Disclaimer: I don't own Trials of Apollo
TOApril day sixteen: "Laughing To Keep Me Sane"
It's either laugh or cry.
Will's heard that saying a lot. If I don't laugh I'll cry. He never used to really care – Lee, Michael, none of his older siblings or even the other campers ever judged him for crying. Even Ares kids cried sometimes, although he's been sworn to secrecy after that time he found Clarisse in tears and probably would've been beaten into a pulp if she didn't owe him for fixing her arm the previous day. Crying was natural, crying was nothing to be ashamed of.
Even now, Will doesn't think crying is something to be ashamed about. He's one of the older siblings, one of the senior campers now, promising the younger kids that it's okay to cry here, that yes their lives have been upturned and it's all scary and that crying is good, if that's the way they find it easiest to express themselves. He wishes he could still cry, too. Wishes he was one of those younger kids again, with an older camper's arm around his shoulders promising him that it's okay if he's not okay.
The thing is, Will can't afford to cry any more. He's not been allowed to cry since the water washed Michael straight off that bridge and seniority fell to him. He knows he wouldn't be judged for it, knows the other campers would understand and comfort him like he comforts them, but he can't.
Because he's the big brother. Because he's everyone's rock. Because he's the one his siblings take their cues from, one way or another. As long as he isn't crying, as long as he's smiling, maybe even laughing, things are repairable. Will can fix it. Those intestines hanging outside your body? Don't worry, Will can put it all back the way it was and you won't even notice the difference once he's done. That leg halfway across the field from the rest of you? Don't worry, Will can reattach it and it'll be good as new before you know it.
Your godly father just passed out in camp as a dying mortal? Don't worry, Will can save his life and somehow find a way to make this all okay again.
Except he doesn't have a clue how to. He nearly messes up and makes it worse, but no-one else was around to see so it didn't happen. Couldn't have happened. He pulls Apollo back from the brink, heals the body he's in at the moment, the fragile, mortal thing that could so easily fall into pieces again at a moments' notice because mortal bodies are breakable like that. He waits for him to wake up, periodically poking his head outside the cabin to promise the gawking masses that Apollo's going to make a complete – mortal – recovery, and he smiles.
He laughs.
Well this is a bit of a pickle, isn't it? Well don't worry, I'm sure it'll be reversable. It's not the first time this is happened and we still have a dad, so don't worry about it.
He laughs because he has to see the funny side of it. There isn't one, but he makes one up because there has to be one.
It's funny that Apollo didn't learn his lesson after the last two times.
It's funny to hear about a god who just doesn't know how mortals live and says silly things like "pay me tribute".
It's funny that he's wearing a band tee that parodies what's happened to him.
It's not terrifying that Apollo's on his third strike and the saying goes three strikes and you're out.
It's not terrifying that Apollo's so weak that regular mortal thugs can take him down in a fight.
It's not terrifying to remember that Icarus died when he fell.
It's funny, it's not terrifying, because he has to smile. Has to laugh. Has to be the pillar of strength when the whole camp is uncertain and he's the god's eldest child. He's the one that can feel how close Apollo was to death when he collapsed, he's the one that had to pull him back from the brink and definitely didn't almost push him over the edge instead.
If Will falters, if Will cries, if Will isn't strong, then the whole camp will fall apart. It's not just Austin and Kayla looking to him for reassurance, it's everyone, because if this can happen to Apollo it can happen to any god and they're all terrified of what a mortal god means.
And it's not just the campers.
One of the first rules of being a healer is a good bedside manner. It's not worrying patients unnecessarily, it's not scaring them, not making things worse than they already are. That doesn't mean lying – lies do more damage than truth, because the truth will always out in the end, and there's something both poetic and apt about the god of healing also being the god of truth – but it means being calm, it means presenting an aura that everything is under control even though Will's rarely felt this out of control in his life.
Apollo's a mess. Physically he might be recovering, although it's slow when all Will dares to risk are mortal remedies after the disaster of the nectar, but mentally he's a mess and it shows from the moment he regains consciousness.
Will can't break down on his father because his father's the one that needs to break down. His father's the one that needs reassuring, so Will keeps up the façade, keeps trying to find the lighter moments, twist the truth around on its axis until it's funny even though it's terrifying. He admits it when Apollo asks, because the truth is better than a lie, from a healer's mouth, but he keeps the calmness on his face, in his voice.
He thinks Apollo understands when he says he has to stay strong for the others. Surely his father must understand that, being the god of healing, being a god in general. Gods can't be weak, even less than head counsellors can be weak and cry.
It doesn't make it easier. In fact, it makes it harder, because when he lets someone else in, just a fraction, just enough that they might be able to see behind the façade he's built out of necessity, the temptation is there to let them all the way in, to break and be weak the way he so desperately wants to. But he can't. He has to help Apollo to his feet, run the gauntlet of the gaping crowds outside even if Austin and Kayla have shooed them away from the entrance to the cabin, and keep pretending that everything's going to be fine.
Chiron's struggling to put a positive spin on things, too. Apollo's struggling and can't even hide it. Mr D. isn't even here. Will's not just the head counsellor of cabin seven, Apollo's eldest child, the head healer, he's the most senior camper full stop now that Annabeth and Clarisse have moved out to college. He's been in camp eight years, he's seen wars and despair and lived through it all. If this is what breaks him, there will be no comfort for the camp.
It's up to him to stay strong.
It's up to him to keep everything, everyone together when Austin and Kayla get added to the list of missing campers and Apollo's panicking so much he's forgotten what a healer's priority has to be. It's up to him to remind the god of healing how to heal, and he has to laugh at that irony because if he starts crying he'll never stop. He has no siblings to be strong for, now, but he has a father who needs him more than ever, who's lost all shreds of common sense – if gods even have any, but that thought's blasphemous and Will shunts it away before one of them suspects him of thinking it – and is going to get himself killed if someone doesn't stop him.
It's a relief when Meg steps in, because Will's not sure how he could stop Apollo, mortal or not. Even now he doesn't have the clout to order the god around, even if Apollo followed his lead with the injuries, with keeping Paolo alive while Will does what Will does best and puts broken bodies back together again.
Broken bodies are so much easier to fix than broken spirits.
He knows everyone's watching him, waiting for the moment everything reaches the point of no return and he breaks, because when he breaks, they're allowed to, too. When he breaks, it's irreparable and panic can rampage, unchecked, through the camp. He's lost the last of his siblings, to an unknown fate that could be death or could be, well. None of the others have come back and Cecil's been gone far too long. His father is this mortal mess of a being, and Will's the last bastion of the god Apollo.
He's terrified. He is. He wonders if he made a mistake admitting that to Apollo, because now it's even more tempting to scream it to the void, even harder to keep the healer's reassuring smile on his face, but he doesn't have a choice.
Nico can see through the façade. He knows Nico does; it's in the press of his shoulder at dinner, in the hand that squeezes his under the table, the worried dark mahogany eyes that watch him as he smiles and laughs and refuses to break just yet.
Yet, because he knows he will. He knows he can't keep this façade up forever, can't keep it up much longer. The clock is ticking.
He prays something will go right, soon. Something to give him actual strength, and not just the flimsy excuses he's grasping at like brittle straws to keep his head above water just a little longer.
He's terrified it won't happen.
I keep returning to Apollo's first time at CHB as a mortal because there's so much potential in and around those scenes, especially when I want to wreck Will.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari