[The thing about being from the thirties and then ending up at a camp for demigods without any parents present is, cameras aren't really a thing. It doesn't bother him most of the time. He doesn't need baby pictures of himself or images of his time at the casino. But it also means he doesn't have any pictures of Bianca. None to remember her by, none of them together. No lens caught the way she'd look at him, tired, exasperated, and endlessly fond.
Nico's eyes drink in the image and he feels a familiar prickle in his eyes at the same time his throat starts to ache. He blinks rapidly, unwilling to close his eyes and look away and fighting through the emotions that threaten to take him down and hold him under.
Eventually he remembers that Mal asked him a question and he bobs his head in a weak nod, eyes glued to the sketch.]
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Nico's eyes drink in the image and he feels a familiar prickle in his eyes at the same time his throat starts to ache. He blinks rapidly, unwilling to close his eyes and look away and fighting through the emotions that threaten to take him down and hold him under.
Eventually he remembers that Mal asked him a question and he bobs his head in a weak nod, eyes glued to the sketch.]
Y-yeah. No. It's right. [Then quietly.] She's perfect.