March 12th.
The date had started like any other at Camp Half-Blood—bright morning sun spilling over the strawberry fields, the clang of swords from the arena, laughter drifting from the dining pavilion. Nothing about it looked heavy.
But Will noticed the absence.
Nico hadn’t shown up for breakfast.
That alone wasn’t unusual. Nico skipped meals sometimes, especially if he’d been up late shadow-traveling or reading in the quiet dark of his cabin. But he hadn’t appeared at sword practice either. Or by the lake. Or anywhere.
By noon, a quiet tension had settled in Will’s chest.
“Have you seen Nico?” he asked Lou Ellen near the Hecate cabin.
She shook her head. “Not today.”
Will tried Hazel next. Then Jason. Even Percy. Nothing.
And that’s when it clicked.
March 12th.
Will froze mid-step, memory snapping into place. Nico had mentioned it once, quietly, almost offhand. My mom’s birthday is in March. No details. No elaboration. Just that.
Maria di Angelo had been gone for decades—long before Nico even fully understood what death meant. But that didn’t make it lighter.
It meant it was heavier.
Will exhaled slowly.
Okay. Don’t panic. Just… show up.
He detoured toward the pavilion instead of the Hades cabin.
“Hey,” he called, sliding onto the bench beside Katie Gardner. “Weird question. Do you know how to make Bucatini con pesto e pomodori freschi?”
Katie blinked. “The what now?”
“Pasta,” Will clarified quickly. “Italian. Long noodles. Pesto. Fresh tomatoes.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
Will offered a small shrug. “Because someone important to me probably needs it today.”
That was enough.
Within half an hour, Will had assembled ingredients from various campers—fresh basil from the Demeter cabin’s garden, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, even a block of parmesan someone had been hoarding. He found a cookbook tucked away in the Big House’s kitchen with an old handwritten recipe taped inside.
He read it twice.
Then he started cooking.
The kitchen filled with the sharp, bright scent of basil and garlic crushed together. Tomatoes sizzled lightly in olive oil. The bucatini softened in boiling water, steam rising in gentle curls. Will moved carefully, focused—not with the frantic precision of the infirmary, but with something steadier. Intentional.
He tasted the sauce.
Adjusted it.
Tasted again.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Not terrible.”
When the pasta was done, he plated it neatly, sprinkling parmesan over the top and adding a small sprig of basil because—well. Why not.
Then he headed toward Cabin Thirteen.
The Hades cabin always felt cooler than the rest of camp, shadows lingering even in daylight. Will balanced the plate carefully in one hand and knocked softly before pushing the door open.
“Nico?” he called gently.
No response.
He stepped inside.
The cabin was dim, curtains half-drawn. The air smelled faintly of old paper and something colder, like stone after rain. Nico sat cross-legged on his bed, dressed entirely in black as usual, hair falling around his shoulders. A thick scrapbook rested in his lap—its edges worn, pages yellowed with time.
He was flipping through it slowly.
There were black-and-white photographs tucked into the pages. A woman with dark hair and soft eyes. A little boy in short pants, smiling shyly. Italian handwriting looping along the margins.
Nico’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced one picture.
He didn’t look up when Will entered.
He didn’t even seem to breathe.
Will set the plate down quietly on Nico’s desk and crossed the room with careful steps. When he reached the bed, he sat down beside him.
Up close, he could see it—the redness around Nico’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw.
“Nico,” Will said softly.
Nico startled, snapping the scrapbook halfway closed. His head turned quickly, like he’d been caught doing something forbidden.
“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I know.”
Silence settled between them for a moment.
Will reached for the plate and held it out gently. “I made you something. Bucatini con pesto e pomodori freschi,” Will said, shyly.