#@salvatt1

[akira-dulbar]

The life you left behind-

3/3: remember part 1 part 2 part4

Summary: You remember how you met Jason.

Warnings: Character deaths, teen pregnancies, mentions of bullying, religion, mentions of violence (mild), mentions of sex (very mild), (I don't know how to write about sex, so no.)

note: Why did she seem so desperate in the previous one in case they didn't like her? Help haha

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The first time you saw him, you were 13, and it was on television, being introduced as the new adopted son of the infamous billionaire Bruce Wayne.

You remember your first thought of him being that he seemed both uncomfortable and nervous, perhaps unused to all the attention he was receiving.

But that was it, and you didn't really think about him for much longer afterward.

-------

The second time was also on television, where he appeared in a video showing him attacking other teenagers in a somewhat brutal manner. Because of this, journalists dubbed him the black sheep of the Wayne family.

Although it later came to light that he was bullied by the other children in the video and that he grew so tired of beating them up that way. You could only imagine all the bullying he endured; after all, there are spoiled rich kids out there, so you couldn't really blame him for lashing out at them.

-------

The third time was also in another video of him hitting a journalist at a charity gala. That time, you could also understand it: journalists will do anything to get a front page.

-------

The fourth was different and took place at your school, in your classroom. Apparently, they had moved him here because of the bullying he suffered at the rich school.

Although you didn't talk to him, neither did the rest of the class, since everyone knew his reputation for hitting anyone who bothered him.

Although there were some brave ones who tried to talk to him, they were quickly chased away by him after a while.

He was an example of "a dog that barks, bites," although you thought the saying wasn't true, who knows. That was all.

--------

The fifth grade was also different. It had been about a year since he'd been in school.

He was always alone, reading a book at recess. This time it was a book that said "Little Women." He didn't seem to care about his surroundings, but you felt curious about him, you didn't know why. Maybe because all your friends couldn't be with you that day, and you felt lonely, wanting to talk to someone.

But everyone already had their groups, and he seemed to be the only one you could talk to. So without thinking much, you approached him, not knowing what to say. Although, as you had always been impulsive, you knew something would come to you when you were in front of him.

"What's your name?" You saw Jason look up from his book and look at you with confusion and disbelief, perhaps confused by the thought of someone speaking to him.

"What?…"

"What's your name?" You repeated, sure you could see the gears in his head turning.

"No… do you know who I am?" He seemed puzzled. It made sense; everyone knew who he was and his reputation.

"I know who you are… I just want you to tell me who you are," you were trying not to laugh when his face scrunched up in confusion.

"Do you want me to tell you who I am… Even though you already know who I am?"

You just asked, nodding.

"Is this a joke?" He was getting angry.

You denied.

"Why?" Now he was so bewildered that you could only smile and try to laugh at the face he was making, because you knew it would make him angry.

"I want to meet you… But not because of television or the rumors about you," you paused to see him remain silent and continued.

"But because you tell me who you are." You finished speaking. You saw how speechless and bewildered he was, so you decided to let him process the information.

.

..

...

Okay, enough processing.

You waved your hand in his face, noticing that he was startled, and you were slightly startled, taking a step back.

"Sorry!… I…" You composed yourself and looked at him, his head down, perhaps trying to decide what to say.

Suddenly, he stood up from his seat and took a step toward you, holding your hand. "I'm Jason…"

You could only smile.

You told him your name.

"Nice to meet you, Jason," shaking his hand, seeing him smile back.

"A pleasure," you felt him squeeze your hand.

That was the fifth time you saw him and the first time you met Jason.

--------

From then on, things went downhill. You talked all the time about everything and nothing, you ate together at every break, he recommended books he'd read, and even though you didn't really like reading, you made the effort for him and read them, and you ended up liking many of them.

The book you liked the most was "Little Women," which was also the book Jason had the day you met. When he discovered you liked it, Jason always carried it with him when he met you to read it to you. Although you could already say you both knew it by heart, you decided not to tell him because you thought the effort he made for you was really sweet.

Although everyone was fine with each other, not many liked their closeness. Your friends quickly tried to get you to stop talking to Jason or hanging out with him, telling you about the rumors that were spreading about him and how dangerous he was, and how they didn't understand why Bruce Wayne was still with him. This comment made you angry and you stopped talking to them for two weeks.

You were able to understand them to a certain extent; Jason didn't have the best reputation, and they wanted to protect you, but that still wasn't the way to treat someone.

And although they apologized to you, you decided not to talk about Jason to your friends, and vice versa. After all, neither side liked each other. Jason didn't feel comfortable around your friends, and your friends were afraid of Jason, so you decided it was okay if you didn't hang out.

That's why, when you and Jason started dating half a year later, it wasn't to everyone's liking, and that was okay. You knew that sometimes people have to hate other people to feel good about their own lives.

The people at school just glanced at them as they passed by, the teachers only seemed bewildered, and your friends just told you to be careful because with Jason, anything was possible. You think they just said that and nothing more because they were tired of trying to convince you otherwise.

Even so, it wasn't something they shouted from the rooftops, and they hadn't even met their respective parents yet; they wanted to take it slow but steady.

-------

It was a new year for everyone, and it was already starting off with some stumbling blocks. Jason seemed to be angry with his father. He didn't say why, which wasn't unusual. He never spoke about what bothered him about his father. But from what you could understand, they disagreed on some things, causing Jason to be grumpy most of the time.

And you, well… you were just a little depressed. Your aunt, who was your best friend, had been sick for months, getting worse every day, and the doctors still didn't know what was wrong with her and she was hospitalized for investigation.

But other than that, everything else was fine, sort of. Some of your friends started talking bad about Jason again after seeing him almost constantly with that "if he sees me, he'll punch you" look on his face. Although Jason didn't really do anything to anyone; he was just quiet and glared. That only caused the rumors to spread even more. Even some of your own friends started making some. And since they were friends of the girlfriend, those rumors were believed more, which was driving you crazy.

You tried not to let it bother you, and with what was happening to your aunt and Jason seeming more withdrawn, you really couldn't think of anything else.

Even studying became a real churning in your stomach, but you still tried to manage.

-------

Jason was never mean to you, although if he kept things to himself, it wasn't really a problem. He always treated you well, talking to you about his past and telling you stories about his life at the mansion, about Alfred and his father, but only certain things. He never spoke about his brother Dick, although he himself said he wasn't his brother. You didn't ask. You were an only child, so you didn't really understand what sibling interactions were like.

You were able to meet Alfred several times, when you went on outings/dates, when he came to pick Jason up or drop him off at school, and so on. He was kind to you and well-behaved, a true gentleman. In any case, you didn't know much about him either; they were just short conversations, but you knew he viewed you favorably.

Well, Jason told you that after you expressed your concern about his grandfather not liking you… and he just stood up and told him that Alfred thought you were a good girl, which made you smile and relieved you.

Even so, Jason was never mean to you. He was polite to you, treated you well, and told you many things, though maybe not everything, but it was okay. He also always told you how much he loved you. You thought it was because you never told him you loved him… that's why you tried to show him that you loved him, not only with words but also with actions.

You thought that Jason would somehow open up to you about the things he didn't say, but that wasn't the case. In fact, he became more reserved, but you didn't think much about it since you were also fighting your own demons.

------

Do you remember that day when it all began and ended?

When the doctors had said your aunt had breast cancer, and that they detected it too late, that she probably only had a few months left, you became extremely depressed. You stopped going to school for a few weeks because of the stress of the whole situation, and you really just wanted to cry.

I was hiding you in your room in your aunt's apartment, and you were locked in, devastated…

You don't really remember how much time passed, but you remember someone ringing the doorbell, and when they realized it, Jason was with you lying in bed reading "Little Women"… Well, Jason was reading, while you were just lying on his chest listening to him read aloud. For some reason, you knew he'd had a bad day too and that he needed that too.

You don't really remember how things went from reading to kissing. You don't remember what they said, but you do remember that you were both hugging and saying much-needed words of comfort, him holding you and looking at you as if it were only you and no one else. You also remember that he was gentle and warm, holding you firmly and without much hesitation, as if he was saying, "I'm here, I'm real, I won't leave you." You felt good, loved, and worry-free. Everything was warm, and you couldn't help but feel comforted.

From then on, you didn't remember anything else. Not the following days, not the weeks after. It was as if you were on autopilot. All those memories were a blur, filled with worries, missing school, arguments between his family members about your aunt's situation, Jason's anger and reserve…

------

But everything became clear a month later, as if your brain stopped going on autopilot after hearing the news you'd dreaded so much…

Your aunt died…

And everything went down the drain…

Jason stopped showing up a few days later…

A few days later, you realized you were pregnant…

It was as if you couldn't process the news… one bad piece of news would come out, and before you could even process what was happening, another would come and slap you hard…

You were terrified. You texted Jason about what was happening, your condition, and how you were feeling, but there was no response. You tried other methods, social media, email, and even sent several letters to Wayne Manor. That was the bravest thing you did because you were afraid of what the people there might think. They were rich people, after all. Who could imagine what those people thought and decide you were just a crazy fan who made things up? Even with all your efforts, there was no response. None…

And a few weeks later, she collapsed. You don't remember crying like that day. It was the first time you'd ever cried like that, and you really couldn't blame yourself. You felt stupid, tired, depressed, desolate, alone…

All she wanted was your aunt… who combed your hair while telling you stories from her youth, who gossiped about your family in the past… you wanted her comforting hugs… her warm kisses on your head, and her way of comforting you. You wanted your second mother.

And Jason… you wanted him to read to you while you lay on top of him, while he combed your hair with one arm and held the book with the other… you wanted to hear his sarcasm about his classmates and teachers again… and the stories he had about Alfred and his father…

You cried more after thinking about how much you missed them both…

"Please…" you could only sob while praying.

"Please… I'm begging you… please," you were choking on your own sobs.

"I'm begging you… Let me see one of them again."

"At least… let Jason show up… I'm begging you… please, I'm begging you…" you held your hands tightly clasped together as you said those words, looking up....

You are not religious, but in desperation everything counts.

--------

The next day, Jason Todd-Wayne's death was announced.

You cried like never before.

---------

You don't really remember what your aunt's funeral was like…

You felt empty and on automatic…

It was like everything was a lie and nothing was real…

Now at least you could think that you could attend, because you couldn't at Jason's funeral… You didn't know if Bruce Wayne knew about you and if he would let you in to see him… Probably not…

Now, you didn't know if Alfred remembered you, but whether he did or not, you really had no way of finding out.

------

A few months later, you realized you didn't know what to do with the child growing in your womb. You'd been hiding it until now, but the time for a definitive abortion was almost over, and you were running out of excuses for what was happening to you. It was all a matter of time…

It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over you, very cold water.

That day, you locked yourself in your aunt's apartment, thinking about everything and nothing, about everything that had happened to get you to where you were now.

On the one hand, you were 15 years old and still had a future ahead of you. The child growing inside you would be a huge responsibility, and when you told your parents, they would choose the most obvious option… which would be abortion…

But on the other hand, your aunt had always told you to be responsible, to take responsibility for things… but you didn't know if that also applied in this situation; you weren't sure.

When you lowered your head, you found something that surprised you…

It was the "Little Women" book…

Jason must have forgotten it later that day…

You picked it up and settled in so you could read it. When he did, tears nearly came to his eyes… On the first page of the book, it said…

"From Jason to……, we're going through some tough times. Maybe giving you this book won't magically fix the problems we're having, but I want you to have it so that every time you open it, you'll realize you're not alone in this. Maybe you'll hit rock bottom, and maybe I won't be of any help, but I'm here. I'll support you. And even though I'm a mess, sometimes I just want to tell you… I love you. I loved you, and I always will. Please don't forget that."

You could only sob as you finished reading.

--------

That day you went to your aunt's grave. After all, you didn't know where Jason's was, and you didn't want to look for it in case you raised suspicions and then someone else investigated, and you ended up on the front page of the newspaper as "A pregnant girl is in front of Jason Wayne's grave… Who could this girl be?" You really didn't feel like doing that right now.

"Forgive me, Aunt…" You saw your aunt's grave full of flowers.

"I really wasn't coming to visit you…" You placed your hand on your slightly swollen belly.

"(Well, partly yes… You'll have another niece… She's Jason's, yes, the boy I told you about.)" You just closed your eyes as he smiled.

"(The same boy you said was like an angry cat soaked in the rain…)" You stopped smiling because of what you would say next.

"(Forgive me… I wasn't a good girl for not protecting myself.)" You opened your eyes again, staring straight at the grave.

"(I know I'm just a child, but I'm stubborn… like you.)" You paused for a moment as you decided what to say next.

"(But I want to care for, love, and protect this child… My parents won't agree… But I know they won't kick me out of the house… Please forgive me, but I want this child.)" You looked at the other graves, then looked up.

"Jason… I will love this child as I loved you… he will not lack love… he will not go hungry at night, and I will hold him so he never feels cold… he will have your name, and I will tell him about you. I assure you, he will be loved." You continued, still with your hand on your belly.

"You shouldn't worry about me. I'll tell him about you too. He's in good hands." You smiled as you returned to your aunt's grave.

"You shouldn't either. I'll be fine. I love you, Aunt. Rest in peace." You walked away from your aunt's grave.

"Rest in peace, Alexandra… May God bless her in her eternal rest."

------

Months later, Peter Alexander was born …….

and secretly Peter Alexander Todd

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A few years ago, you read "Little Women" to your son, who made it his favorite book, both because of the story and because it was his father's, taking it everywhere…

Even reading it that day when an older boy stared at him from a car on the other side of the garden fence where he was reading the words his father wrote for his mother.

When he got tired of being stared at, he looked up to confront him for ruining his reading of his favorite moment, only to see the stranger drive away with a puzzled expression.

"Older kids are weird…" Peter returned his attention to his reading.

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Jason's middle name is Peter, nothing more to say.

In any case, I think some things were translated poorly. If anything, please let me know.

Of the three parts, this wasn't my favorite. I feel like I missed some things, but I'm satisfied with what I wrote.

Anyway, I don't know much English.

@salvatt1 @1abi

Will they realize that I can't label myself?

[ma1dita]

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to see the chaos through

 a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 4k summary: (established relationship) The one where he remembers he was never a good guy, just yours. Luke makes the ultimate deal with the devil in order to save you. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: im baaaack. fucking finally. editing this in the morning

—

Moisture licks at Luke’s heels as he straightens his back, stretching towards the sky in an effort to crack his sore joints. The sprinklers do nothing to ease the sizzling heat on the island and he meets your eyes across the matted rows of greenery. 

“You’re getting sunburned, idiot.”

The words fall from your lips with no malice, sweet like the strawberries you’ve been picking in the afternoon sun. Luke’s cheeks are equally red from the sweltering weather, more so now that you lean up to kiss him as you pass by, tossing strawberries into one of the crates with a gentle smile on your face. 

Tease.

You’ve got this boy wrapped around your finger, pulling him towards your direction like a lovesick cartoon character with only a simple glance. He watches you stroll away, biting his lip as his eyes trace your figure calling out, “Get back here, pretty girl...” The stupid smirk on his face is outlined with sweat and he grabs the towel from over his shoulder to wipe it away. The son of Hermes follows the sound of your laughter to the next row over, feet moving swiftly through the soft earth passing through snickering children of Demeter until he grabs you from behind and swings you into the air, spinning, spinning….

“LUKE!”

It’s the end of strawberry season, which means that all hands are on deck with picking the rest of the ripe fruit to sell for the front they keep for the mortals that wander too far down Farm Road.

It also means that it’s Luke Castellan’s 19th birthday.

A fit of uncontrollable laughter and falling into your boyfriend’s arms means you’re close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks, speckled across his skin like a map that only you know where it leads.

“You look like a strawberry,” you giggle, poking the tender skin on his face. Luke smiles hard enough for your finger to sink in, the color puckering around the apple of his cheeks, and all of him moves jubilantly as he says, “You look like the love of my life. How about that?” He’s wrapped around you like a vine, hands tracing the skin that peeks out from under your cropped tee and you laugh again—scaring a few crows and sending them scattering into the sky. Summer is your favorite time of year for reasons like this—the days are long and you don’t hate passing time when it means there are more moments for Luke to press his lips against your neck and you swear his smile is seared into your being. Days like this make everything else fade into the background.

A berry hits the side of Luke’s head with a proper thunk and you hear someone retch dramatically.

“Hey dude, the rest of us are miserable here, okay? Get a room and stop macking on my sister.” Castor rolls his eyes, grumbling behind a squeaky wheelbarrow that keeps getting stuck in the dirt as he pushes past you. 

Can’t a guy catch a break on his birthday? 

Luke pretends to lunge towards him, tongue in cheek when he mutters, “Piss me off and I’ll make sure it’s your room.” You smack Luke’s big head, sending him into a fit of laughter as he raises his hands in defense, “What? Am I wrong?” He’s stepping around you now, grabbing the crate of strawberries from your feet so you don’t have to carry it yourself.

“Dummy. You think Delphi Strawberry Service will be able to sell all of these?” you say mockingly, changing the subject as your cheeks warm. Sweat sticks to you like a second skin, but it doesn’t stop you from grabbing Luke’s free hand, swinging it in the space between your hips as you walk towards the exit. 

Luke scoffs, “You mean do you think your dad will keep us working until July? Don’t doubt that at all…”

“THIRTY MINUTES LEFT BEFORE SUNDOWN, EVERYONE!” you call out to a chorus of cheers. Everyone was ready to get the day over with, hands blistered and knees sore from crouching into the bushes—everyone, except Luke, who’d do anything but go down for sleep tonight. He wasn’t even supposed to be on berry duty today, but what else is a guy supposed to do on his big day when he can’t even spend it with you? 

This must be the gods’ idea of fun—ordering their spawn around to do the dirty work for them. Delphi Strawberry Service in itself is a scam; so many gods have kids that they don’t want to provide for, and so Camp Half-Blood earns its keep, working hard to make sure there’s enough money for supplies to help stay afloat. New linens, clothes for those that need them, repairs to the infrastructure—all the things children shouldn’t be worrying about in a so-called safe haven. 

The gods aren’t very generous with their gifts as legends make it seem, hiding behind fables and fiction, peace offerings, and material throwaways once a year if they’re lucky to get a happy birthday. Or in Luke’s case—even less than that. His dad hasn’t made himself known since his quest, and therefore today is just another day. 

Your hand squeezes Luke’s three times to get his attention, “You okay, babe?”

He readjusts the wooden crate he’s been balancing on his shoulder, not realizing that you’ve already reached the dirt path that leads back to the heart of camp, “Mm. Just thinking—hey, where did you want this again?”

“S’not what I asked…” you drone with an upturned quirk of the lip, poking his nose playfully as a strawberry grows from your fingertips. Luke pops it in his mouth with an almost cartoon-like SLURP! making you recoil as your face scrunches up, “Angel…”

“You know, the ones you make are better than anything nature can make right?”

Pulling your finger back from his lips, you give him a skeptical sidelong glance, “Demeter willing. You know you don’t have to flatter me anymore— I’m already your girlfriend.” He sets the crate down on a nearby cart, tugging you closer with the hand tangled to yours, “I know. But I like how shy you get when I do,” he smirks.

“Hey,” you chuckle, grabbing his chin, “I kinda really love you, if that wasn’t obvious enough.” Luke’s hands pull you in by the belt loops of your shorts, thumbs rubbing at your hips and the full-blown smile that takes over his face looks like sunlight parting through clouds on a summer day. You’ve noticed he looks surprised every time you say it as if he’s hearing it for the first time each time—like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe you.

“Couldn’t tell,” he jokes, kissing you anyway. It’s maddening—the feeling of his lips catching onto yours like he’s holding onto every part of you and breathing life into it. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and you smile in response, letting him in and opening up for him to uncover whatever he wants. Your lip tugs on his bottom one as you pull away just to find him pouting ever so slightly at the disconnect, “Hey…”

“Happy birthday, Lu,” you grin, pulling the towel from his shoulder to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His curls are damp against his skin and he swipes the towel from your hands to swat you with it, “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told me that today. What I do want though, is more kisses…” he mumbles, hiding the flush of his cheeks. He doesn’t need a big celebration, or any token of appreciation from his dad—he already has what he needs. 

“Or all of you, if you’re feeling generous.”

You stare at him and bite your lip, looking over his shoulder to see the sun slowly dipping past the horizon and maybe there’s enough time… When your eyes lock again, the both of you are wearing wicked grins—he swings your full weight over his shoulder and you shriek in surprise, laughing the whole way back to your cabin.

—-

You’re fast asleep under the floral bedspread with a belly full of cake and exhausted from your own little celebration and Luke can’t find it in him to join you. 

Not yet, he’d rather stay up a while longer—-watching you breathe softly in tune with his heartbeat brings more comfort than anything else he’ll have to do. Luke knows he’s safer here, awake and sitting next to you. He watches over you like this most nights now, until his eyes feel heavy and sour with exhaustion until there’s no choice but to close his eyes. Straightening his back and lowering his legs from the top of the desk, it’s as if he’s a soldier standing guard. Perhaps he is in a way, though he’s coming to learn that he cannot protect you from himself.

Luke inspects you from the mess of hair that drapes across the pillow, to how delicate you look when there are no stress lines on your forehead. Sitting under the faint glow of the lamp, his eyes flicker from your sleeping figure to the blank pages in front of him as he hunches over the small space he’s carved out for himself in your room. The clock’s red glow reaches his fingers as he reaches for a pen on the corner of the desk. He needs a break.

12:14am.

It’s not his birthday anymore and Hermes couldn’t bother to even send a card this time. Luke wonders what about him repels his father—is it the fact he looks exactly like his mother? Or is it the fact that everything else about Luke is all him? His perfect son, the ultimate reminder of what could’ve been with May Castellan.

What does it mean to be made in the gods’ favor?

A classic hero’s tale, a life measured by the list of his accomplishments instead of being seen as what he was at the beginning of this—a child who wanted to be loved.

Luke knows what it’s like to be loved now—everything he knows about love is from learning to love you, which isn’t a lot, but he’s trying. His resolve is as steady as the hand that holds his pen now as he clicks it methodically. Maybe if his parents weren’t dysfunctional, maybe if he knew how to do this better—to exist better and make them proud, maybe his life would’ve had a different outcome. 

Maybe his only option wouldn’t have to be to kneel to a titan.

But would he still have you?

Luke purses his lips and flattens his palm against the paper, a crisp sound in the silence of your room sounding like a thunderclap as he thinks of what to write. This doesn’t even matter, in the grand scheme of things. The collection of scribbles collect dust in a box under his bed and there are no imminent plans to post mail to his hometown of Westport, but there is a type of gratification that comes with being able to put down the thoughts he cannot say aloud. He’s never been too good with words. In another life, maybe his mother would be able to listen—to advise, sympathize, and do as mothers do. 

But for now, this will have to do. 

He even finds himself writing down everything he can’t tell you.

Luke’s lost count of the times he’s cried himself to sleep in reverent prayer, the hunger pains from throwing his meals into the hearth—anything to apologize to his father and ask for it all back. Even now as he tries to find the words, he doesn’t know what this is. 

A confession? 

An apology? 

An explanation, perhaps—if everything gets fucked and goes to hell as most of his plans do, he wants someone, anyone to know the truth. Luke’s odds are slim and he’s used to getting by with the skin of his teeth. But he wants more now—and if Luke Castellan is anything, he’s determined.

You shift in your dream state, turning over in bed to face him and Luke smiles softly as he watches you. These past few months have felt like gasping for air from the moment he wakes to the moment he gives into the nightmares. They come as easy as breathing, whispers in his head pressing for him to make a move—to prepare for an inevitable war that will start and end with him. Being asleep feels like freefalling and he can only anticipate when he’s about to crash. This has to work. 

You have been nothing but kind to him, through the shuddery breaths in the middle of the night and cranky fits in the mornings. You are resilience personified; Luke is so sure of it—but the thing is, it makes him angry. Love is not written in the stars, he thinks, and if he has to weave the cosmos by hand to work in your favor, he’ll find a way. Luke knows that above all, he does not want to lose your love. 

Sleep pricks at the corners of his vision now, threatening to loosen the pen in his grip. He sniffs, adjusting his weight on the chair, and glances your way again, and then back at the paper on the desk, beginning to write.

Mama,

As I’m writing this letter, I fear that I’ve put the final nail in my coffin. It doesn’t feel that way right now—as I watch my girl snore softly against her pillow and the moon kisses her cheek in a way that I know I won’t be able to for much longer. I’m taking these last few quiet moments to admire and be grateful for what I have before I earn it back. 

A temporary loss will be worth forever with my soulmate. 

From the little I know about life and the amount of time I know I’ll spend loving her, I’m learning that soulmates are people who need all that you are and all that you already have in life. This trouble is proof enough. Everyone here at camp rarely sees one of us without the other, and Chris said that he wouldn’t be surprised if we came from the same star. But I think she’s vastly different than me and better for it. She is a different breed—something only an author can even begin to describe and much less be able for any regular person to comprehend. 

She exudes love for her family, friends, and even strangers. I often wonder what I ever did in a past life to deserve the experience, but if that was ever in my control, I must have done something right.

So this will have to be my last letter for now.

I have a lot of work to do to become the man she deserves. The glory is within reach—and with her by my side, I want to have it all.

Who else could help me best the gods better than a titan? 

I’m afraid there’s not much more for me to tell you—whatever comes after this, I hope she can tell you herself. I hope you find each other, and be proud of the things I’ll do to create the change we want to see in this world. I know the both of you love stories—I’ll need my best girls to take care of one another while I’m gone.

I’m scared out of my wits, Mama, but I don’t blame you for any of this. I know now that you’ve always seen this coming. 

Your son is destined for greatness. 

I never got to say this before I left, but I’m proud to be yours. The legacy I leave will show all of them how much I love both of you.

Even if you both end up hating me for it. 

I already do.

Luke

—

He stirs at the sound of you tiptoeing around your room, rubbing his eyes to see you throwing your clothes on. You’re a blur in the early light that peeks through the curtains, almost obscured by the shadows and catch your hip on the bedpost as you tug a boot on, “Fuck!”

“Baby?” he murmurs. His voice is thickly coated with sleep and crackles like fire, “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you, angelface,” you whisper, kissing his forehead lightly when you lean over his crumpled frame to grab your watch from the nightstand, “go back to sleep”. Luke chases after another kiss, leaning up like how sunflowers stretch towards the light—his thumb presses your chin down to let your lips linger against his.

“Still early, T.”

He watches you from his spot on the bed as you make your way to the door, glancing at the mirror, “Something’s wrong, Luke. There was an accident in the forge last night,” you pause, looking at him through the reflection, “someone’s dead.”The curtains push open with a screech, and Luke sits up abruptly.

“Who?”

Sniffing, you turn around to meet his eyes, “Someone from 9—I don’t know. I need to talk to my dad and sort it out.” Luke calmly pulls himself out from under your duvet, tugging his shorts back on in silence. 

“Where do you need me?”

Your eyes travel around the room like ricocheting ping-pong balls, stepping forward to gently ease him back onto the mattress, “I need you,” you muse softly, “to go back to sleep. What time did you get to bed last night?” Squeezing his shoulders, Luke looks at you with a sidelong glance, resting his cheek against your wrist, “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do. I worry about you all the time.”

“Well, that’s my job—the worrying,” he swallows, stamping his lips against your pulse point, “I want to be there.” Luke tugs you closer, letting you melt onto him with a sigh and you whisper, “Don’t think we’re done with this conversation, Castellan.” Tugging at his scalp to meet him eye to eye—he swears you might be able to see right through his facade. 

“Castellan. Must be a serious conversation then,” he murmurs, wiping the sheen of drool off the side of your lip. Scoffing, you stand back up and toss a fresh shirt at him, “You can’t run from me forever. I mean it. Get to the forge and make sure the surrounding area is barred off. No one’s been in there yet, the nymph that walked in got spooked and ran off. I need to wake up Charlie and get him to the Big House before everyone else wakes up.”

The orange fabric glides over his head onto his shoulders and he momentarily loses sight of you. You’re in the doorway now, blowing him a kiss, “See you in an hour, tops. And then we’ll talk about what’s been keeping you up at night.”

“I don’t know why you keep asking me that when the answer is always you!” Luke chuckles, taking the easy way out of the situation at hand.

“Not all the time. Surely, you’ll tell me her name later?” you chide as you make your exit. He laughs to himself. 

If only you knew. 

—

Luke takes his time getting ready for the day, thinking of last night. He had been promised the world and more, but only had one negotiation. 

He asked Kronos for you to not get hurt. 

Luke felt like a fool—to humbly ask a titan to not kill his girlfriend so that he could be the soldier that was needed of him. And he was presented two options: to have you join them, or to have you be cast away.

“She has control over insanity, you say?” Kronos’ voice rumbled through the dark hall. It was their established meeting point in Luke’s mind, somewhere where he could keep the titan separate from his thoughts of you.

“She’s not part of this, sir. I said that already,” Luke grits, steeling his resolve.

“And why not? She’s the bastard spawn of a lunatic. Either we make use of her, or you leave. There are no distractions that will interfere with this plan, Luke. I won’t allow it.”

He clenches his jaw, “She’s…” he swallows, “too weak. She has a family, and people she cares about–it won’t be easy for her to turn. No one’s hurt her yet.” Luke thinks about your tumultuous relationship with Mr. D—and how at the core of it, tough love is still love.

He can’t say the same about himself with his father.

“Yet.”

The silence hangs between him and Kronos, and Luke slowly nods. No one will hurt you like he will, he knows this. He also knows that no one can love you like he does now. Two things can be true at the same time, even if they both hurt.

“The more you have the more you desire, Luke,” the titan rumbles, “it’s best to cut your ties before we’re in the thick of it.”

“I will, when the time comes,” Luke says solemnly, knowing what he has to do.

When he finally treks toward the armory that morning, the air around him is almost revitalizing, crisp, and cool with goosebumps cascading across his arms. The main door creaks open with a tired whine as he moves swiftly towards the scene of the crime. It reeks of blood now, pungent and metallic—Luke is careful to mind his step as he reaches what he came for.

Stepping over the body, he averts his eyes toward the gleaming sword in the child’s grasp.

Backbiter.

It’s heavier than he thought it would be, carrying the means to an end of everything both mortal and immortal. Celestial bronze and tempered steel feel delightful in his hands once he rips it out of the pale hand of its creator. There’s a sense of power that reverberates through the air as his new weapon takes its position, slotted against his hip. 

Time is in Luke’s hands now, to manipulate and play with—for once, he’s in control of his fate. No deadbeat god of luck required. Brown eyes flicker to the stone floor, kicking the skinny arm of the slain Hephaestus kid aside. Mary, he thinks her name was— a tiny little thing who didn’t speak much. It was easy to dote on her with his charming smile and concerned counselor act that he throws on for the younger ones. She was like putty in his hands, pliable and willing to impress THE camp hero. The thought almost makes him laugh. 

