Before I begin this tale, I would like to tell you that I am a firm supporter of the LGBTQ community. I'm also a member of it. Derogatory terms and symbols are used in this fic for authenticity. Do not take dialogue and thoughts from characters in my stories and say that they are mine. J.K Rowling did not want to live forever like Voldemort, and Kurt Vonnegut did not think a picture of a woman and a pony doing the nasty was great like Roland Weary. Or at least, I don't think he did. I don't know. Unfortunately, he's dead, so I can't ask him. R.I.P Kurt Vonnegut; you were my second favorite cynic. So it goes.

This dedication is split into three.

Firstly, the entire LGBTQ community, whether you're out of the closet or not. Stay strong; we can pull through this prejudice. I love you guys so much.

Secondly, to the chick in a sepulchre. I loved you first. You didn't love me back. That's okay. Kind of.

On that grim note, this story is dedicated to you, dear reader, as cliche as that sounds.

Okay. Enough chit-chat. Let's get down to biz-ness.

Chapter One:

It was like some heavenly strobe rave.

Nico di Angelo sat on the side of a grassy incline that sloped gently down to the Long Island coastline, with his jacket hood up. It blocked out some of the noise issuing from the fireworks above, which, ever since his imprisonment by the maniac, whiz-bang loving twin Titans, made him jump and/or flinch. In addition, certain people wouldn't be able to recognize him with his hood up.

Nico didn't really have any particular good idea why he decided to come back to Camp on the fourth—he speculated that spending it in his dark, shitty apartment would be lonelier than spending it in a demigod-filled camp. But after shadow traveling to a spot directly behind Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase, he decided there wasn't a more isolated place on Earth.

Percy Jackson—Nico always tricked himself when it came to him. First, trusting him, then crushing on him, then falling head-over-heels for him, then believing he was over the son of a bitch, and then repeating the whole cycle until he wanted to take his sword to his chest and end it. However, he doubted the Underworld would be any better than life on Earth. In fact, he knew it would be worse. He had nightmares about it every night. So the cycle continued. Over and over and over and over. Big wheel in the sky keeps on turning…

There was no big wheel in the sky tonight (that is to say, it was a new moon)—starlight mingled with the light cast from explosives, and every time some rocket made pretty lights, every time the crowd of demigods oohed and aahed, Nico could see Percy's arm around Annabeth's slim waist. And, if he was lucky, he might even see the son of a bitch kiss her on the forehead!

Nico hated the both of them.

The worst part was that this time, he couldn't run away. He was completely drained from shadow-traveling (Sicily to Washington to New York); all he could do was stare in stupor at his skull ring that reflected the explosions in the sky, or stare at Annabeth's shiny blonde hair that curled down both her and her boyfriend's backs, which reflected the lights just as well.

He had the urge to yank out all of her stupid girl hair, and push her in the lake, and slap Percy, and kiss him. All at the same time. He doubted he had enough arms to do that.

Worth a try, he thought. He could feel his muscles tense up, ready to rise, when he decided that it really wasn't. He'd rather be known as a creepy son of Hades than a creepy, faggot son of Hades. He'd seen what some of the homophobic campers could do. It was better to be respected, even feared, than to be mocked and ridiculed. Besides, Percy was straighter than his sword, be it in pen or weapon form. Nico didn't think he could live being turned down by the son of Poseidon.

Arms weren't the problem. Nico lacked nerve.

"Got a light?"

In an instant, Nico thought of titans and giants and giant, pulsing hearts, and he jumped, accidentally smacking something hard with his right hand.

He heard a groan and a thump. "What the shit…"

He turned to where the voice had issued. A guy was clutching his face and rolling around on the damp, moonlit grass.

Nico cursed. "Holy Hades, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

A pair of bright blue eyes peered at him from between cracks in the boy's fingers. "Man, what you got against fire? All I wanted was a match or something." His voice was muffled.

"Well, you kind of, um, scared me, so…" Nico twisted his skull ring around his finger.

The boy sat up and removed his hands from his face slowly, looking at them critically; he touched his nostrils, and then glanced at his fingers again. His eyes met Nico's.

"Tell me the truth," he said slowly. "Am I bleeding?"

Nico blinked. "Uh, no."

The boy touched his nose and looked for evidence of blood again, then shrugged and leaned back on his hands. He cocked his head lazily. Nico disliked him instantly.

"So who're you?"

The son of Hades decided he didn't need to answer that question, so he went back to staring at the back of Percy's head whose shoulders shook from laughter. Annabeth had just given him a sassy remark, or told him a joke, or something.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a side of the guy's mouth turn up in a cocky smile reminiscent of the man Nico hated and adored. "Okay… can I borrow a lighter?"

Nico said nothing. The boy laughed.

"Dude, I'm not gonna sue you for accidentally smacking me in the face. I just need a smoke."

Annabeth's head dropped onto Percy's shoulder, and Nico looked away at the smoker. He certainly looked like one—he wore dark, ragged jeans with holes in the knees and the slightest smirk—like he smiled so much that, even with his mouth relaxed, the corners of his mouth were always upturned.

Nico scowled. "Fine," He reached into the pocket of his black jacket and tossed a red BIC lighter to the kid. Nico didn't smoke, but while traveling, he discovered it was handy to have a lighter along. Better than making fires with a magnifying glass, at least.

"Thanks!" The boy dug into the pocket of his own tattered sweatshirt and brought out a squashed packet of cigarettes. He tapped it against his wrist and selected two, unbent sticks. He held one out.

Nico just looked at his tanned face. "I don't smoke."

"Me either. But I got the cigs and you got the lighter." He raised his eyebrows, like, come on.

"I don't—"

"Look, kid." The boy scratched the hair under his black beanie. Nico wondered why he was wearing a hat in July. "I'm trying to be nice, because you have the bitch-face on and you look like you're absolutely gaspin'. Take it."

Bitch-face? Nico gave him a scathing glare. He hoped it would somehow light every "cig" in the asshole's pockets, and his eyebrows, on fire, but the boy just smiled vaguely.

Nico palmed the cigarette, and the boy's grin widened. "Attaboy."

The son of Hades watched him light up with mild interest. The boy clicked on the lighter and held the white end to the flame, took a drag, and exhaled. The wispy gray smoke floated up to the sky, where it mixed with gunpowder, soot, and stardust.

The boy closed his eyes and sighed again, even though the smoke had long since exited his lungs; it was swirling with celestial and manmade dust. "Dmitri Auerbach."

"Nico di Angelo."

"Pleased to meet you, obvious Italian."

Nico frowned. "The same to you, obvious Russian."

Dmitri chuckled. "Touché. Here—" and he flicked on the lighter and moved it towards Nico's cigarette.

Nico stuck the cigarette in his mouth, supporting it with his fingers—that's how you're supposed to smoke, right? —and the boy held Nico's flame up to the white end. He smelled burning paper, tobacco, and carcinogens. This is so bad for me. You know what, fuck it, and he took a drag.

His next thought was oh fuck fuck this augh as he coughed and hacked, trying to expel the foul gray fog from his lungs. Dmitri laughed, but not derisively.

"I guess you weren't kidding when you said you didn't smoke."

"No, I damn well wasn't," Nico wheezed. Dmitri slapped his back, and Nico heaved one last time. The static cloud of smoke floated up, joining Dmitri's fog as well as the gunpowder, the soot, and the stardust.

Nico made to stamp out his cigarette, but the boy said, "No, no, no, keep at it. Smoke keeps away mosquitoes. I mean," (as a few gnats buzzed by his face threateningly), "I think so."

He swatted away the gnats. Nico took another drag and hacked out more smoke. It made his eyes water, but the bugs did seem to clear out a bit. When Nico regained control of his lungs, he watched his companion smoke. The thin white wand stuck out of his mouth in a weirdly poetic way as he nodded towards Percy and Annabeth. "Either way, it probably keeps away those assholes whom you've been giving the stinkeye."

"He's not an asshole," Nico muttered, reluctantly putting the cancer stick in his mouth again.

"He?" Dmitri raised his dark eyebrows again. "What about her?"

Nico shrugged.

"Hmm." The boy tapped his cigarette against his dusty high-tops, and the ashes floated to the ground like snowflakes. "What's your parentage?"

