Curate, connect, and discover
On the tail end of Nico di Angelo's eleventh month of observing Will Solace, he notices what he classifies as a 'significant change'.
"Will's had his hair up for a good couple days," he comments, as passively and casually as he can manage. Cecil Markowitz immediately sidesteps Nico's half-hearted lunge and pushes both their swords to the floor, plopping down next to them, falling for nothing.
"It's hot," he points out. Which is a ridiculously logical conclusion for someone who once genuinely believed bees were mammals. Nico scowls.
"It's odd."
"Whatever you say, Professor."
The disarming now makes sense, and infuriatingly Nico's attempt to skewer his friend is unsuccessful. He cackles, sommersaulting away.
"Do not call me that!"
"Professor, Professor," taunts Cecil, running backwards, "decorated doctorate in Willology --"
He does not expect the knife Nico has in his boot, and his subsequent pained shriek is deeply, darkly gratifying. Nico leaves him to writhe in agony for a few minutes before hauling him upright, slapping a hand on his shoulder to stop the bleeding, and dragging him out of the amphitheater.
"Butchering!" Cecil hollers, digging in his heels. "Bloodshed! Gehenna! Fratricide!"
"I'm gonna butcher the other side," Nico promises.
This does not sway the man in any capacity.
"Foul play! Maiming! The wicked fate of Caesar Augustus --"
"Alright then."
He squeezes just lightly and Cecil crumples, wheezing, scrabbling at Nico's hand and mouthing the word evil at him incessantly. For good measure, he does the three-claw ward off, because he is an asshole, and Nico would feel guilty if it weren't for the slightest smirk below the agony and the fact that Cecil once crushed his own legs under collapsed marble to avoid stable cleaning duty.
"Are you done," Nico says, tapping his foot.
"One more round." Cecil inhales. "Slaughterer! Destructor! Slayer of men!"
"I could get behind Slayer of Men."
"Of course you could, gay ass."
It is funny and Nico is mad that it is funny, so he refuses to laugh, but Cecil hears it anyway and snickers victoriously and mutters masters degree in counting Will's freckles under his breath intentionally loudly enough that Nico can hear it. Nico reminds himself to kill him at a later date when he is not awake to complain about it. He shoves him through the infirmary doors via swift kick in the ass and takes a minute to himself just out the entryway, fanning his face and breathing deep breaths until the heat on his cheeks has faded. He shakes out his hand, pushes his shoulders back, and swaggers into the infirmary, sword at his side, doing his best to communicate to any and all onlookers that he is to be equally as revered as feared. He also makes sure his hair looks okay.
Just for -- fear factor, obviously. Very important for the Prince of Hell to look put together when he drags souls from bodies.
"Good afternoon, Gerard Way. I see you've gotten some illegal maiming in this fine afternoon."
"Seemed like the day for it," Nico agrees. "And how are you, Kayla?"
She sighs. "I hate being stand-in head medic. Will should go on strike."
Nico frowns.
"He's not -- here?"
Now for someone with a reputation as a rule-following goody-two-shoes, Will plays a whole lot of hooky. He's good at it, too. The dryads are on his side.
But never in the summer.
"He's not feeling well," Kayla says shortly. She grabs a stitching kit and nudges Cecil onto a cot with her disgusting, duct-taped Converse, ignoring his whining about manhandling and doesn't she have any respect for her elders. She rips off his mangled sleeve without so much as an eyetwitch and gets right into it, unflinching at the mess of muscle and flesh. Nico and his suddenly queasy stomach face the wall.
"I thought you guys didn't get sick."
"Will does," Cecil says between wincing. "And not just the headaches." He stares at his own gaping flesh wound with interest, because he's a weirdo. "He got chicken pox, once, when we were kids. That's why people call him Spots, although it's been so long some people think it's the freckles."
"...Oh."
"Anyways, it's good that he's not working." Kayla threads the last stitch and pats blindly around with bloody hands until Nico pities her and hands her scissors. "He's been in here too much lately and it's good to see him sleeping."
"Aw, that's sweet."
"Cecil, you ever wonder why you get stabbed so often?"
"Never crossed my mind, no."
"Interesting, that."
To save his dumbass friend from another maiming, and not at all because he is disappointed by the Will-less infirmary, Nico walks over and grips the fool from the back of his shirt, pulling him to the door and away from Kayla’s twitching eye. (Head medic truly is a job for children of Apollo who did not inherit his impatience.)
"Well," he says, and nothing else. Kayla raises a knowing eyebrow. "Bye."
"Don't bother him," she calls, as they make an exit at normal speed. "I am not as nice as he is! Medical malpractice is my favorite hobby!"
Nico smacks Cecil in the side of his head before he and his big mouth get any ideas.
It does not deter the commentary. Nico vows, by the third mention of the Solace Syllabus, to be present and prejudiced at his judgment day.
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