So he does.

“Sorry,” Luke mutters, void of feeling anything. It’s too late to feel bad now—though he can technically rewind through time if he wanted to, it wouldn’t be for her. Luke’s meddling with enough as it is—he decides he’ll do something fun instead. 

He deserves this really, choosing something for himself.

But the choice is still you. Luke thinks about where he wants to go first—to seal the deal with Kronos by seeing a future you, happy in the world he created. The veins in his arms flex as he slashes through the air with his new gift, a smile cutting through the jagged scar on his cheek.

As the wind whips through his hair and everything goes dark, he realizes that there’s a part of him that gets it now—why Hermes likes to travel through time so much. Time is elastic when it’s not linear, he feels himself floating between seconds, hurtling towards you, and feeling like he’s in a tube on a lazy river.

When he opens his eyes, he sees you standing in front of a mirror across the room—knowing now that this will be his biggest break yet.

—

“You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.”  -Victor Hugo

[ma1dita]

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as above, so below

 a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 10.4k. wow. summary: (post-TLT) The one where you plead your case with the gods of Olympus. (The one thing the fates didn't expect was how much you'd both be like your fathers; in a way, you and Luke didn't see it coming either) a/n: depictions of overdose/suicidal ideation, grief and then a bittersweet ending. this is the final chapter of partners in crime, and a love letter to everyone who’s made it this far—for all the wonderful comments and rbs! i hope this ending and this story serves as a reminder to all to support writers and their work!!! also a love letter to myself?? and the immense growth i’ve experienced creatively and in my life in the past year and some change of writing this story, it was truly a transformative time. thank you.  to end, i hope you all get the love that you deserve.

— 

—KATABASIS—

Is love in this world a gift or a curse?

Watching your campers file into the Hall of Gods felt like being stuck in a perpetual state of unease. Or maybe how you imagine it would feel to drive in the wrong direction on the Long Island Expressway during rush hour. It felt like staring into an oncoming car crash with your shoulders stiff, bracing for impact as you waited for something to just hit and hurt. 

What else is there to do after a war is won but revel in how it hurts? 

The campers look at you as they pass you on the stairs—a ghost of yourself after the deed was done, and it was almost as if Luke took whatever little life there was in you with him to the underworld. Like moths hovering toward light, the crowd starts to grow, waiting for someone to have the answers on what to do next as the Olympian Council prepares to convene.  

Instead, you mentally do a headcount each time another one of the kids makes an appearance through the marble foyer; you wonder about a lot of things now that you find yourself with the time to think. You haven’t spoken in the hours since Luke died and your heart falls further with every covered stretcher the satyrs carry in.

“Hey.”

Flinching, you soften slightly when you realize it’s Annabeth grabbing you by the crook of your arm, “Let’s go wash up.” It’s not a suggestion. She leads you to a secluded part of the hall and there’s a basin filled with warm water and soap waiting for the both of you. There’s no use in tidying up the mess, you think—we just won a war! But the daughter of Athena tuts and sits you down how you imagine your mother used to when you’d come in from the backyard covered in mud. The pearlescent pool in front of you is instantly sullied as your fingers descend into the bowl—scarlet running down from your elbows, stuck to your skin, and coming off in plumes that drop into the water like miniature explosions. You hadn’t realized there was so much blood—so much of him still left on you.

“Where’s…” You say hoarsely, jerking your hands upward so that the dirty water splashes onto your knees, and Annie clasps your forearms firmly until you stop twitching—sitting still like this suddenly feels like burning coals under your feet.

“Your phone’s in your pocket. We can get it after.” “It’s dead. Uh…I need to charge it, before the Mist lifts.” The thought of calling your boyfriend comes and goes quickly like a balloon in the wind—your mind is filling up the spaces of grief with other things to worry about like Dex, who’ll be driving home soon with breakfast and waiting patiently for your return to the apartment you share. Thinking about what you’ll say to him is better than having to sit with the truth. 

The younger girl is now watching you with half-lidded eyes, scrubbing at your arms delicately with a sponge and trying to not think about how all of the crust and blood that covers you used to be her brother’s. This was blood that pumped through his arteries and through his lungs that produced oxygen, straight back into his stubborn heart that beats no more. Annabeth glances through her lashes at the stoic look on your face—she’s not sure yours is working either, and well, there is nothing more that Annabeth Chase hates than not knowing what to do next.

“Help me help you. Where do we go from here?” she mumbles, but it barely reaches your ears. Any thought you might’ve had is washed away with what was left of him; blankly, you’re staring at your red-hued reflection within the porcelain bowl.

“I don’t know.”

There is nothing left but time now that the war is over—and it buries you, so far into the earth that maybe if you try to sink far enough you’d see where they’ll put his body to rest. A sickening realization hits you like a freight train: your relationship—all of it—exists only in dreams now, memories, the spaces between thoughts, the seconds before someone remembers the reality of how the world almost ended because of a love that you’ll now have to live without.

How, after everything, is this the end?

You knew this was coming, you try to remind yourself. Losing him was years in the making—you’ve been mourning Luke Castellan for almost as long as he let you love him. No one knows when the end is until it’s happened. Or for you—for as long as it takes for you to admit it. It was the end when he left you to wake up alone on his last day of camp. 

Maybe even earlier than that—but now you’ll never know. 

Looking back, all the time spent with and without him was just you trying to keep going as if he hadn’t already signed a death sentence. The lines have always been a bit blurred for you when Luke was part of the conversation. Endlessly toeing the line between your love for your home and your love for him, you couldn’t help but indulge in the hitch in your breath that filled with Luke’s name whenever he would pop into your life. Even when the rest of the world found reasons to hate him, you could not bear to. 

Would it have made a difference if you fought back against him? Not Kronos, him—the boy that didn’t include you in the decisions he made for you, now sauntering towards Elysium leaving you to deal with the rest. Does doing nothing make you worse than his father? Would the results of the war changed if you turned him in? If you found a way to resist the hold he’s always had on you, would Luke still be alive?

Everything after feels like it’s going in a blur—endless questions swirling through your head that make your knees buckle from the vertigo. The gods can’t just expect you to go back to your nine-to-five and pretend that walking away from the wreck will mean it never happened.

“Right?” you exhale, answering your inner thoughts. Annabeth is drying your arms with a pinkened terry cloth and hums in response, before meeting your gaze over the horizon that peeks out to say hello.

The sky seems endless when you’re standing on Mount Olympus watching the gods rebuild the damage that was left behind. Everything moves in reverse—buildings rising from rubble with every floating brick, pathways smoothing with the gentle touch of time, and plants rebirthed from ash. The city will always wake up to move towards tomorrow, but for you, there’ll be no proof that your world ended while everyone else gets to keep theirs. 

Time is being undone before your own eyes, and you suppose you have the rest of your life to fix it—whatever that means now.

“Was any of it real?”

The Olympians will be summoning you any minute now. Percy shuffles over from his spot against the wall where he is watching you both, stoic as a statue—everyone’s made their way inside and the three of you are the last to enter. 

“Doesn’t really feel real,” the son of Poseidon mutters, mindlessly playing with a tendril of Annie’s hair—she lets him with no complaints. The weight of the world hasn’t been lifted from their shoulders like they were once promised. No one wants to celebrate when you’ve lost your friends—your family in the process.

Apollo stretches his arms and pulls a blanket of dawn overhead as if a final countdown before you have to walk in as glimmers of gold spread across the sky.

“I wonder if Luke always knew this is how it was gonna end,” Percy says simply, your eyes meeting his and the boy almost sounds apologetic. Annabeth scoffs, “The jerk always was the type to pull strings.” A crescendo of trumpets and fanfare begins to shake the halls—your cue to enter. Walking slowly behind the pair, you wrestle with the tug deep within you that silently agrees with her.

Grover joins them and all together, the trio make their way to the stage. You find a spot next to your brother who notably has his arm in a misshapen cast decked out in smiley faces—Will’s doing. Your lip quivers at the sight of him.

“The hell happened to you?” you murmur. Pollux kisses your temple and slings his good arm around your shoulders, voice hushed to not distract from Zeus thanking the half-bloods for their efforts of saving humankind, which is a rare occurrence as it is. You couldn’t be bothered by the grandiose display, focusing instead on the big baby next to you.

“Just a scratch,” he says cooly, and you pinch his side in annoyance—”He-OW!” Pollux shrieks, swallowing the sound when the satyrs shush him.

“What happened to you coming straight to me?”

“I’m the least of your worries,” the blond boy mutters, purple eyes meeting your own. Even if so, you disagree.

“Not true! You know that.”

Pollux takes a good look at you from the peripherals of his vision as you huff and try to pay attention to whatever’s going on up front. He wishes you could see yourself how he sees you—completely worthy of love in every capacity, even if life makes you work for it tirelessly like Sisyphus pushing a rock atop a hill. You’ve always been so close to getting what you want…but never quite reached it. He doesn’t know how you do it, but both of you being your father’s children makes him understand why you do. 

Understanding doesn’t make you hurt any less though.

“You know, no one would blame you.”

The longer you stand here feels like someone’s shoved cotton through every open crevice of your body. It scratches at your throat and dampens your ears as you turn your head to face him, eyes dragging up his face in question.

“In fact, no one would bat an eye if you left and never looked back.”

Scoffing, you turn to look at the floor and his hand feels heavier on your shoulder now like you’re carrying the weight of him too, “It sounds like you just wanna get rid of me.” Feeling like you’re constantly at a loss can radicalize anyone—you’ve never felt so close but so far from Luke than at this moment. People turn away from everything they’ve ever known for less. 

And still, you’re here. 

Still.

Pollux shrugs, wincing when his bad shoulder jerks, “Maybe. Do you still want this? Any of this?” 

He thinks of you spending the rest of your days sitting in that tiny apartment burning cookies in that cramped excuse for a kitchen, and how when he visits, he’ll have to say hello to that boring man who’ll greet him with a megawatt smile, so unknowing of the world you come from. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Your brother thinks you might be happy, if you just let yourself be.

There’s a silence that stretches between you as Grover tumbles to the ground in search of food up on stage, conveniently being caught and attended to by the prettiest naiads you’ve ever seen. You snort at the sight, but your brother’s dedicated to knowing what’s on your mind, continuing to whisper like an angel (or a devil) on your shoulder. 

The rest of this ceremonial shit doesn’t matter to him.

“Dex is not Luke.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” you say through an exhaled breath—he can tell you’re troubled by the idea of choosing to leave everything behind and start over, without them and without Luke, so he says just that—trying to feel out your brain and where it’s at. 

Your heart, however, is evading the matter.

“Now that it’s all over, you can start over again. Without us weighing you down.” 

Pollux watches you furrow your eyebrows, scrunching up your face in the way you do when you want to say no. But your expression is impassive in the next moment like a trick of the light, “I’d have to think about it. It just happened, after all.” 

Once again, Luke Castellan seems to have left you without a choice. What an asshole. 

But what do you want, anyway?

“There’s no time like now. You could if you wanted to.”

Why has every difficult decision you’ve had to make meant giving up something good? 

Shifting your weight onto your other hip, you grit, “Shit. I mean, what good is it to not have what I want?”

“Shit,” Pollux smirks with a knowing glance, “You tell me.” You grab his hand and squeeze it tightly, intertwining your fingers. No god can take away what you share with your brother. You both live this reality, after all—one where you have to go on because your other half cannot. The purpose of Pollux’s message might’ve gotten lost in translation, but the intention hit home. 

“Guess I’ve never thought of it that way.” 

Chuckling under your breath, you take a good look at everyone in this room—the roles they take, and the purpose they serve. There’s not much of a place for you here, not anymore, and Pollux thinks you know that too. You’ve done the best you could offer to the gods despite yourself and the children you’ve cared for. But he wants you to understand that you don’t need to worry about them anymore. All your dad and him do is worry about you anyway. 

“What if I never looked back?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking of the right thing to say but the truth is much simpler, “I love you. That’s a good enough reason to, right?” You’re not sure if he means him or you—but still Pollux’s figure blurs in a vignette of moisture that overcomes your vision. 

Amid your hushed conversation, the room around you has gone silent and everyone’s eyes are suddenly focused on you, making you realize you’re the last demigod to be awarded. A crowd of cheers and war-hardened hands push you onto the central platform, out of the furnace, and into the fire. The spotlight overhead shines so brightly it makes you squint, amplifying the pulsing in your temples; it makes you sick. 

This was finally it—the honor, no, the glory of being recognized by the gods for doing your part and being a great example for all demigods. For fulfilling your duty to Camp Half-Blood. For choosing to protect your home, and keeping your promises. The Olympians look down at you with carefully crafted smiles and what you hope isn’t pity.

“Your gift is a permanent job with Camp Half-Blood. Full benefits, PTO, 401k, whatever you want, I can make it happen,” Zeus says with a grin as if he’s told you that continuing on the way you have would make your greatest dreams come true—like you’d wish for nothing more. 

Swallowing as he continues to prattle on, your figure retreats in itself, hunching over as if you’re hiding something from all of them. You are—the idea that Pollux put in your head festers like an open wound the more it ruminates.

“You’d have a spot here on Olympus too if you wish—our official liaison for demigod communications, actually—goddess of demigods! If Jackson doesn’t want it, it’s yours…” he grins dryly, a beat passing as if…

And like the speed of light, your head jerks up to meet Zeus’ eye to eye, a damning thing as you register that the king of the gods does not remember your name. Almost ten whole years of running around in the same circles and keeping his world upright, and he doesn’t know who you are—just your job, and the consequences you bring.

Something cracks within your resolve then and the pressure shatters like glass into tiny, shiny fractals until what you really want reveals itself to everyone in the room—the Council, the nymphs and naiads, and all of your friends who are staring at you with bated breath, sparkling under the lights. Your chest tightens like a Titan’s fist is wrapped around it; this is what Luke wanted, not nearly anything you’d ever imagined for yourself. He wanted this so-called glory, and the longer you listen to Zeus fumble over his words, only one thing becomes apparent—you just want Luke.  What you want is to be with the love of your life again, no matter what it takes. What you really want is a gift not even the gods can provide…

Unless…

Hera clears her throat, shaking her head in disappointment and simultaneously catching the fire ignited within your eyes—Hestia sees it too, standing up from the flames of her hearth in front of the platform. The former corrects her husband with a stern brow, “...that’s her name. You should ask the woman what she wants, dear.” Zeus repeats it, throwing your name around by the syllable like it’s foreign. Percy Jackson already denied godhood in exchange for a simple promise to be kept for the unclaimed. Anything left for you to choose can’t be that bad, right?

What’s the worst thing a daughter of Dionysus can ask the Olympians for, anyway?

The king of the gods taps his finger on the armrest of his baroque throne, repeating your name this time with a stroke of seriousness.

“Well then, out with it. What do you want as your gift?”

You look down at your feet, feeling Annabeth sneak up behind you to intertwine her fingers with yours—always six steps ahead. Her support is what you need to spit the words out without it feeling like a slur, to have the audacity to want something, someone so bad that the gravity of it weighs you down and makes your knees buckle—but not a single person in that room that really knows you is surprised by what you want. 

You want him, still. 

It is so human of you to still want Luke Castellan, to want your love in physical form even after he’s gone. Maybe they should’ve waited to ask you this question or maybe they shouldn’t have asked you at all—but the time it would take to get over the man who’d thrown his destiny away to save you is immeasurable. 

Growing up, so much of the time you shared with him was spent picturing what the rest of your lives together would look like, and that idea sticks to the forefront of your mind even now—a hole that pierces through the foundation of the walls you built up to try and forget him. Maybe life with Luke and what you’d had before was the real dream instead of something you’d have the opportunity to experience—it feels so far away from the life you live with Dex, who you’ll go home to once you scrape yourself off these marble floors. Somehow, time has passed and everyone in this room—including Luke, wherever the hell is now, has gotten exactly what they wanted except for you. 

What about what you want?

“What I want…” you mutter under your breath, before raising your eyes to meet Zeus’. There is not a single ounce of doubt or fear he can detect as he stares back into your pools of amethyst, hardened by equal parts stubbornness and determination.

“To be completely honest with you, Divine Zeus—all I want is the opportunity to die.”

—

Chaos breaks like the eye of a storm as your statement echoes in the open air of the Hall of Gods. Somewhere, Percy starts to laugh at your flair for the dramatics and Chris joins him until Clarisse jabs him in the gut despite the twisted look that overcomes her face. You hear your father yell his disagreement from his throne, grapes rolling off the gilded vines that adorn it and they bounce towards your feet. The hilarity of all of it makes you smile.

It shouldn’t, of course—your dad looks like he’s about to wreak havoc on Earth itself, but he chooses his words carefully, so quietly under his breath that you almost don’t hear.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dionysus walks toward you with outstretched hands, beckoning you to him. The strain he puts in keeping his composure reopens the cut on his forehead. Golden droplets drip down past his eye like a stroke of lightning, and your eyes glaze over, lost in a memory. All of your surroundings seem to move slowly then, everyone losing their shit and he just takes a moment to appraise his little girl who in the blink of an eye, is not so little anymore. 

“Dionysus, your daughter better have a good explanation for this!” his father yells, but Mr. D pays him no mind. Hermes is the first and fastest to put your plan together, looking at you with a reverence no would expect a god to have for a mortal. Grover’s picking up the grapes to munch on while Percy pulls at his arm to back away from the center platform. Aphrodite’s swooning over the thought of your devotion, and Athena looks at you holding her daughter’s hand—the both of you strengthened by ambition instead of deterred, making her scoff in amusement. Hera is laughing at the frustration on her husband’s face as he sputters, attempting to regain control of the room. 

The sheer audacity you present yourself with is laughable even to you until you realize that this is the most yourself you've felt in a long time—here in front of the Olympian Council, with the bold request of choosing death over immortality. You were brave once—gutsy even, when you were fourteen. And this feels like that—like coming home. 

A hand clasps your other shoulder. 

Pollux. 

For a moment, you look around the room wildly until you remember Luke’s not here to see this. You hope he’d be proud.

“SILENCE!”

Your father’s voice booms overhead, calming the chaos with a snap of his fingers as everyone has the words choked out of them like a water spout gone dry. Zeus rises to the challenge then, regarding you with an odd curiosity, “You know we can’t bring that boy back. The atrocities he’s committed, the choices he made—” 

“I’m not denying any of that. I guess all I’m asking for is a chance. I’ll take any consequences that come with it.”

No matter how bloodied the path was to get there Luke has always made sure that he gets what he wants, in one way or another—at the cost of sparing no one, not even himself.

“Child, do you think this makes you a hero? Do you think you can go down in history as someone who chooses to die instead of live? Don’t you want to be something more?” His voice booms so loudly that you wince.

“I never needed to be a hero, Divine. I am loved. That is better than any glory I care to receive—I mean look around you,” you exclaim, gesturing around the room, “Your kids don’t want glory. They want love.” Breathing shakily, you look pointedly at all of the gods, emboldened by the momentum of getting it all out once and for all.

“I’m 23 years old. I’ve spent almost ten years of knowing Luke by loving him, even if five of those years were also spent missing him,” you say and your voice shakes with emotion, “To you that’s nothing, but I want that time back, even if I have to go and get it myself… That’s what I want.”

Hades speaks to you for the first time that morning, a simple question falling from his lips.

“Why would you go through all of that trouble?”

You can’t help it— you laugh in the face of the most powerful beings in the universe. For a moment it was like hearing your name in the distance but in reality... it was always the answer; your father knows from the crooked smile that grows on your face that your decision was made up from the second they walked in to watch Luke Castellan take his last breath. Then and there, you decided you would give up yours—and he hates that he understands it so deeply. He was the one who told you so long ago that love is insanity. He himself has done unimaginable things for love. So he’d be a fool to hold you back from someone you truly want.

“The only thing I am sure about myself is that I have nothing left in me but love. And that love gives me what it will take to die.”

“You followed him to Hesperides, all those years ago,” Hermes interrupts with a wistful look on his face, “Do you know what this means—you think you can cheat death?” He is, after all, the guide of all souls. It isn’t rare for someone to try to venture into the Underworld, but it is rare to come back in one piece.

“No. But I can’t not try.”

Zeus bristles once more—insulted by this tirade of human emotion.

“Dionysus, say something! You cannot allow this!”

Ares butts in, “Your ambition’s gonna be the death of you kid. I vote yes!” Zeus slams his fists against the armrests, cracking them in the process, but then Hades raises a hand, “Hold on, my domain, my rules.”

“Brother, you cannot be serious! You’re just gonna let this girl walk in there with no—”

 “We promised to grant the demigods their wishes, and if this is what she wants—well it’s her funeral,” he chuckles at the irony, “Luke Castellan is waiting for his trial at the judgment pavilion as we speak. If you make it before he crosses the threshold for rebirth—he’s yours.”

You swallow, “And the catch?”

The god of the dead quirks his lip into something that resembles a smile. He’s always liked how sharp you were, never letting anything get by you, “You must both drink from the River Lethe and the pool of Mnemosyne. No outside help, only your spirit will go down for the journey. Do that and you earn a consultation at the palace—and I’ll grant you both a single wish. Anything you want.”

“What if they don’t make it back?” Annabeth says sternly, though you know she’s looking at this from every angle—it’s better than the instinctive yes that almost escapes your mouth.

“If you fail to convince him to drink, or if you don’t fulfill our deal, you will find Asphodel to be a lovely resting place. Forever.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod. You know the odds of what you’re signing up for—but your dad’s still looking at you like you’re the last drop of whiskey. He wants to savor this for as long as he can before he has to let you go.

“I can’t… you’re my daughter. I-I can’t allow this…Hestia, is this my debt? My retribution for taking your seat?”

The aforementioned goddess chuckles softly, like sparks of cinders as she drifts over to him, unafraid of breaking any remaining protocol—all of it is thrown to the wind as she pats her nephew’s back, “Dionysus, you are still young compared to the rest of us, and yet you’ve raised her to be the woman she is today. My darling, she is your reward.”

“And you want this, princess?”

“He’s my Ariadne, dad,” you say through a shaky breath, “Let this be my quest,” you beg—you’d get on your knees if he wanted to, shovel all the pegasi shit for the next 100 years if only you had the time, “please.”

Your father nods solemnly. Fate has a way of fooling even the greatest of the gods.

“I do enjoy a good love story. I think you deserve to write your own ending, my sweet,” the goddess of love smiles lazily as she rests upon her palm. The rest of the council murmurs in approval despite Zeus’ insistence that this is not a group decision.

But this story has been told thousands of times before, spanning different millennia, different lifetimes, and different lovers. Everyone in this room has seen how it ends. You were, however, never someone who could resist a good story.

To be or not to be, right? —that is the question.

Guess you were about to find out.

—

There are a lot of ways that a person can die—but when someone makes the choice, it usually means you have the time to think about it. 

Completely serious matter, yes—irreversible? 

Questionable. Of course, you don’t have either the time or liberty to mull these things over. Luke could be a toe into the gates of Elysium by now, and the thought of missing him makes your stomach into a pit you could compare to Tartarus. 

It’s weird to say goodbye and not want to mean it. Even weirder that all of your friends couldn’t say anything other than good luck as you were ushered through Olympus and put into a room to die. Words don’t come easy when you’re unsure of the outcome and death looks different when you’re the daughter of the divine form of insanity. The flame within your soul is lit by what defines him and so it is agreed upon that it should also be the reason for your end. 

This is just a journey—Dionysus tells himself. Death is just a journey of millions of souls returning to dust, star stuff finding their way home. A journey he’s taken before, not once, but twice, and would again if you asked him. How bittersweet is it that you are exactly made in his image, and how blind was he to not realize that when you first came to camp almost a decade ago? If only he could’ve cherished that more in the early years—the stupid pranks, the incessant laughter, and the sound of your voice at nightly sing-a-longs. Your dad knows that he’d face death a million times if it meant that you didn’t have to.

You used to hate it—the similarities that stuck you two like a reflection in a mirror. The feeling of feeding off of other people’s turmoil, or how drink flows through your fingertips as soon as the thought of thirst is formed. It wasn’t comparable to wisdom or war—conjuring mayhem wasn’t cool like Percy breathing underwater, or how Lee used to pull sunlight through the clouds. 

It didn’t come easy, being your father’s daughter.

But as you lay your head onto his lap, you realize that there is no one else you’d want to be. He’s since changed back into his trademark patterned shirt—visions of palm trees and hibiscus dancing in your vision as you get comfortable in his arms, breathing steadily as he strokes your head. 

“I wish we had the time to make it home,” you whisper, “It would’ve been nice to be on the docks, listening to the water.” There’s a tentative quality to your statement, feeling out the silence that’s been enveloping the both of you since you walked out of the main hall. You’re not used to seeing your dad so serious; it’s almost jarring that he’s not being a menace or calling you batshit for your latest—and last crazy idea.

He bites though, murmuring, “That your favorite spot at Camp? Would’ve thought you’d be buried under the covers at the cabin.” Dionysus swallows hoarsely, voice faltering as he comes to think of you being buried under anything. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say through a bitten lip, “I’ve always liked Canoe Lake. Lots of good memories there.”

“What’s your favorite one? Billie Holiday at the cost of Luke’s pocket change?” your dad gruffs, “Or what about falling into the lake after that time you fought over the flag?”

Dionysus hates this—feeling powerless at the hands of mortals. Gods aren’t meant to feel this way, but out of all of them, he understands best because he knows this story. 

He was this story: a demigod boy scorned by his father who wanted nothing but to rescue his mother from hell and who willingly gave up his life for the woman he loved. If there’s one thing he still admires Luke Castellan for—it’s letting him keep you safe while he went off to wreak havoc on the world. Sure, it’s selfish, but the kid has a good heart if all it was made up of was you. The courage of stars and souls is that even time cannot stop them from finding where they are meant to be. To love someone so much that it transcends timelines and angers the gods—your father finds himself ruminating over the fact that Luke’s someone was you. 

Of course, it’s you. 

He looks down at your position as if you’ll crumble into a pillar of salt in the mere seconds it takes to blink. There’s so much hope in your eyes that it batters into his resolve as if you’ve swung into his ribcage with a sledgehammer— it tears down any doubt he might have that you will not come back safely. At least Castor would have company, he thinks morosely—Pollux is somewhere running around the compound trying to find an iPhone charger. Dionysus just wants to sit with his baby and be.

The goblet is heavy in your hands as you look at the golden liquid within. Nectar heals the body and soul, but in excessive quantities—it burns. So much so that demigods that overdose feel their sanity melt away from their brains and separate their souls from the body until there is nothing left but the memory of who they once were.

What a way to go, right?

“Is it gonna hurt?” you say suddenly, cracking your knuckles and tugging at your sweater and he knows what you mean to say is that you’re scared. This is the first time you’ll do something for yourself, by yourself, without your support system. 

“Not if I can help it,” your dad sniffs, “Hermes is gonna meet you once you cross over since it’s not my job to be down there anymore. I’m gonna be with you for as long as I can… Where the fuck is your brother?”

Laughter spills from your lips as you start to drink anyway like it’s a glass of wine after dinner—thick syrupy sweetness slides down your throat. It tastes like crisp apples and the carbonated tang of Redbull, making your eyes water from the punch that hits every one of your pores, “Don’t want him to see. I don’t…” In through your nose, out through your mouth. 

“He saw Castor when he…I don’t want him to see.”

Clutching at your father’s shirt sleeve, his hand gently tilts the goblet further toward your mouth as you take the nectar in painstaking gulps. You’re shaking now, skin hot to the touch under his fingertips as you start to gasp heavily. He models how to breathe slowly, waving away the brushfire that spreads through your veins as best as he can, “It’s gonna be okay, princess. Just breathe.” If your senses weren’t overflooded with flashing red lights, maybe you would notice that he was crying.

“Say it, dad.”

“I love you,” he chokes out then, holding onto you as your body seizes in his grasp. You’re shaking your head, exasperated that you can’t get the right words out when you need them most, “I know that. Say you…I need,” you dry heave, sweat dripping down your face and turning molten to the touch. He still doesn’t let go. 

“D-Dad, d… I need…” 

It comes out in a whimper, and he shushes you, hugging you close, “Anything for you, my heart.”

“Need you to…believe in me.” Nectar gurgles in your throat as you’re white-knuckled around the goblet, forcing yourself to get the rest of the drink down. This won’t work if your dad doesn’t believe it will. You need him out of anyone to believe in you—to believe that you can do this.

With your eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings he laughs through the tears; of course, he believes in you, he always has. The sound of his laughter hits your system like the whistle of a freight train, breaking through your ribcage and releasing the pressure as you let it all go in one deep breath. 

Despite the discomfort, you find that death does not hurt—it feels like holding your father’s hand. 

You squeeze him three times for a silent I love you because you won’t let yourself die without saying it back. Dionysus, your father in this lifetime, and hopefully all the ones that come after, leans closely toward your ear to tell you what you need to hear to get to your life’s quest that can only begin after he has to let you go.

“You are my heart’s joy—the most stubborn person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I know you can love that boy back to life.”

Death feels like an endless summer in your mind, of pine trees in the North Woods, toasty smores over a crackling fire, and sand between your toes as you run along the shoreline. As your thoughts fade to nothingness and your body is erased from the mortal realm, you think that your favorite memory of camp is floating in the bubble bath you made of Canoe Lake on a summer day nine years ago.

—ANABASIS—

When you open your eyes, all you see is bright yellow and all you can smell is leather disinfectant. You’re in the passenger seat of a taxicab, and behind the gaudy blue dice pendant that dangles on the rearview mirror is Hermes. He pulls his lips into a tired smile, scratching at his goatee as the vehicle speeds down the side of the River Styx. The windows are rolled down and the wind is blowing back against your face.

“I thought you couldn’t meddle,” you croak, dry mouth from sleeping with it open catching up to you. You snap a finger…and nothing happens. Any trace of your father stayed up in the mortal realm with him; his best friend hands you a chilled water bottle to quench your thirst. 

“Your dad said you’d be thirsty.” 

Twisting the cap open, you gulp the cool liquid down with ease as you watch the Underworld pass you through side windows. Cerberus is almost galloping playfully along the side of the car a ways back, all three heads getting smacked by its lolling tongues as he barks in greeting.

What a cutie. 

Something’s under your butt—when you dig a hand into your pocket, you find a bright red ball. You smile at the thought of Annabeth Chase placing a squeaky toy on your shroud, just in case. You don't get to bring anything in death other than what's in your heart, and pure Greek tradition, what’s placed underneath your shroud. As you toss it out the window for Cerberus to chase it into the Fields of Mourning, he barks happily, an echo of booms that follow him into the distance. Hermes takes the chance to speak, his eyes flickering to the acceptance on your face. You’re in the Underworld now, and like the EZ-Death line of souls the car passes, you take this news in stride.

“He’s already dead. You— you’re a special case. Had to do something, even if it’s too late.”