"What's yours?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you second." Nico responded fiercely. Gods, he hated being a child of Hades. Why couldn't he be spawned of a normal god, like Apollo, or Hermes, or Poseidon—actually, not Poseidon. Nope.

"What—" Dmitri closed his eyes and shook his head. "Demeter."

Nico's stomach dropped. "Um…"

"Oh, gods, tell me you aren't Aphrodite. I cannot stand those pricks." He took another drag.

"Hades."

"Huh?"

"I said Hades."

His companion blew smoke rings expertly before giving the verdict. "'Kay."

Nico wasn't sure he heard him right. "I said Hades," he repeated.

"Yeah, yeah, gotcha." The boy flicked Nico's thigh. Nico shifted. Ever since Tartarus, well… he hated being touched. "Now I know where to find your cabin if I get locked out. Thanks."

"Why are you talking to me?" The question sounded much harsher when it hung in the smoky night air.

Dmitri glanced at him nonchalantly, although Nico knew he wounded him.

"I didn't mean—"

Dmitri smiled sadly. "You looked pissed and sad and melancholy and frustrated and altogether D-I-S-M-A-L. I couldn't stand a chance." Nico wasn't quite sure if the boy was making an attempt to flirt, so he disguised his confusion by tapping his, uh, cig against his sneakers, as Dmitri had done. The boy continued. "Why? D'you want me to leave?"

Nico wasn't quite sure how to answer that. Dmitri was annoying, but he was intriguing, and distracting.

"Our parents hate each other," he worded carefully.

"So?"

Nico wasn't quite sure how to answer that, either.

Dmitri nudged Nico's limp hand back towards his mouth. Nico sucked on his cigarette again and coughed thrice. Dmitri blew out a thin stream of smoke before speaking:

"So your dad raped and married my half-sister. Not cool, as I'm sure you know. But, hey, I don't judge people by who their parents are, because they don't always turn out the same. I mean, look at me." Nico did, taking in his sprawling, admittedly impressive figure, tan skin, and dark hair. "My dad's a redneck Confederate and I'm a good-for-nothing faggot living in New York with a bunch of half-breeds. Dude. Me and Pop have zilch in common. I wouldn't like it if people judged me by my related-ness to that rat bastard." He flicked the ashes from his cigarette again. Nico stopped disliking him.

"I've stopped disliking you," he announced, surprising no one except himself.

"That's great. I enjoy not being disliked. I got kicked out when I was twelve," Dmitri added blandly,

"Monsters?" Nico inquired.

"Nope."

"Ciga—" Nico stopped. "Cigs?"

"Nah, son. My dad had been smoking since he was outta third grade. Didn't I just say I'm a faggot?" Dmitri seemed to note Nico's bemused expression and waved his cigarette expansively. "I preferred Barbies and chasing boys to tractors and camo. I'm hella homo, and my old dad didn't like that."

"Oh." Nico was at a slight loss for words. "Damn."

"Yeah. It was rough, for a while. But Mom's alright with it."

He pronounced "alright" like "aight", and Nico made a mental note to never pronounce that word like he did.

"How did you come—" Dmitri gestured toward Nico's cigarette. Nico raised it to his lips, gazing down at Percy and Annabeth. He imagined the smoke he blew out was absorbing all his memories and emotions and pulling them up to the sky to mix with his smoke, Dmitri's smoke, the gunpowder, the soot, and the stardust.

He didn't cough.

He closed his eyes as the fog cleared, and, realizing his question was a stupid question to ask, asked Dmitri a different, slightly less stupid question. "Where'd you live?'

"Deep South. 'Round Georgia."

Nico nodded. "My sister, Hazel, lived in Louisiana." He neglected to mention that she lived there seventy-five years prior, died, and came back to life in the early 2010s. He also neglected to mention his fate was similar: born during the Great Depression, trapped in a hotel for about seventy years (even though it felt like only a month), then stumbled out in the 21st century. My life, he thought, is weird.

"Ew, Louisiana. Don't get me wrong," he said, registering Nico's murderous expression. "Carnival's alright." Again with the "aight". "But it's a hee-uge tourist trap. Like this ol' thing." He gesticulated toward the New York skyline, as if it was an old truck he wanted to sell.

