico was practically staring in awe. Which, considering the shirt, had to mean Nico was laughing internally at Will’s torment. Still, his voice betrayed him—it was tinged with something genuine, maybe even admiration. “You wore this?”
“That… okay—listen,” Will stammered. “It was a gift! From—probably my grandma, I don’t know. We got shirts like that all the time. ‘Bless Your Heart,’ ‘Texas Forever,’ just… *things*. You know how southerners are.” He buried his face in his hands, muttering, “Gods, I look ridiculous.”
Nico tilted his head, that faint smile threatening to break wider. “No,” he said simply. “You look… happy.”
That one word silenced Will instantly. He peeked at Nico through his fingers, trying to gauge what he meant.
Nico’s expression was distant, thoughtful, like he wasn’t really seeing the picture anymore so much as what it represented. “You had…” He hesitated, shoulders sinking a little. “You had a childhood. One you can laugh at now. Like—this shirt. And the… the dancing. It’s embarrassing to you, but it’s…” He trailed off, voice growing quieter. “It’s good. Sweet. I didn’t…”
The words hung between them, heavy. Will knew the rest of the sentence without Nico needing to say it. *I didn’t have that.*
Will’s frustration softened immediately. He let his hands fall, the heat in his cheeks replaced with a pang in his chest. For Nico, baby pictures would always be something dreamlike and unreachable—before Persephone kidnapped him and Bianca, before the Lotus Hotel froze their childhood year after year, before death and grief shadowed everything.
And here Nico was, treating Will’s embarrassing kid-self not like something to laugh at, but like proof of something precious.
Will swallowed and reached out without thinking, brushing his fingers against Nico’s wrist. “I… guess I never thought of it like that,” he admitted. “That maybe being… happy, or goofy, or just a disaster could mean something good.”
Nico’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment there was only quiet between them, the distant sound of his mom singing along with the radio in the kitchen.
Then Nico turned back to the album, and his smirk returned—this time fully formed. “Still,” he said, tapping the picture of seven-year-old Will in his ridiculous T-shirt, “I’m never letting you live *this* one down.”
Will groaned again, throwing himself back on the rug. “Of course you won’t.”
Nico hummed, and the album stayed open in his lap. And though Will thought he might die of humiliation, he also noticed Nico’s thumb brushing ever so lightly over the edge of the photo—as if holding onto it mattered.
Will should have known his mother’s photo albums weren’t safe territory. Not even close.
Nico, with grim determination that matched how he usually handled anything involving the undead, kept flipping pages like this was a heroic quest and embarrassment was his prophecy. And Will Solace? He had resigned himself to dying of secondhand humiliation.
“Okay,” Will begged as Nico’s pale fingers turned the next glossy sheet, “I think that’s enough nostalgia for today—OH GODS, NO.”
Nico stilled. His dark brows just slightly arched as he stared down at the photo like he was examining a crime scene. Slowly, his lips curled into a smirk so sharp Will nearly combusted on the spot.
The picture was of ten-year-old Will—blond hair shaggy, drying tears staining his flushed cheeks. He sat on the porch steps, wearing the most tragic oversized football T-shirt. His little cowboy boots were scuffed, his nose was red, and he clutched something in his hand—a broken friendship bracelet, snapping under his trembling grip.
“Oh my gods, Mom,” Will groaned, pressing his hands so hard over his face it left red marks. “Why would you photograph *that*?”
Nico didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked over the image with careful, deliberate thought—like he was cataloging every detail to use later. Finally, his voice came, flat but trembling with suppressed laughter.
“Is this…” Nico tilted his head. “Is this your first breakup?”
Will flailed his hands wildly, nearly knocking the album out of Nico’s lap. “Don’t say it out loud! Don’t call it that!”
Nico blinked, his expression utterly deadpan, which was worse than a grin. “Your heartbreak was immortalized,” Nico murmured, “in ten-megapixel glory.”
Will launched himself backward and groaned into the ceiling. “I was ten! TEN. My first girlfriend dumped me at recess for some boy who offered her a Capri Sun, okay?!”
At that, Nico actually snorted. An honest-to-gods snort that broke his usually controlled demeanor.
Will flung his arm across his eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m never showing my face again. Bury me here in Texas.”
But Nico? Nico kept staring at the photo like it wasn’t just funny—but disarming, too. The Sun boy—so bright, so loud, constantly healing everyone else—looked small in that picture. Vulnerable. And while Nico wanted to poke fun forever, there was also this sharp tug in his chest. Because Will wore his scars openly, even the silly ones. Nico had never had the freedom to.
Before Will could catch the thoughtful look, Nico turned the page.
And then froze.
Will glanced over, saw what awaited them, and nearly screamed. “NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
There he was: maybe three years old, golden hair a wild halo, standing proudly beside a tiny plastic potty chair. His arms were folded across his bare chest like he had conquered the world. He looked smug. Victorious. A hero in training.
“Mom!” Will howled toward the kitchen. “WHY WOULD YOU TAKE THAT?”
Nico, for his part, lowered his head. His shoulders shook, and for a terrifying second, Will thought Nico was having some kind of attack. But then Nico lifted his face, and actual, real laughter spilled out.
Not a smirk. Not a dry, sarcastic comment. A laugh—rare, unguarded, and bright in its own strange way.
Will wanted the earth to swallow him, but a part of him couldn’t stop staring because gods—it was Nico laughing. That never happened.
“You look—” Nico had to stop, wheezing faintly, his pale face flushing with the effort. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. “You look so… proud.”
Will flopped face-first into the carpet and muffled his suffering. “I *was* proud! Potty training’s a big milestone! I have no control over three-year-old me’s life choices!”