“It’s not. It can’t be,” you insist, bravely at first, until you lose your nerve by the end of it, “I…” Drumming your fingers against your lap, Hermes can’t help but snicker, “You know, you’ve always had such an innate sense of how to take care of other people, but never yourself—it reminds me of your dad.”

“How is he?”

Hermes purses his lips. That’s as much an answer as you’ll get from his best friend, so you nod, “Luke’s the opposite, I think. He always knew how to take care of himself, just…he tried his hardest with me.”

Down in the underworld, the sky takes on a tawny hue with grey clouds overhead, and there are no signs of whether it’s day or night. You wonder if you still have enough time—if he’s there at the pavilion, waiting for you. The car jets past Asphodel, and you slink back down in your seat to avoid the view when you remember Hades’ conditions. 

If Luke’s already moved on, that’s where you’ll be.

Hermes is skipping through every song that comes onto the radio—the incessant noises make you want to grind your teeth but you remind yourself he's doing you a favor, in his own way.

“He never fooled you, that kid. You knew exactly what he was and you still loved him anyway. Me and my kids aren’t exactly easy to love, aren’t we?”

You shrug. Small talk is weird—now’s not exactly the time to be close with Luke’s father, and you’re not trying to impress him or anything anymore.

“I don’t think love is easy or hard. Sometimes it just is.”

The car rolls to a stop and you push yourself up on your palms. The judgment pavilion is in the near distance and you realize you’ll have to run the rest of the way. But you don’t move, even when the taxicab is put in park.

“This is your stop,” he says slowly, flicking the button that unlocks the car doors, “I really do mean it when I say that I wish you good luck.” Your eyes soften at that, and when you swallow, you recognize the weight of your two necklaces resting against your collarbone. He can tell you’re scared, but there’s no time to feel anything if you want to catch him. 

Take that quite literally—there’s no time here in the underworld. Hermes says your name gently, and you look at him. If Luke were here, you think he’d be braver than you—running out to fight the unknown if it meant he could take you home. But your hand is frozen on the handle and your legs feel like they’re cemented to the ground.

“After he… He was worried about you.”

“What? Really?” 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face the god, hesitation making way for shock. Hermes blinks. He technically shouldn’t say more, but there’s nothing left to lose.

”He was worried about what you’d do if he wasn’t there when you woke up. Luke asked if I was sure you’d be able to find him.”

“And what did you say?”

With a subtle move of his fingers, your car door pushes open, and you step out onto the dusty gravel. His father salutes you with two fingers, “Told him you were coming for him.”

“I am,” you chuckle, slamming the door shut and beginning to run. Worry wracks your entire essence—if it’s even possible for a spirit to feel this intensely it might not be normal, but nothing about you is, even here.

“Hey!” Hermes calls out, his upper half hanging out the car window, “If…When you find him, do you think I’d get another chance?”

You turn unsteadily on your feet, looking at him with the roguishness he knew his son fell for, throwing your hands up in the air, “If this somehow works out, I think anything’s possible don’t you?”

Clouds of dust prickle at your ankles as you race back toward everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

Stuck somewhere in the in-between, you trudge toward the entrance of the judgment pavilion—a large titanium structure that stretches towards the heavens quite ominously. The closer you get to it the more your feet feel like sinking into quicksand, your paces getting slower and your legs moving like molasses, but you aren’t lost. It seems to somehow be getting farther the more you run, but maybe your stepmother’s blessing still reaches you down here in the dim wasteland she was doomed to—until Dionysus himself, your father, came down to search every corner of the Underworld and brought her back to life. He’s in there. He has to be.

You can do it, you mumble to yourself. 

You can do this too.

Or maybe the gods are laughing at the mortal woman who was too much like her father, laughing at how stubborn you are trying to save a paradox of a man who almost brought down Olympus. Unlike your father though, there is less bloodshed in your quest to find him, less anger at the gods for having to forsake glory for love. 

But you were never a fighter anyway, not in the traditional sense. The Battle of Manhattan was one you fought in and despite the winning outcome, it felt like anything but. The biggest battle you’d won was hoping he’d still be yours until the very end. Until his very last breath, and then some—if you’re as lucky as his father tells you. 

You almost trip over the stoop, flailing underneath the archway as if someone pushed you straight in front of the lone spirit who’s working on fixing the bulletin board. Catching your breath, you wheeze, “Excuse me, sir—have you seen a boy….uh, or a man? Not sure how time works here…I’m under direct orders from Hades hi—”

“It doesn’t.”

“Hm,” you attempt to sound thoughtful, but the non-answer of the wispy shade that peels letters off the bulletin board painstakingly slowly does not help ease your stress.

“Well, whatever he looks like now, he should have a scar running down the right side of his face…Um…he should at least,” you hesitate. And it hits you just now that you gave your life up not knowing what comes next. Without a semblance of a plan you ran to the underworld fueled by pure spite. Your eyes travel to the board the figure in front of you is still working tirelessly on, letter by letter. The metal clinks as it falls into the bucket.

NOW SERVING:

LUKE CASTE–

Wait a fucking second. Maybe the gods had the right to laugh at you. You push forward, almost ramming the specter into the wall behind him, for a moment you thought you’d run straight through but then your fists are grabbing his shirt, “Where is he?” The bucket falls to the floor with a heavy clang as his eyes widen.

“WHERE IS HE?”

The translucent man shrugs under your rough grasp with no sense of urgency, “He’s on a journey. Aren’t we all?”

Gods have mercy, you’ve never wanted to beat a stranger’s face in so badly—you drop him in exasperation and he crumbles to the floor, “Tell me his sentence. Now.”

“Boy said he was taking the long way home. Skipped the trial completely. Didn’t want Elysium, but he had to go through it to find rebirth. Northeast from h—” 

You don’t need to hear anything else. You’re running away, hands and feet almost flying the faster you go around the perimeter of the building in hopes that you’ll still catch a glimpse of this stupid, stubborn man who does anything for you but never with you. 

Maybe he’s still yours, even here, even now.

There’s a river you have to cross that intersects the courtyard behind the judgment pavilion. It flows towards Elysium with clear crystalline water going upstream and as your eyes follow it, you think you see him in the distance. 

You know it’s him. You could recognize that back anywhere—having spent so many years staring at it as he continued to walk away. As your mouth falls agape, you’re at a loss for words. It can’t be that easy to defy the gods and get what you want, finally, finally—-but the longer you watch him walk towards Elysium with a skip in his step, you falter. 

What makes dragging him out of here any different than what he did to you? 

You’re rooted to the ground then, taking deep breaths as you think of what to do next. Back then, Luke was always the blind devotee, hands and knees bruised from prayer, until the truth was the only sound that echoes back. You never understood it—another wayward child forced to bend under the gods’ will. No one should make a religion out of someone, but as you watch him smile in the fields of death itself…he is your answered prayer.

Seeing that he’s okay is enough—that he hadn’t been damned to Tartarus sets you at ease, worry leaving your body on the exhale of breath that you let go. If you turn around now, well, maybe an eternity in Asphodel would be alright too. You could pick a good spot on the outskirts. Forever might be nice if it means you’d get to look at the gates of Elysium itself for all of it, branches reaching for him until the end of time. 

But Luke hasn’t seen you yet. Does he feel you reaching for him? The twisted coil of fate that yearns for him, the sting in the back of your throat in the form of his name, wanting to bridge the gap from the short distance that separates you. Between life and death, somehow the short traverse of barren land feels to stretch much further than that. 

You turn slowly and walk away, muddied boots grating against the dust with every atom of your spirit resistant as if it fights the magnetic pull it was meant for. He doesn’t even have to know. Meeting him again means you run the risk of losing him again. You’re not quite sure you have it in you; so you walk away this time. This time, you won’t have to watch.

But then you hear him call out to you.

“Hey! It’s you!”

Faster now, faster. 

Your legs move unsteady and your clenched fists propel you forward. Maybe they’ll let you skip the EZ line and get this all over with—Asphodel is the only place you can be with all of this regret. 

But fuck, he’s persistent, even in death. Before you know it—he’s caught up to you, the sound of splashing water making you jerk back towards him in alarm, “Luke! You can’t do that!” He’s grabbed onto your shoulders and the simple touch makes you gasp. Bone-chilling fear wracks through your body as your eyes drink him in, watching the moisture darken his Converse, all the way up to the knees of his cargo pants. He blinks as if his mind is a rewinding cassette and you wonder if the River Lethe has a stronger hold on him now than you ever had.

“Who?”

And out of everything he’s told you in your lifetime to hurt you—that one word is what breaks you the most.

His eyes swiftly move over your face, dark brown and soft like that of a lifetime ago; one of bruised knees, hushed lullabies, and kisses that taste like strawberries. But there’s not a single ounce of recognition in his stare and you wonder if you’re close enough to launch yourself into Tartarus. Maybe you’re already there— he’s standing here in front of you a little lighter, and a lot unknowing. 

“Am I Luke?” he whispers with a playful tone like it’s a secret you share even if there’s no one else around you for miles. He looks at you again, slowly this time—eyes pouring over you, in case your figure is an illusion or a great temptation such as sweet pomegranate seeds before spring. Luke’s eyebrows furrow like he’s trying hard to remember something; it stabs at your heart like he did his.

“Forget it.”  

‘Wait, don’t go,” he starts, sounding bashful as one of his hands tugs at the sleeve of your sweater, the other curled around the nape of his neck, “I uh…the judges made me drink before I left the pavilion. I didn’t even stand a chance. Sorry to disappoint.” He chuckles, and it's a wispy sound that tickles your insides; you find your lips turning up at the sound. Luke, or whoever he is now, finds himself in awe at the sight, muttering under his breath, “I think I’ve dreamt of you before.”

For someone whose mind was washed by the River Lethe, Luke Castellan stares into your soul as he tries to get a glimpse of why you’re so familiar. Looking at you feels like the moments of a dream before he wakes up—a sliver of memory just as Morpheus pulls the rug out from under him. He’s seen your face before and he knows this, somehow.

“I just… I don’t even know why I ran over here, probably looked stupid jumping into the riverbed.. but uh…” he chuckles, biting his lip before blowing a raspberry. His mind is working faster than his mouth, “I just…wow. You’re beautiful.”

Luke’s still holding onto the threads of your sweater even as you try to put distance between you. He holds onto you like a kid catches fireflies, gentle and secure with no space between his fingertips, in case you fly away. 

“I’m no one. Just forget this happened, will you?” Recoiling in what he hopes is not disgust, you turn your cheek, “Have a good life.” Wherever he is on his journey, Luke finds that there are things he knows and things he does not. He knows that he’s a human who died pretty young, someone with a jagged scar that runs down his face, and that his socks are uncomfortably wet inside of his Converse right now. What he doesn’t know is why his plans have suddenly changed, and why every wisp of his incorporeal being does not want to leave you alone. There is something he still has to do.

“Hold on, pretty girl!” Luke says incredulously, “You want me to just…look away now that I’ve seen you? I’m sorry, but no can do.” He holds onto your arm how two people share a lifeline —-it almost makes you want to sock him in the face if you weren’t on the brink of tears.

“And why the fuck not? I’ve got things to do.”

The foul language doesn’t deter him one bit; in fact, it makes him like you even more, “Things to do? Here? Maybe there is no rest for the dead.” You’ve ripped yourself out of his grasp and he dramatically puts a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him, but by now, you’re stomping away, “You’re funny.”

And he follows you. 

“Am I?”

“No,” you scoff, stopping in your tracks and not turning around. For a reason unbeknownst to him, Luke wants you to, badly. Kicking at a rock, you sniff, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

You’re walking along the river in the same direction you came from and he’s stuck to you like a shadow. You move right, and so does he. You stop walking, and so does he.

“Where are you headed?”

Spinning frustratedly with your whole body, you look up at him like he’s stupid. Maybe he is—was. He has a feeling you’ll tell him anyway.

“You’re being stupid. Go away.”

There we are—he’s grinning at you now, a spark of satisfaction running through him like a match to gasoline, “Can I at least know your name?”

“Not important. Do you think if I pick a spot in Asphodel and stand long enough, I’ll grow roots?”

Luke frowns at the sentiment, “After everything you’ve lived for, you want Asphodel?” He sounds so disappointed in you that you do punch him this time. Your fist is clenched, landing against his abdomen with an oomph that pushes out of his chest. 

“What I want is none of your business.”

“Well I got what I wanted,” he shrugs, like nothing of the sort, tricking you to look into his eyes for the first time in his new existence. His smile softens, almost as if his breath was taken away by the sight of them. Luminous, even in a place with no life or real light. Like a twinkling dusk that he wants to sink into. 

They dart away too soon for his liking, pulling back to him only when he speaks again, “This is gonna sound crazy but…”

“I know crazy, trust me. You’d never believe what I have to tell you,” you mutter with a ghost of a smile—the high he gets from chasing it would be unhealthy if he already weren’t dead.

“Try me.”

“Fine. I knew you. Before. It’s all I’m allowed to say. And I need you to trust me, or I’ll be stuck here forever,” you say under your breath, “But that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Luke says passively, a nod of his head—does he not know what to make of what you just told him? Or does he think the idea of forever in a place like this is alright for a person he barely knows okay?

The element of surprise isn’t lost on him even here, “So what do we have to do?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose then, breathing slowly through your mouth, “Did you not just hear what I said?”

“I did, and I think even in our past life, you must have severely underestimated me,” Luke chortles, grabbing your hand instinctively until he realizes what he’s doing. Even if he’s a little lost, he watches closely as his fingers clasp around yours almost in greeting, like it’s muscle memory, not a handshake but something sacred and secure— it’s a relief to hold your hand and he doesn’t know why, but he also doesn’t let go.

Your mouth falls agape with a shuddering breath, “You always kept me on my toes, that’s for sure.” There’s a pinched quality to your voice and Luke decides to tell you the reason he ran across the River Lethe in the first place.

“I do,” he swallows, “trust you, I mean. I don’t know why, but I just do. I just really wanted to see the color of your eyes…” Luke trails off. Can you feel it? he wonders—a stretching, growing feeling that unearths itself from the pits of your existence, calling for you to stay together like this as if there is no other way to be.

“And what do you think now?” your voice wavers as your fingers subconsciously tighten around his, a rough, scarred palm feeling much more real in his grasp.

“Waking up to them must have been Elysium in itself.”

Falling to your knees, you busy yourself with cupping the water from the river instead of entertaining the overwhelming urge you have to kiss him. Out of the corner of your eyes, he watches you like how he used to hover at camp—wanting to help but also letting you do your thing, an outstretched hand in case you need it.

“I drink…and I’ll forget you,” you say to him, realizing your instructions also have to be your final act of letting go, “and then you take me to the pool of the Mnemosyne under the poplar tree, and we drink from it together.”

“And then?” he murmurs, sitting next to you to cup your hands to your lips. Your mouth begins to water as if the tastebuds on your tongue yearn to forget all of life’s transgressions too. And you watch him the whole while, letting him, trusting him. 

“It’ll be me and you, and whatever comes next.”

Do you trust him? After everything?

“That sounds nice,” he hums, watching the faraway look in your eyes and wanting to join you where your mind is at, in knowing. 

You love him—that in itself is trust. 

Love is the strongest faith you’ve ever cared to know, and both of you are holding it to your lips with matching smiles on your faces. You don’t know what comes next, but this feeling frees you from the worry that’s been weighing you down with every step you took to find him again.

So, is love in this world a gift, or a curse?

Love can be found everywhere and made into everything if one tries hard enough.

