I'm a Healer, But The Only Cure For This Shadow Plague Is My Boyfriend's Darkness

The afternoon sun was warm on Will’s skin, a pleasant weight that seemed to bake the tension from his shoulders. He was propped against the thick trunk of a pine tree at the edge of the canoe lake, and Nico was settled between his legs, his back resting against Will’s chest. Nico’s black t-shirt was thin, and Will could feel the sharp line of his spine, the subtle coolness of his skin even in the summer heat. Will threaded his fingers through Nico’s, his thumb stroking the pale back of his hand.

“It’s good to see you out here,” Will murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Nico’s ear. “Getting some sun.”

Nico tilted his head back, his dark eyes squinting up at him. “You dragged me out here, Solace. Don’t take credit for my Vitamin D intake.” The words were dry, but there was no bite to them. He shifted, settling more fully against Will’s body. The quiet acceptance was more telling than any affectionate phrase.

“You still look tired,” Will said, his voice soft. He couldn’t help it; the healer in him was always cataloging, always assessing. The shadows under Nico’s eyes were a permanent fixture, a constant, faint reminder of the horrors he’d endured. “Are you sleeping?”

“I’m fine, Will.” Nico turned his head, capturing Will’s mouth in a soft kiss that cut off any further protest. It was a simple press of lips, but it was enough. Will responded instantly, deepening the kiss, his other hand coming up to cup Nico’s jaw. He felt Nico’s breath hitch as he traced the sharp angle of his jawline, his thumb stroking the smooth skin there. Nico’s lips parted, and Will’s tongue met his, a slow, searching exploration that tasted of faint sweetness from the strawberries they’d shared earlier.

Will’s hand slid from Nico’s jaw, down the column of his throat, and slipped beneath the collar of his shirt. Nico’s skin was cool and smooth against his palm. He splayed his fingers across Nico’s collarbone, feeling the faint, rapid beat of his pulse. A low sound vibrated in Nico’s chest, and he arched into the touch, his own hand tightening its grip on Will’s. Will pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along his neck, feeling Nico shiver against him. He wanted more, wanted to peel the black shirt away and warm every inch of him, to chase away the last of the Underworld’s chill with his own body heat. He felt the familiar pull in his groin, a tightening that was both need and a fierce, protective desire.

A sudden, sharp shout from the direction of the training arena shattered the moment.

It wasn’t the usual battle cry or triumphant yell. This was a cry of alarm. Will and Nico broke apart, their heads snapping toward the sound. Another shout followed, laced with panic. They could see a crowd of campers gathering near the sword-fighting dummies.

Will was on his feet in an instant, his healer instincts overriding everything else. “Stay here,” he told Nico, but he knew it was a pointless command. He was already sprinting toward the commotion, Nico a dark shadow right at his heels.

They pushed through the circle of anxious demigods. On the ground lay Sherman Yang, one of the toughest sons of Ares. He wasn’t wounded; there was no blood. But his normally ruddy skin was a ghastly, waxy white, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, stuttering gasps.

“Give him space!” Will commanded, dropping to his knees beside the boy. He placed his hands on Sherman’s chest, closed his eyes, and began to hum, letting the ancient Greek hymn of healing flow from him. A soft, golden light emanated from his palms, the familiar power of his father, Apollo. But something was wrong. The light didn’t sink in. It seemed to slide right off Sherman’s skin, offering no purchase, no warmth, no healing. Will’s hymn faltered, his eyes flying open in disbelief as the boy’s breathing grew even fainter.

The infirmary was a blur of frantic, controlled motion. Will had Sherman Yang hooked up to an IV drip of nectar, a solution so potent it should have shocked a mortal heart into exploding. It did nothing. The son of Ares remained pale and still, his breathing a shallow whisper against the sterile white sheets. Will had tried every diagnostic spell he knew, his hands glowing with a desperate golden light that only flickered and died against Sherman’s skin. He’d fed him a paste of crushed ambrosia and unicorn horn, a remedy that could knit bones and purge the deadliest poisons. Nothing.

“Get me another vial of my father’s essence,” Will snapped at Kayla, who was hovering anxiously by the supply cabinet. His voice was tight, stripped of its usual warmth. He ran a hand through his sun-streaked hair, his fingers trembling with frustration. He was the head counselor of the Apollo cabin. Healing was what he did. It was who he was. And he was failing.

Nico stood in the doorway, a silent sentinel wrapped in shadows. The bustling activity of the infirmary felt a world away. He wasn't looking at the medical equipment or Will’s frantic efforts. He was looking at the air around Sherman Yang. To everyone else, it was just space. To Nico, it was a vortex of cold. A profound, soul-deep emptiness radiated from the boy on the cot, a chilling void that felt horribly, viscerally familiar. It was the same draining sensation he’d felt every second he was in the pit. It was the feeling of his life force, his very essence, being leeched away into an endless, hungry darkness. His own hands grew cold, and he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans, a reflexive gesture to hide their trembling.

Will let out a low curse as his latest attempt, a direct infusion of his own healing energy, was met with the same inert resistance. He backed away from the cot, his face pale with exhaustion and a dawning, terrifying helplessness. He looked utterly spent, the golden boy’s light dimmed by a profound sense of failure.

This was it. Nico stepped out of the doorway, his boots making no sound on the tiled floor. He moved to Will’s side, his presence a stark contrast to the bright, sterile room. He waited until Will finally turned, his blue eyes clouded with defeat.

“Will,” Nico’s voice was low, barely a whisper, but it cut through the tense quiet that had fallen around them. Will just looked at him, too tired to even ask.

“It’s not a sickness,” Nico said, his gaze fixed on Sherman. He could feel the cold seeping into his own bones just from proximity. “It’s not his body that’s failing.” He finally met Will’s eyes, his own dark gaze intense with a certainty that chilled Will more than his failure had. “Something is attached to him. To his soul. It’s feeding on him. I can feel it.”

Will’s theory was proven horribly correct before the sun had even fully set. A scream from the Demeter cabin sent a fresh wave of panic through the camp. It was Katie Gardner. The symptoms were identical. She lay in her bunk, pale and still, her breath a faint flutter, as if a cold wind was slowly extinguishing the flame of her life. The infirmary was now a place of hushed fear, with two beds occupied by campers who were fading away for no discernible reason.

Will stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring at the two still forms, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. The usual hum of healing energy that surrounded him was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that mirrored the one he felt radiating from his patients.

Nico touched his elbow. “Will. Let’s go.”

Will didn’t move. “I can’t leave them.”

“You’re no good to them like this,” Nico said, his voice firm but quiet. He tugged gently. “My cabin. Now.”

This time, Will followed, allowing Nico to lead him out of the brightly lit infirmary and into the growing twilight. The shadows of the Hades cabin wrapped around them like a cool blanket as Nico shut the heavy oak door, silencing the distant, anxious murmurs of the camp. The air inside was still and cold, smelling of stone and pomegranate.

The moment the door clicked shut, Will’s composure shattered. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He started pacing the length of the small room, his movements jerky and agitated. “My healing, my songs… it’s all useless. They’re dying, Nico. And I’m just standing there watching.” He slammed his fist into his own palm, a sharp, frustrated sound in the silence. “I’m supposed to save them. It’s the one thing I’m supposed to be able to do, and I’m failing.”

Nico watched him for a moment before stepping directly into his path, forcing him to stop. He didn’t say anything. He just reached out and took Will’s face in his hands, his cool palms a stark contrast to Will’s feverish skin. Will’s frantic blue eyes met Nico’s steady dark ones.

“Stop,” Nico said softly.

Will’s breath shuddered out of him, and he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as if Nico’s hands were the only solid things in a crumbling world. Nico’s thumbs stroked over his cheekbones, a slow, deliberate motion meant to soothe. Then, he pulled Will forward, closing the small space between them and pressing his lips to Will’s.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a firm, grounding pressure. Will responded with a raw desperation, his arms wrapping around Nico’s waist and pulling him tight against his body. He kissed back with a fierce, almost painful need, his mouth opening, his tongue seeking Nico’s in a frantic search for an anchor. He could feel the hard length of his erection pressing against Nico’s stomach, a purely physical reaction to the overwhelming flood of fear and adrenaline. He needed this. He needed the friction, the heat, the undeniable proof that they were both still alive.

Nico’s hands slid from Will’s face, down his neck, to the front of his camp shirt. His fingers worked the buttons free with a practiced calm, pushing the fabric aside. Will gasped as Nico’s cool palms spread across his bare chest, the sensation shocking him out of his spiraling thoughts. Nico’s thumbs brushed over his nipples, and Will’s whole body tensed, a tremor running through him. Nico held him tighter, his mouth never leaving Will’s, swallowing the broken sounds that escaped his throat. He shifted his hips slightly, a silent acknowledgment of Will’s arousal, a pressure that was not a promise of release but of presence. Of solidarity.

He finally pulled back, resting his forehead against Will’s. They were both breathing heavily, their chests pressed together.

“You are not failing,” Nico said, his voice low and absolute. “And you are not alone in this.” He laced his fingers with Will’s, his grip strong and sure. “We will figure this out. Together.”