Nico's brows furrowed. "New York is fantastic."

Dmitri shrugged. "Not enough trees."

"Dmitri, we are literally,"—this time, Nico waved his arms all about, pointing out the looming forest just behind them—"surrounded by trees."

"Oh." Dmitri took one last drag from his cigarette before grinding it against the grass with the heel of his shoe. He glanced at Nico's chest. "You're getting ash on your shirt."

And before Nico could protest, Dmitri was brushing away the little gray flakes that littered his beat up t-shirt. Nico fumbled with his cigarette, and he got an uncomfortable prickling round his neck.

"Black Sabbath," Dmitri seemed to recognize the white and purple design, whereas Nico didn't think twice about it whilst swiping it from Goodwill. "Nice."

"Can you not—" Nico brushed away the ash and Dmitri's warm fingertips off of his chest with his right hand and dropped his, uh, cig with his left. The red tip glowed against the grass. In an instant, he imagined forest fires and angry dryads. "Augh!"

His mind still muddled with thoughts of angry spirits and Dmitri touching him like no, and pulsing earth and glass jars and pomegranate seeds, he smushed the smoldering cancer stick against the grass with his bare palm, lighted end searing his hand. Nico stuffed his free fist in his mouth to keep from crying out in pain.

Dmitri's voice shook from controlled laughter. "Gods, Nico—" He hopped up, skirted around the son of Hades, and stamped on the cigarette, grinding it into the ground. Nico pressed his hand between his knees, and imagined smoke rising from his burn to join his smoke, Dmitri's smoke, the gunpowder, the soot, and stardust in the sky. Eyes streaming, he waited until the initial sting descended to a blistering throb.

"You good?" Dmitri asked from above.

He gasped. "Yup."

Nico ignored Dmitri's helping hand and pulled himself up. Dmitri raised his eyebrows once again (Gods of Olympus, Nico thought, does he have some weird condition?) but said nothing. "Well, new friend, thank you dearly for the light and the conversation. In return," he paused melodramatically. "I'd like to invite you to the annual Losers' Carnival, a.k.a Screw the President Party."

"What would that be?"

A corner of Dmitri's mouth tugged upward. "A haven for only the most refined of socialites with Olympian ancestry."

"Really?"

"Nah. We play loud music and drink cheap beer that tastes like piss. But it's a lot of fun. Maybe instead of playing with your emo jewelry and glaring at those two—" he thumbed at Percy and Annabeth, who were now laying on the ground, pointing at the stars. A lump formed in Nico's throat, and he almost forgot to be angry with Dmitri for calling his "jewelry" emo. "—you'll have a good time. Or not. Your call."

"My ring is not emo," Nico snapped.

"Are you kidding? It's got a skull on it."

"Hey, fuck you, Dmitri. It's the only goddamn gift I got from my dad." Nico grabbed his blistered hand, sat down, and resolutely stared at the ground.

"I'm sorry." Dmitri said quietly.

"Fuck you."

"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to insult your ring. Or your dad. Or anything. It was meant as a joke."

Silence.

Pause.

"Are you coming?"

"No."

Pause.

"What about now?"

"No."

Pause.

"I'm going now."

"Bye."

Dmitri didn't move his feet.

Pause.

"I am descending this grassy slope to go drink inexpensive beer that tastes of piss without you."

"Have fun."

Dmitri's sneakers remained planted in the ground.

Pause.

"You'll never get your lighter back."

"Oh my gods." Nico rose. "Fine. I'm coming."

Dmitri's face broke into a grin. "Great! This way."

He ran down the grassy slope, fireworks winking off of his blue sweatshirt. Nico shook his head and followed him. When they reached the bottom, Nico looked over his shoulder at Percy. His profile seemed all light and dark, but even from twenty feet away, Nico could see the sea-green glint of his eyes. His throat ached.

"Nico, you coming?" Dmitri shouted.

The son of Hades steeled himself and turned around. His smoking buddy smiled slightly from a rock a ways down the beach.

"Yeah, coming," yelled Nico, making sure the man he loved heard him over the din of the whiz-bangs and pretty lights and Annabeth. And he dashed toward his new friend—the first in nearly three years.