Love is biting into the fruit,

Love is turning around,

Love is giving him the knife,

Love is a kiss on the cheek,

Love is reaching for the sun,

Love is making an impossible journey—neither of you is running from this, catching your breath until the air between your lips intermingles with familiarity, harmonious and in tandem. Two spirits share the secret of a life lived and the love that was shared as one wants to forget and the other wants to remember. There are no words that can explain the way your shrill laughter makes the recognition slightly glaze over his eyes like sweet honey, and he looks toward the poplar tree in the distance, itching to take you there afterward. 

In case this is the last time in all of eternity that you’ll set your eyes upon Luke Castellan, you set your forehead against his ever so gently, a kiss of skin against skin as the water ripples from your shallow breaths. 

“I’ll meet you at the poplar tree.”

He nods, and the liquid reaches your parched lips, all of your thoughts dissipating into the air around you. There are no names in this place, no status or glory and memories fade, like sprinkles of rain against your skin, sending shockwaves to your system as you’re fighting to hold on to every wave of nostalgia before it’s taken away. Luke’s smile is like sunlight as he watches the river wash over you completely, and then you settle into his arms as if falling asleep. Neither of you knows the answer to the question that’s tested by time, but here, time does not exist. 

For once, it finally might even be on your side. 

“I think I’ve been waiting for you,” Luke murmurs, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear as he waits for you to wake, for the hummingbird flutter of your eyelashes to reveal your eyes in all of their ethereal glory. This prophecy was laid out and this love was self-fulfilling damnation and he smiles as your breath shifts, hands reaching out to pat him softly as if checking if he was still there even unconsciously, even without knowing him. 

Time stands still here with you in his arms, and Luke is at peace with not knowing all the answers to the universe’s questions if it means he has you to face whatever’s next. Perhaps the answer is clear for others, but until then—whenever that may be, you have all the time to figure it out.

Together.

—

“What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.” - William Wordsworth

[ma1dita]

2/2 @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa  @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant  @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings @silver007 @sunny747 @huang-the-geek @batboygirlie @here-for-the-tea-baby @dreamsandconstellations @phtogravi @minkyungseokie @trashmouthcharley @beedeebee @witch-lemon @evermorecameron @angelicblondie @death-in-love @mymomisbetterthanyours @enchantedstarfish @greencircuit @mxxny-lupin @salvatt1

asking for trouble

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words:  7.8k prev -> when the curtains close | next -> as above so below summary: (established relationship) The one where Luke's final wish is to see you. (He's himself again, and all he wants is to find out if the trouble was worth it all) a/n: non-descriptive mentions of blood and war, main character death. angst. a boyfriend that yall may or may not agree with. one chapter left after this!!

—

[august 15th; camp half-blood kitchens, long island, new york — 9:49 pm]

Everything begins and ends with love if we are fortunate enough.

There’s a stillness that fills the air the night before what historians and future demigods alike will deem the Battle of Manhattan. It’s stifling—suffocating in the silence of the camp kitchens as you cover a sheet cake with blue frosting, piping the edges with a steady hand as you check the clock, time always ticking over your shoulder.

Almost lights out.

The circumstances are different now though, and surely no one will be able to sleep tonight. Fate is hard at work unraveling the future, the gods and their spawn alike are preparing for war, yet you’re here putting sprinkles on Percy Jackson’s birthday cake.

It’s the most nonsensical thing you’ve done all week amidst the war preparations, taming the whirlwind of mixed emotions that shook camp in the days before. Perhaps it comes with the knowing that everything will change, and the only way out is through. Only the lucky ones get to go home after this.

“Are you really not coming with us tomorrow?”

Clarisse chuckles at your question from her position against the doorway, crossing her arms and watching you stick candles on the top of the sweet dessert. Her hands flex over her sleeves, tugging at the fabric like she needs to hide away from the rest of the world, “You make it sound like it’s a walk in the park instead of what it really is.”

“Is that why then?” You look up from your piping bag raising an eyebrow at her, “We need all the help we can get, Risse.”

“It’s a death wish. I don’t know how you do it grandma, but the world will keep spinning no matter if 5 shows up or not,” Clarisse mutters, rolling the words around in her mouth, “How do you do it? Knowing that he’ll be there…I-I don’t want Chris to put himself through that again. We’re going to lose anyway—something, if not everything.” 

You know that too.

There’s something ironic about how the children of war won’t be joining the fight of their lives, but Clarisse La Rue is as stubborn as a mule when she doesn’t get her way. Only something truly special would send her running to the battlefield at this point.

“A part of me feels obligated to be there and help fix it, Risse. This is the path I chose.”

She scoffs, her sneakers knocking against the side of the kitchen island. The daughter of Ares is wistful, hesitant… and nothing like herself tonight. You suppose conflict shapes someone like her like how insanity lines the essence of your being. Intangible, but the base of every choice—the driving reason connecting you to your godrents. 

“Yeah, I know that, but I still don’t get it. You don’t have to be here anymore,” she says thoughtfully, moving the cylinders of sprinkles around on the counter by height order, then by colors of the rainbow, “you could’ve chosen the easy life without all of this…I mean, if I ever got out of here alive, I wouldn’t look back.” The statement is sharp in the silence as if she’d attacked you with Maimer. Your eyes meet hers as if there’s a big secret she’s missing out on. You always look at them like that now, with a faraway gaze of a place none of them can reach.

“Who’s to say? Getting old and aging out of here is harder than you think, you know… College, rent, taxes…” you list off with every squeeze of the piping bag, spelling out Percy’s name with white frosting. Clarisse bites her lip, resting her chin against the palm of her hand as she watches you. When she closes her eyes at night, she often dreams of being home in Arizona, dry heat prickling at her cheeks and dust swirling at her ankles. That’s what her future will look like, she thinks—-and she’ll let herself be selfish if it means she gets what she wants. What do you dream of? Do you think about a future for yourself if you’re so worried about saving everyone else’s?

“But you still came back. Is this easier than that?”

Not easier, but familiar. Nothing you ever want comes easy after all. There is a comfort in walking the grounds of a camp counselor job you used to dread instead of filling out job applications; easier to you means fighting with the gods and slaying creatures of old instead of paying student loans and making rent. 

“I think you’ll find out that you do stupid things for love, Clarisse La Rue.”

She’ll never tell you this, but you’re the strongest person she knows. You’ve shown her that strength doesn’t always mean brain or brawn. Sometimes strength is loving someone without expecting anything in return, and the gnawing feeling in her stomach eats at her in an unsatisfying way—like Tantalus reaching for the grapevine, fingertips grazing the leaves for eternity. Instead, Clarisse wipes down the counter with a Clorox wipe as you make your way towards the door, cake in hand. Tonight, she and her siblings will sleep with the knowledge that they’ll get to see another day. Call her selfish, sure—but that’s how she loves them. Alive.

“I still stand ten toes behind the fact that Michael Yew can be knocked down a fucking peg,” she mutters. There’s a small smile on her face and when she looks up at you, she sees your face is illuminated by moonlight. Clarisse hopes this won’t be the last time—silently praying to her father to extend his hand onto you.

“I’ll see you when I see you, La Rue.”

Whenever that is, she thinks. This is easier than a goodbye. What matters is showing up. What matters is that they try. That’s what she reminds herself as she turns off the big light and heads toward Cabin 5. 

Does any of that still matter in the end if they aren’t alive?

Her siblings are already asleep when she tucks herself into bed despite the music and laughter coming from 12. Light from across the way filters through her window, a warm glow cast across her face leaking through even when she shuts her eyes. It warms her, reminds her of the orange of the stupid shirts they wear, sunsets on Fireworks Beach, and the molten lava that drips down the climbing wall. 

Home might not be what she remembered it to be after all these years. Clarisse decides to sleep on it, hoping that when they wake, there’ll be something worth fighting for.

[august 15th; cabin 12, long island, new york — 10:08pm]

Camp Half-Blood is quiet as you walk through the dark forest, minding your step over the brambles and checking off your mental list of responsibilities before day breaks. The air is especially cool for a summer night, melancholy being your only jacket as you move on auto-pilot. Your fingers tighten around the tray you hold, pushing the door open to Cabin 12 which currently houses most of your campers. It’s lively and bright in here—you would think they’re all celebrating a Capture the Flag win instead of being sent off to their deaths for the greater good.

Tomorrow, they’ll wake up soldiers.

The wood creaks beneath your boots and it’s drowned out by the sound of soft chattering and laughter, a few of them still scuffling over sleep spots, and then—”HAPPY BIRTHDAY PERCY!”

There are only enough people in here to comfortably fit in a few of the strawberry trucks tomorrow—some went home to their parents to avoid the chaos and some chose not to fight at all. And the ones that remain— all 40 of them, that is, are spread out on the floor in sleeping bags writhing like worms. All the whooping and cheering is accompanied by Michael leading his siblings in song (and Connor and Travis ruining it by chanting CHA CHA CHA!). 

Percy is just shy of sixteen now, but the sheen in his blue eyes still reflects the tranquility of open water and something tender that you saw in him when he came to camp at twelve years old. Later, through mouthfuls of cake and smears of blue buttercream on his cheek, the son of Poseidon looks up at you thoughtfully, “Is this a pity cake?” He tries to make light of the situation by acting like the fate of the world doesn’t depend on his life or death, and you take a deep breath. 

Even demigods fall victim to fate, and the gods still push on. But what of their children that fight for change in the world they set the rules for; their children that fight their battles for them and lose their lives for immortal beings that live forever?

“This is a birthday party, not a pity party, Percy Jackson. There's no pity for the damned,” you chuckle. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. All of the world’s problems seem so permanent when you’re 15 years old. It’s just fucked up that hiswill actually alter the course of humanity.

“And if this is the end of the world, I just wanted to make sure we’ve told you happy birthday first.”

“Well thanks,” Percy mumbles over a spoonful of buttercream, face reddening when Annie throws a paper towel roll at his face, “Hey!” It reminds you a lot of when you and Luke would fight in the dining pavilion, chicken tenders and mac n’ cheese flying through the air, and apples cut just the way you like. You blink. 

It all boils down to him or Luke.

“Wipe your face, Seaweed Brain!”

Percy rolls his eyes, smiling down at his plate regardless of the weight he carries upon his shoulders. The more you want to live the more you have to lose, you think as you brush your knuckles against a spot of frosting he missed. You don’t look at the blonde boy and see a hero of the Great Prophecy—still, you see him as the little boy who was mesmerized by you conjuring strawberries on his plate on his first day at camp, innocent and honest. 

Looking around the room wistfully at that thought, you start to see the memories of their childhood blanket all of themlike ill-fitting clothes; it’s all you can notice. The feeling is so big it swallows you whole. Annabeth is still the little girl who’d rattle off obscure facts from Snapple bottle caps from her time on the road, drawing pictures of buildings with your eyeliner after sneaking into your room. Silena still makes blush out of berry juice and would call you about boy problems as if she’s not a child of the goddess of love herself. Will is still the boy who sings as he lights up fireflies and draws smiley faces on bandages. Katie, the girl who makes flower crowns for your birthday and eats strawberries with you soaked in morning dew. You look around and see scraped knees that you’ve kissed better, sleepy eyes you’ve sung to, and hearts you’ve kept warm—this is your glory, your greatest achievement being the family you’ve found in the woods of the Long Island Sound.

“You see it too?” Grover mumbles, nudging you and you sigh, squeezing his shoulder. Sometimes you forget the satyr is older than you; he stands tall as your pillar of support, unwavering in his promise to protect these kids. 

“We’re getting old, man.”

“You’re only 23. There’s so much left of you,” he deadpans. Laughter comes out of you in waves as you shake your head smiling.

“And what a pleasure it’s been to grow up with you.” 

Grover bids you a good night as you walk up the stairs to your old room, phone in hand while you dial a familiar number. Your boyfriend answers before the end of the first ring.

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d still be up!”

Settling against the windowpane near your bed, a soft smile graces your features and you realize he’s not there to see it. It’s always been easy with him—Dex was unbelievably kind, and he had a heart that he’d share without you having to ask. He was unlike any man you’d ever encountered before, and over the past year and a half you found it easy to love him. 

Worst of all, he’s utterly devoted to you. At least every part of you that you were willing to give him, even if it wasn’t allof you per se. Plus, you saw the ring in his desk drawer last week. It was too…good to be true. You recognize that this was your way out like Clarisse said, your escape from the turbulence that was your life as a demigod. But it was hard to believe that you were deserving of it. He’d never know of the ichor that runs through your veins, and the life you’d have to leave behind to truly be with him. You suppose every love you’ve ever had was sacrificial. You just wonder if because of that, easy makes it hard to feel real.

Maybe if you survive this one you’d tell him the truth. But for now, he’s rambling in your ear about his sudden work trip upstate. Morpheus and Hypnos are already at work then, redirecting the city dwellers out of Manhattan. It must be later than you thought already and in a few short hours, Apollo will be shining his rays across the Island for what you hope won’t be the last time.

“I wish I was with you right now,” you mutter in a hushed tone, and you hear him laugh breathily through the static sound of the phone. It’s easy to imagine him twirling the telephone cord between his fingers, flopped over the tiny loveseat you went halfsies on with your first big paychecks. The apartment you both moved into after graduation is more accurately a shoebox—but it’s yours, and the love you have for it is immeasurable in comparison to the square footage. You hum, listening to the sound of his voice, “Maybe I can catch you before I go—stop by and say hi before I drive up.” 

He won’t. By morning, you’re not even sure if he’ll remember you—all traces of Greek gods and their counterparts wiped clean from memory until it’s all over, whenever that is. You’re mindlessly walking in circles around your room, bare feet padding against the floorboards. He repeats your name and you realize you haven’t been paying attention, the tail end catching your ear, “Hmm?”

“Or you could come to me. I’m sure your dad won’t mind. It’s time I meet him, don’t you think?” 

And out of anything happening tomorrow, that especially sounds like a nightmare so you make a noise of disagreement, “I can’t. You know I can’t, honey. I’ve got…” your voice trails off as your lilac eyes land on a faded photo strip thumbtacked to your wall, “unfinished business to deal with.” There’s nothing left but inky silhouettes on the sun-damaged paper, two past lovers huddled together. But you know what it’s a picture of. Rye Playland, you and Luke at fifteen, cheek to cheek and covered in wisps of cotton candy.

“Mm. Sounds important. Does your unfinished business have a name?” 

Dex sounds playful now, teasing despite the silence on your end of the line. A beat passes, and then another, and he can hear the sound of your hands rifling through the things in your desk drawer. The dragon scale necklace is cold in your palm. 

For good luck, you think. 

It’s been a while since you’ve worn it—keeping it safe in the only home you and Luke shared, and as soon as it touches your neck, you feel a little less empty inside. It feels like a safety blanket, protecting you from whatever might come next. You almost feel guilty to be relieved.

Thumbing the cord absentmindedly, you mutter, “You don’t even know the half of it, Dex.” 

“Maybe one day you’ll tell me.” Sometimes, it’s like he knows— Dex must be the ivy that grows over the walls you’ve built up around yourself, and he can see glimpses of who you try to hide behind your stone-cold resolve. He wonders if you’ll ever tell him about the names you call out at night— an indistinguishable language he’ll never fully understand. He wonders where you’ve gotten your constellation of scars and where your mind goes when you sit next to the window and stare at the skyline.

Oh, he wonders.

The glow-in-the-dark stars are faded now on the ceiling when you look up at them, fighting to give their last bits of light. You wonder too, if there’s any fight left in you; a bit of Luke always remains—he’s everywhere you look. You can feel him as night falls upon New York, bidding you goodnight before it crumbles tomorrow. 

“Maybe. Good night, honey.”