Nico snorted again and closed the album lightly, running a thumb over the cover as if sealing in his victory. When Will didn’t move, Nico reached out and nudged him with the toe of his black boot.
“Hey,” Nico said softly.
Will peeked at him from under his arm. His face was still beet-red. “What?”
Nico hesitated, then gave the smallest, rarest smile—the kind only Will ever saw. “You know… you don’t have to be embarrassed. I… I like seeing these. All of it. Even the ridiculous shirts. Even the…” His gaze flicked toward the closed album, clearly recalling the potty picture with an amused twitch of his lips. “Even that.”
“Why?” Will demanded, rolling over so he could look at him properly, still pink-cheeked and pouting.
Nico let his shoulders rise and fall. “Because it’s you. All of it. And…” He reached over carefully, his fingers brushing against Will’s. “It’s proof. Proof you had joy. Proof you were loved.”
Will’s chest tightened, and suddenly he didn’t feel so embarrassed anymore. His hand flipped and caught Nico’s, their fingers weaving together. “You have proof too,” Will said softly, trying for gentleness. “It’s just… different.”
Nico looked down for a moment, the shadow in his expression undeniable. “Not in pictures,” he murmured.
Will squeezed his hand. “Then we’ll make new ones.”
That silenced them both, but not in a bad way. The promise lingered—somewhere between teasing comfort and honest vow.
Then from the kitchen, Mrs. Solace called out cheerfully, “Did you find the bathtub photo yet?”
Nico’s face *lit up* with wicked amusement. Will groaned so loudly the windows rattled.
Chapter Text
The album sat between them, closed now, but its contents weighed heavily in the room—the messy, feral childhoods, the embarrassing shirts, the breakups, the potty heroics. Will had already decided he would burn every copy of those photos later. Except… he also felt weirdly grateful. Because every time he looked sideways at Nico, the boy was softer. Lighter. Like the cruel edges of the Underworld and centuries-old grief had been shaved down just by seeing Will in all his loud, awkward glory.
“So,” Will said carefully, stretching his legs out on the rug, “have you had your fill of humiliating content?”
Nico gave him a look—dark eyes that managed to convey both amusement and an expression Will couldn’t place at first. Then Nico surprised him by replying in an almost wistful tone:
“They’re not humiliating. They’re… kind of amazing.”
Will groaned, though it came with a helpless smile. “We’ve established that you think feral toddler Will is ‘cute,’ which is still… deranged. But sure. Amazing.”
Nico’s gaze slid back toward the album, his fingers tapping lightly on the cover. His lips pressed together in thought. Then, in the smallest voice that nearly got lost under the hum of cicadas outside, Nico said:
“It makes me think of… what it would be like.”
Will blinked. “…What *what* would be like?”
Nico hesitated for a long time, staring down at his knees as if the answer might be embroidered into the fabric of his black jeans. Finally, he muttered, “To… have someone that small. To see them grow. To have… those moments.” He nudged the photo album almost shyly, like it spoke for him. His voice dropped even lower: “It doesn’t sound so bad.”
Will’s mouth went dry. It took a full five seconds before realization hit and his brain did a backflip. “Wait. Nico… are you telling me this gave you—” He choked. “—actual *baby fever*?”
Nico shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve killed a mortal outright. “Don’t call it that.”
“Oh gods, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Will said, grinning ear to ear now, stars practically glowing in his eyes. “You. Baby fever. From my *potty training picture*.” He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Best. Day. Ever.”
“That’s not—” Nico groaned, covering his face with one pale hand. “You’re impossible.”
Will leaned closer, his grin still stretching wide across his face. “Nico di Angelo, wanting kids. Who knew?”
Nico lowered his hand enough to reveal a pink flush creeping across his cheeks. “I didn’t say now,” he muttered. “It was just a thought. An… idea.”
Will’s laughter softened, warmth creeping into his tone as he reached out to squeeze Nico’s shoulder. “Hey, I think it’s sweet. Honestly. But we’re eighteen.” His grin gentled, his voice heating with care. “We’re still… figuring our own lives out. College. Camp. Gods. Your shadows. My infirmary shifts.”
Nico nodded but didn’t answer. He just kept staring at the album like it contained a whole unspoken future—tiny shoes by the door, bedtime stories, embarrassing pictures in shirts just as cringe as Will’s.
Will saw it, though. Saw that tiny spark Nico probably didn’t even realize he was showing. And gods, his chest ached in the best way.
“You’d be good at it, you know,” Will said quietly, almost reverently.
Nico’s head snapped up, startled. “What?”
“Being a parent. You think you wouldn’t, but…” Will gave a quiet laugh, shrugging. “You already look after everyone, Nico. Even when you don’t think you do. You’re protective, you’re fierce, and you’d never let anyone you cared about go without love. That’s everything that matters.”
Nico looked at him for a long moment, and Will swore he saw the air shimmer with things left unsaid. Finally though, Nico rolled his eyes—deflecting, as always—but the pink still burned at his ears. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously right?” Will teased, leaning close enough their shoulders brushed.
Nico shoved him lightly with an elbow but didn’t pull away, his small exhale betraying the faintest of smiles. “Eighteen,” Nico reminded him. “We’re eighteen.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Will agreed easily, his tone more relaxed than the subject really deserved. “Plenty of time to worry about all that later. For now, maybe you just laugh at more of my humiliating photos.”
From the kitchen, Mrs. Solace’s voice rang out like divine prophecy: “Oh, Nico, you *have* to see the one where he thought he was a cowboy and taped a cereal box to his head like a hat!”
Will flopped back on the rug with a strangled noise, while Nico’s grin finally, fully, slipped free.
And for that moment—their joined futures a hazy dream, the humiliating past immortalized in glossy prints—everything felt a little lighter.