Dex yawns into the receiver. You know his feet are kicked up onto the coffee table even though you always tell him he shouldn’t, and that his glasses are already off for the night. You really think he could be a nice guy to end up with, all things considered. Dex was the epitome of normal, and after almost two and a half decades of existence, it’s quite evident that you are anything but. 

Normal might be quite nice.

He yawns again. Hypnos must have reached his window, “I love you, you know that?”

“I do. Me too. Good night.”

It’s the truth. 

You love this man and the spaces he’s filled within the chaos of your life. You love all of him, from the perfectly normal way he makes breakfast for you every morning (and laughs when he burns the toast), and takes the train to work at a middle school in Harlem (“6th grade ELA takes a lot out of a man,” he jokes). He picks you up from your job at the therapist’s office downtown if you get out too late, as a gentleman would (though you’ve fought monsters that he’d scream at the sight of). Once upon a time, normal was exactly what you used to wish for.

There’s a moment where your breath hitches and you sink against your pillow and you wonder if he would love all of you—demigod and all. Could he get used to this— summers at Camp Half-Blood with chariot races and gladiator-style fighting, pegasi and harpies roaming the grounds, and watersports with woodland nymphs? Dex never even questions your green thumb or how Pollux made him hallucinate your dead brother when he came to visit (“It’s what Castor would’ve wanted! The full twin-terrogation!” he insists. You convinced your boyfriend he got food poisoning that night). Could you come clean about knowing how to slay a chimera, or why you never get drunk, and have the stamina of an Olympian (the athletic kind, but not too far off from the truth)? 

But it shouldn’t be called coming clean. That makes it sound like you’re ashamed of who you are—which you’re not. You’ve just been hiding this part of you from a normal human that you love very much.

Gods, is this how your dad felt when he was seeing your mom? 

Somehow insanity has always felt bearable—love, however, has always been such an ordeal.

The phone bounces onto your bedspread once you hang up the call. There is no more time to worry about playing a part. Tomorrow, everyone comes as they are—whatever happens after will be a problem if you reach another day. Fate has its way of making itself known, you know that by now. Blinking, you take a deep breath, and very intentionally, with your feet criss-cross applesauce, you pray—for what, you still try to figure out as the minutes tick by. 

Better late than never.

Here at camp, you were always the last one up after lights out, anyway. Tonight of all nights shouldn't be any different.

[august 16th; 34th street and herald square, manhattan, new york — 9:17 am]

“Where do you think you’re going, mister!”

Your little brother flinches, immediately turning tail and walking across the deserted street to meet you in the middle. He’s taller than you now, craning his neck down to look at your angry glower as you thrust a finger into his face, “You’re sticking with me.”

“Jake said he’s taking 9 and 12 to the Holland Tunnel,” Pollux calls out, shuffling his feet and you punch his arm hard, “OW! —It’s what Percy wants.” He swats your hand away for good measure, his arm guards clanking against yours when he dodges another swing at his head.

“We are Cabin 12, you shithead. I’m not letting you out of my sight for a second.” Your staff is heavy against his shoulder and Pollux can’t help but let his gaze wander to where Jake Mason and the other children of Hephaestus are waiting for him a block over. Manhattan is a warzone, and the difference between fighting empousai and fighting his older sister right now is very similar in theory—hard to do alone. The tunnel is halfway across the city from the Empire State Building—if something were to happen to either of you…

"M’not here to fight,” he sighs, “with you at least. I need to do my part, sissy.” The old nickname is an arrow through your heart, and you grab Pollux’s hand, “I just want to make sure you’ll be okay. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I couldn’t get to you in time.”

“HEY 12! You coming, or what?”

The two of you look towards the small army down the block, both of your hands intertwined like grapes from the same vine. You’re not sure if you can let go; you’re not sure if your father could lose another child. But Pollux’s face is almost set in stone—he’s never been more sure of himself. Your lip wavers, forcing itself into a stiff smile and he softens at the sight, “I’ll be okay.”

“And if you’re not? Then what?”

He shrugs, “Then… then I’ll get to see Castor.”

You nod, breathing shakily, and flinching when Jake calls for Pollux again, “Well. If you are okay…You come find me. After this is over, you come straight back home to me. You got it?”

Pollux hugs you, hard—the force of all of him sending you sprawling into his arms and it knocks the wind out of you. As the twins have grown, it’s been rare for them to show you any affection. They’d usually recoil or whine about how mushy their older sister is, and each time it makes you laugh. But right now, you stand there gripping onto his t-shirt, breathless; the ringing in your ears gives way to words he mumbles into your hair, “I love you,” he says, in case you didn’t already know. 

Just in case this is goodbye. You take it in for a moment longer, running a hand through his blond hair and cupping his cheeks as you finally step away, “I love you. I’m so proud of you, P. We all are.”

“Haven’t done anything yet,” he grins, backing away slowly, a skip in his step as he nears the small troop of Hephaestus kids. You wave them off, blowing a kiss as they band together and turn in the other direction.

Why is it that you can only be proud of someone if there’s something to prove it? You think about all 40 of your campers fighting for their lives in the greatest city in the world. The sound of hellfire, roaring monsters, and screams that could only come from your kids. Fatigue wears you down with each swipe of magic towards enemy forces, monsters writhing in pain at your feet, demigods reduced to insanity and blood-curdling screams. It disgusts you even more so that no one can witness the weapon you've been forced to become. After all, no one knows any of you were there. Life continues on outside of the bubble containing the Battle of Manhattan. And only the ones fighting will be able to remember this. Only you will remember the blood you spilled to wrestle for your destiny.

The rest of the city continues to sleep, safe from the people who swore to protect it.

[august 18th; empire state building, manhattan, new york mount olympus, in the sky above new york??? — 5:22 pm]

Running up 492 flights of stairs was another type of hell you didn’t expect to put yourself through, but it was faster than waiting for the elevator to Olympus. It’s quiet besides the steady rush of blood pumping in your ears, your boots slapping against the tile to reach your friends who might be in danger at the hands of someone you know well. But it’s too late to give up when you’re so close—you realize you’re praying to anyone who’ll listen as you push through the pain of always being a little too late. 

“Ugh!”

Air pierces through your lungs painfully as you trip up a landing, hands clawing against the banister. Have you been running in place this whole time, quick to start but hard to follow? Your lip quivers, eyes trailing up the stairwell faster than your legs can take you. 

Whatever the outcome, you’ll be better for it, you hope.

It’d be easier to give up. To stay away and not watch Percy fight for his life against him. You dry heave as you press your head against the wall, wondering if it’s worth not seeing what will become of this wretched prophecy. It’s hard to survive loving the villain when the rest of the world is dying because of it. Your legs feel like jelly underneath you, and not a single soul in Manhattan knows you’re here—until you feel the strength of an old traveler lift you up and revitalize your soul. Looking down to see your boots retie themselves tightly, the feeling in your chest reminds you of him. Everything leads back to Luke, and you think wherever he is now—Hermes knows that too. 

“Thank you,” you mutter. He’s handpicked your prayer through the tempest that hangs over Manhattan so that maybe your hands will be gentler in smiting his lost son. You find yourself with the nerve to run up the last dozen flights of stairs, pushing past the entryway to see Thalia Grace under a statue of her stepmother, “THALIA!” You barely make it to her fallen form before her free arm tries to push you away from the rubble.

“Get out of here! I mean it—” Thalia spits out your name through gnarled teeth and bones crunching under the heavy hands of Hera. The statue lays over the bottom half of her body, holding her legs down like how one forms a fist, and the daughter of Zeus pushes through pain and millennia worth of her dad’s karmic debt in giving her life—the essence of being a forbidden child still has a hold on her, even now. 

“I’m not gonna…leave you…”

With everything in you, both demigod strength and sheer desperation, you push at the unmoving stone, and your fingernails are splintering from the pressure. 

But you know what it feels like to get left behind. 

Desolation slowly sets in your bones, a hollow feeling that spreads through your core as sweat rolls down your cheeks, and when you sniff to wipe it away, Thalia’s lip quivers. She’s writhing in pain and everything is coming to an end down the hall from where you stand. 

“We’re so close, Grace. I’m not giving up on you when we’re this close. I need you in there with me so you just hold on, okay?”

The marble is cool to the touch under your moist hands, and her face is fixed in a grimace as she looks up at you and sees you for who you are—another demigod who was never given a fair chance at fate but with a spirit of a hero waiting for the right chance. Thalia coughs before slapping your hand away, “LISTEN TO ME! I’ll be okay. He needs you to be there. We’re almost out of time!” 

You barely register your body moving as you get up and start to run, looking back at Thalia by the time you’re at the top of the landing. There are no words that you could imagine to string together when your eyes meet hers in the distance that separates you two—the feeling of grief bearing down as you both know there is no way out but through this, whatever faces you inside those doors.

As you turn back around, you take a moment to wonder if you might’ve had different people in mind for who’s up there waiting for you.

—

[august 18th; the hall of gods, mount olympus, the sky above new york— 6:48 pm]

Finally pushing through the heavy doors of the Hall of Gods, your eyes burn like salt in a wound as you travel toward the center to see three figures laid out on the marble mezzanine. There’s a cramp in your calf by the time you reach them, your legs giving way as you skid to a stop in front of Luke’s corroded body. The pain doesn’t register for you, split skin going numb as you stare into the eyes of a storm you fell in love with almost ten years ago. 

A stranger is no longer wearing your love’s skin. Percy and Annie’s eyes feel heavy against your back as they watch you sigh in relief, a landslide of emotion rolling off of you when you see he’s still breathing, even faintly, as if he waited for you to make it back to him.

“It’s Luke,” Annabeth chokes out, “the scythe transformed into Backbiter and I knew it was him. He was fighting for us.” Her voice makes you flinch, makes this more real—it echoes as the wind carries it through the hall. Without a doubt in your mind, you know it’s him by the way he looks at you with tired eyes, soft and amber—the light pushing away the shadows and he reaches out for you. His skin is paled by the River Styx, face weathered by the Titan as you gently guide his head onto your lap. A pathetic cry slips from your mouth when you realize there’s more pressure in the fingers he brushes against your cheekbone versus the one holding the blade embedded in his chest. 

Fuck, what do you even say? 

He’s dying in front of you and you can’t think of a single word to say.

The clock is ticking and every breath of his comes out weaker––he speaks before you can find the words, breathing out, “I missed you,” like it was a relief to say it. And it all comes spilling out like a secret you’ve been safeguarding since the day he left— a mix of your tears and his blood smearing across your cheek as he reaches out to wipe them ever so gently. You find yourself smiling in the face of death itself—smile even if the both of you can feel death’s hand on him saying that time is finally up because the act of meeting each other here in the middle makes the years you’ve gone without him worthwhile. 

The reunion is also the loss; a nasty habit you’ve both fallen into over the years. But this time, Luke’s finally able to giveyou the world he wanted to see just before he leaves it.

You clutch him close without intending to let go, purple eyes scavenging for confirmation that this is your Luke, the one who pushed you through the brambles of the North Woods, wind in his hair and mischief in his smile. He’s citrus and musk, cunning smiles, something sacred kept within cabin 11, calloused fingers pulling at your t-shirt, and the voice out of tune at nightly sing-a-longs—and he loves you still. 

Loving you was the only thing that never changed.

“Shhhh, don’t waste your energy. The gods will…” you swallow a sob despite yourself, “I…my dad’s going to be here soon. He’ll help us.” There’s a lump in your throat that carries the weight of everything unsaid. Who would help you now that everyone else is getting what they wanted—a brighter tomorrow without the villain? But the prophecy unveils itself so cruelly, and the one who hurt you is the hero in this story, just as he’s always dreamed. It so happens to be at the cost of loving you.

Luke’s eyelids flutter like butterfly wings descending softly. You press a kiss onto his forehead like you used to while waiting for him to fall asleep. The chuckle that rumbles his ribcage is faint against the hand of yours that’s holding him together and the war is finally over and no one even knows that besides the four of you in this room.

“I'm running on borrowed time,” Luke wheezes, “I think my life ended the day I left you.” His thumb weakly traces the tear tracks cascading down your face, and he’s reacquainting himself with every feature of yours while he can touch it—to hold and be held by you after so long feels like drinking up ambrosia, his last bits of strength telling you what you’ve always known. 

Is there a word stronger than love? One that would explain how close and how far you feel to him at this moment and you don’t want to say the wrong thing but there are no wrong words when it comes to the right person. Hoarsely, through wavering lips, you chuckle, “Then it's time to stop running, baby. I’m here now.”

It’s exhausting to carry the weight of tomorrow in your arms and to know it’ll be made possible only by letting him go. You’re holding him too tightly, claws sinking in to feel—to ground yourself and keep him tethered to this reality, just in case a different answer falls out of the sky. 

But falling with Luke Castellan, falling for him, has been nothing like you wanted. You've said your goodbyes more often than you can count. 

This part is just about letting him go.

“I think I’m doomed,” he laughs, coughing harshly. Blood soaks his airways, retribution for the lives he took. It drips out of his mouth and you still look at Luke like he’s asked you to marry him. What a soft, funny thought. 

Love must be more violent than war, to feel like this—to know he’s wrecked your world and still come out the other side smiling at him like he put the stars in the sky. His fingers are slipping out of yours as you hold onto the knife that keeps him here and Luke mutters, “I’m so s-sorry. You deserved better in this life.” You hear Annabeth sob from somewhere behind you but you can’t look at anything else but his eyes, not daring to miss another moment of him.

“Can’t be all that bad,” you say with a watery chuckle, wiping his mouth with your thumb. There’s more of a mess now with your feeble efforts but the action comforts you more than him; caring for Luke is something you cannot unlearn. 

“This life gave me you. I don’t want to know anything else. Do you hear me?” 

You want Luke to know this—to understand that even if this is how fate has handled the both of you, there is no other hand you would hold but his.

“You’re my whole life, Trouble.”

“I know, angel. I know. It’s always been me and you.”

You and me, he mouths, an echo of himself left to relay the message as his eyes lose their warmth, empty now and unseeing. And then he's home in your arms again as you hold every broken and bloodied piece of him together until he's no more. The parts of him he leaves behind blur into you, rivulets of his lifeforce weaving through your fingertips even when you put pressure against the knife you both hold, hands cradling the spot under his armpit, and to Percy and Annabeth it looks like you're holding his heart, clutching it between your fingers.

Protecting it until his last beat—when he finally gives it over to you. 

It was always yours, anyway. 

Before, in the in-between, and now after, his heart is yours.

Time stops for Luke Castellan, the man born to die, in the Hall of Gods that day— in the arms of his partner and in the presence of his little sister and truest friend. 

Lips against his ear, no one tries to pull you away, even when the gods of Olympus march in expecting a battle to onlyfind a dead hero and a story that needs to be told.

You’ve never seen him so still before. 

Luke’s always been the one with something to say, hands fidgeting to hold yours. Still, you hold his hand even if he can't feel it, still smile even if he can't see you, still whisper words of devotion even if he can't hear it. By the time you feel your father’s hands on your back and hear Percy say, “We need a shroud. A shroud for the son of Hermes,” you imagine that he’s miles away from where he lays motionless, dead weight in your grasp. Nothing can pull you away from the mantra you set to remind him that he’s yours even when he leaves again. Luke’s soul will soon journey where you cannot follow, and you whisper to him in the stillness amidst the noise, “I love you, I love you, I love you…” 

When the Fates come to collect the body, their ancient hands spin around the two of you as they unweave your hold on him. You weren’t given a choice—his material body dissipates in front of your eyes and you swear you feel the tug from deep within your core as you watch them float Luke away. It’s so much different now from when he used to fly around your room with his stupid winged Converse—even the gods avert their eyes when you let out a sob that shakes the ornate hall. Hopelessly you watch, sat down on the marble and unable to move or follow—as if maybe he’d still answer to your sweet nothings, and not leave you hanging once more. You slump against your father’s side, catatonic and at a loss for words—they leave with him, floating away into the distance.

Humanity’s biggest problem and resolution has always been love—this was never a story about the lack thereof.

—

[august 18th; death, pre-judgement? — the seven minutes after]

The path that Luke Castellan takes after he dies is most peculiar and unlike any path he’s traveled before. And yes, there have been several times that he’s come close to death—under Ladon’s claws in the Garden of Hesperides, and when he relinquished his physical self by bathing in the River Styx, but neither of those times where he’s cheated his way out can compare to the real thing. 

He once read in one of Annabeth’s textbooks that there are seven minutes of brain activity that wanes in your consciousness before you die. There’s a distinct thrumming in his ears when he comes to, and Luke discovers he’s completely in the dark with no sense of direction and most importantly, no visible way out. The old him, were he still alive—would be panicking by now, short terse breaths and sweat upon his brow. Old Luke would have fidgeting hands and eyes that rocket around for an exit. But this Luke, whoever he is—whatever he is now, finds himself eerily calm. Everything glows in a vignette, and familiar scenes materialize before his vision, a kaleidoscope of color and your shrieking laughter surrounding him in the familiarity of your happiness with him—it feels like lifetimes ago. He realizes he’s smiling. 

Versions of you swirl in the space he stands in, taking up space wherever he can look, wherever he turns—you’re there. 

And he remembers.  

Memory is a choice after all, much like love is. And no one can take that away from Luke Castellan except death itself.

The scene flickers for a moment, eyelashes fluttering against morning light peeking through the windows of Cabin 11.

It’s Luke’s first morning at Camp Half-Blood after the storm that brought him and Annabeth there. You’re standing over him with a half-beaten pillow and a menacing grin that grows as he spits out feathers. It’s his first impression of you, Kool-aid tipped hair and hands shaking with a crushed Redbull can in your other fist.

“Good. You’re still breathing. Wasn’t sure for a sec.” A voice yells out your name and you make a run for it, barefoot and giggling and looking back at him every few steps—his breath catches in his throat again like how it did on the first day you both met.

The scenery changes and he’s sitting next to you on the dock of Canoe Lake.

“I dare you.”

“No way,” he hears himself say, and then he sees you fling algae at him in ropes, cold and slimy that it makes his voice crack, “He—ey! You’re gonna get us fired and it hasn’t even been a full day since we got the job,” he says, clearing his throat as you bite your lip.

“What’s one last hurrah?”

“You’re always gonna be Trouble, aren’t you?” he says, getting annoyed by the orange fabric that temporarily blinds him. Chuckling, you pull your shorts off and look back at him, eyes glinting in the moonlight and he can’t help but ogle at the rest of you, gulping hard. You catch him staring and he averts his eyes, looking back at the treeline to see if anyone’s come to find you both. A resounding splash echoes in the silence between you and Luke turns back to find your head bobbing visible above the water and not much else.

“I double-dog dare you, Castellan.”

He jumps in.

The dark blue of the water turns into light reflecting the pinks and purples of the sky above Montauk Point at sunset.

“We’re alive! Told you we’d be fine,” you yell, clicking your seatbelt off and jumping out of the car before Luke can even put the hatchback in park. It was his first drive anywhere—you’ve finally graduated from looping around Farm Road.

“Hey wait up!”

He calls out your name, but you’re already kicking up sand as the distance between you grows until he locks up the car and chases after you. You didn’t stand a chance, slipping and sliding in the sand as the son of Hermes quickly grabs you around the waist and throws you over his shoulder as you scream bloody murder. When he sets you down, your arms are looped around his neck and you’re smiling against the pink and tender scar on his cheek.

“Think we can break into the lighthouse before the guards come, angelface?”

The sound of crashing waves turns into chattering cabin counselors and when Luke looks around again, he’s at the Big House, with everyone else pushing their chairs in and walking towards the door. He holds his hand out and you grab it with no words or instruction—like a key nestled within its lock, exactly where it’s meant to be. 

“Last order of business, kind of…” Your dad drones from his spot near the windows. Luke tries to let go of your hand but you don’t let him, “Don’t panic,” you mutter.

“This… fraternization won't become an issue for all of us, will it?”

Everyone’s frozen near the doorway, staring at your intertwined hands. Luke clears his throat and turns toward Mr. D, “I’ll see to it that it doesn’t. Sir.”

You could almost hear a pin drop, and no one knows what to say next—not even Mr. D.

“Yeah, I’ll keep Castellan in line.”

That’s the confirmation everyone was waiting for; a mixture of groans and the clinking of drachma fill the air as Chris holds his hands out and takes his spoils of victory with a charming smirk on his face. Clarisse throws the coins at his head.

“I feel like I should take a bow or something,” Luke snickers into your ear, before placing a kiss against your temple.

You’re still in his arms and still look good in orange, but when he pulls back to look at you again, you’re both hovering above the ground near the dining pavilion. His knees are shaking when his winged Converse flap madly underneath you—a flurry of uncoordinated movement that makes you want to piss yourself.

“You’re lucky I have a strong core, babe,” he grins—and he’s thrilled at the fear on your face as you clutch onto him for dear life, one arm around his abdomen and the other around his neck, both legs latched around his waist.

“I swear to the fucking gods if you drop me, Castellan…”

His right foot jerks in a slightly different direction, making him laugh as you squeak.

“Castellan, huh? That scared, Trouble? Not gonna drop my baby.”

The wind around you whirls like a tornado as Luke tries to show off, getting higher and higher until, “LUKE!”

He catches you by the fingertips again and now there’s sand beneath your feet. You’re still spinning in his arms and his mom is singing along to a song playing on the radio you brought to Westport Beach. May claps lightly and you tug her up with a soft smile, “Come on Miss May! Take your son out for a spin.” Tugging at the damp white t-shirt you wear over your underwear, you take a seat on the picnic blanket and watch them with a smile you haven’t given Luke in years.

“Mother-son dance,” May whispers in his ear, humming a few notes of the wedding march.

He closes his eyes and soaks it all in, slightly swaying.

That thrumming is in his ears again, a steady beat against his chest and he feels it everywhere—a pounding rhythm that cannot be ignored. He opens his eyes and you’re snuggled against each other, tangled beneath the sheets. You’re still asleep and Luke just…watches you before the morning starts (whenever this is) and it all has to end. You’re breathing against his neck, lips slightly agape as warm air brushes his pulse. He moves hair out of your face and you pull him in unconsciously, skin to skin with no atom of space left between you. 

Luke blinks. 

You’re in your college apartment.

He blinks again.

His childhood bedroom.

Again, please.

In Cabin 12.

Please, just one last time.

You’re drooling against his neck in his tiny bunk in Cabin 11 and the noise is getting louder now—a static sound that morphs into the sound of your voice throbbing like a heartbeat, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It’s the last thing he can hear before he has to go.

_ 

“I wanna see your eyes / Is it a crime to say I still need you?” - Adrienne Lenker

[ma1dita]

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don't blame the kids

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 7.6k summary: (established relationship (kinda lol)) The one where you both chaperone a trip to Mount Olympus. The Olympians are bigger gossips than you thought they'd be. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: the Chapter—set during the winter solstice; tldr: your dads are besties + hera is a good judge of character.... more d & trouble as requested, enjoy! eh ill edit this once i get back from class later tonight, taglist & ao3 update to be posted then as well

—

Your head falls against the metal of the school bus with an audible thunk. The sound of discordant cackles wakes you up from a dreamless sleep, making you jam your mouth shut and feel your spit go stale on this chilly winter morning.

“Rough night?” 

Keeping your cool despite the pounding headache, you mumble out an incoherent reply to your younger brother, whichever one he was. The old leather seat sighs as one of them sits down, the added weight jostling your legs as you groan and open your eyes to see two blond heads staring at your tired form. One of them peers from over the seat in front while the other leans over your lap, rifling through your backpack for snacks—there’s no such thing as personal space with these two for siblings.

You blink slowly as your vision clears, the cold grayscale interior of the bus still too bright on your eyes.

It’s too early for this shit.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Pollux grins, noticing briefly that you’ve made an internal thought external. He hands his twin a granola bar from your backpack and leans back against your shoulder.

“Need this weekend to be over already,” you mumble, “just wanna sleep a bit longer and forget all of this. You two helping me later or are you gonna do that juggling bit again with the bottles of ambrosia?”

“Too bad it’s just begun,” Castor chuckles, before flopping back into his seat, then calling out, “and we’re playing the water glasses, thought it would make dad laugh—HEY!“ You tossed your water bottle at him and missed only because he conjured it into his hand and not your intended target of his skull. 

“We’ll be around if you need an extra hand up there,” Pollux murmurs over a hot chip, the crunch reverberating into your ear, “Are we gonna talk about why your boyfriend is on the opposite end of the bus?” Or why he didn’t come to cabin 12 last night… The stealth of sons of Hermes aside, the twins always know when he drops by— Luke usually leaves bags of stolen candy and tiny trinkets tied to their doorknobs when they lose teeth. To be honest, they’ve known the tooth fairy hasn’t existed since they were ten, but Pollux has one last molar he was looking forward to cashing in for a Push-pop.

“Nope.”

“Good talk,” he nods, before belching so loudly you shove him into the aisle, “Ow!”

The rest of the bus is filled with quiet chatter and excitement as you decide to take the chance and get up to survey the handful of campers who join you for the winter solstice. Some of the younger ones are crammed like sardines with bobbing heads as the bumps and turns of the Long Island Expressway rock them in and out of sleep, which is a privilege you were just robbed of. The others that are still excited to see their godrents move animatedly as they clamber over each other and practice their performances for later, a dissonant symphony of prose and instruments out of tune, vines growing from the Demeters’ row, and multiple charcoal pencils rolling along the floor towards the driver sitting up front.

There’s only so much you can hide on a bus, and now that you’re awake…

“Beck!” you hiss as the smell of burning hair wafts through the enclosed space, “No fire on the bus!” The dark-skinned boy looks at you sheepishly, fanning his younger sibling’s singed eyebrows and cracking open a window. Ironically (no pun intended, but while we’re here, ha!) Hephaestus will love his kids even if all of Olympus goes up in smoke. You wish you could say the same for the rest of your campers. The ones left to consider—like those of Hermes, watch the blur of the road whizz past their peripherals, lacking their usual sense of merriment and mischief in knowing their father will be a no-show even on the one day a year they’re allowed to visit. Though a worthless trip off the island is way better than cleaning wine glasses with the nymphs—to them, kitchen duty ends when one’s fingers are about to fall off the bone. 

Making a mental tally of your kids in case any of them have decided to fall out of the vehicle during your much needed break (demigods can get into twice the amount of trouble mortals can in half the time after all), you notice Annie’s waving you over towards her and her seatmate who is coincidentally the only person you wish would drop into the East River.

You make your way over feeling like you’re walking to your death, with your knees buckling with the movements of the bus, momentarily stumbling to a stop in front of their row and conjuring a juice box for Annie with a small smile. Your boyfriend(? — could you still call him that? You remember falling asleep in the storage room counting the sleeping bags, waking up in your bed alone and not much else) looks up at you expectantly as if you’re the one who should have something to say now. You avert your eyes quickly. 

Even on the shortest day of the year, being under his gaze makes time pass slowly like being dipped in molasses. The feeling sits at your throat uncomfortably, and your resolve makes your stomach feel like an endless pit.

“Yeah, Annie?” you say simply. You don’t mean to, but the smile on your face fades ever so slightly. They both notice and don’t say anything—one in contemplation and the other in disappointment. 

“You look awful.”

Okay, what the fuck. Between the thousand-yard stare you gave your wall this morning and the amount of time you spent slathering makeup on at the crack-ass of dawn, you would think that at least your eyebags were concealed enough.

But Annabeth Chase is nothing if not honest, and even if you were the best actress she’s ever met (which you are), there is no way of hiding heartbreak. 

Can you call this that? 

Heartbreak. 

You’re still unsure of if it’s really over—can you say that Luke broke your heart if there’s no way of being certain? What is a break, anyway? Are there terms and conditions you should follow? Is this the part where you two just never talk again and it’ll always feel like this?

But if the boy sitting across from you broke your heart, you think you’d be able to tell—so let the evidence show (or lack thereof) that you’re pretty sure he took it with him, wordlessly and selfishly like a son of Hermes would. With no remorse. 

Let’s not call this heartbreak then. Perhaps the more accurate word to describe your expression is despondence—he chips away at you further with how he looks at you now. Luke catches himself admiring the way you’ve done your hair and the glitter on your eyelids and then honey meets amethyst as your eyes lock. In between an obvious sigh and the way you bite your tongue, he realizes that despite your beauty always rivaling that of Aphrodite (at least in his honest opinion), there’s something hollow in the way you look back at him this morning. He doesn’t know how to feel about that either. 

You both didn’t end off on a good note yesterday—and that much, plus the rare occasion of sleeping alone in the months you two have been together was disconcerting, to say the least. 

“Thanks for that. If that’s all, I’m gonna go back to my seat,” you deadpan, turning back towards the front of the bus. 

You can’t even look at him, you realize. In the almost five years you’ve known Luke Castellan, your favorite thing to do was just look at him, from the way his nose scrunches when he laughs, to the fluttering of his eyelashes when he gets tired, because one of the easiest parts of loving him was by just watching him to see if he was looking right back at you.

And you can’t even do that, because it comes with a whole bunch of feelings you have no time to unpack right now. You decide to focus on the scar that spreads across his cheek instead when Luke calls your attention back towards them. He says your name so softly you almost miss it, gentle, like how someone talks to a child. It’s infuriating.

“I thought you were driving the bus today?” 

Somehow a simple interaction like this feels like the hardest performance of your life. Breakups never came easy, but dear gods, why right before the winter solstice of all days— you mumble a reply so quietly even Annabeth leans a bit closer to hear, “Didn’t sleep well. Big day today.” You brace against the seatback in front of them, tightening your core as the bus whips around a bend.

“Thought it’d be safer if I got one of the satyrs. Had to promise him unlimited access to the kitchens for a month though.”

Almost slamming into a full stop, your eyes widen as your body hits leather, properly leaning over the both of them as the daughter of Athena holds onto your leg and one of Luke’s hands grabs your arm.

“Gods. Look how that’s going,” the younger girl jokes, before looking up again to see her brother and you staring at each other motionlessly. Everything goes quiet—you don’t hear screaming campers or see Clarisse shaking one of her younger siblings upside down for a candy bar. Your knees shake slightly under the weight you figuratively carry on your shoulders. How will you show face to the gods when you can’t even keep a smile steady?

Time stops for a moment, and if it’s only been 12 hours, you’ve already lost count— but its felt like a lifetime since he held you like he might still care. It’s hard to tell, the both of you are too stubborn and it reminds you of a time when all of your conversations went like this—vitriol and annoyance leaking from each word, but at least when you were fourteen it felt like the build up to something great.

But what happens after great is exhausted? The comedown is a terse conversation that almost flies over Annabeth’s head—said in a way that adults do when everything is veiled and heavy, not meant to be seen by prying eyes and younger hearts. 

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way,” Luke mutters from beside her. You retract your arm like you’ve been burned and shake your head, “Well, it did.”

The wise girl starts to put the dots together, face scrunching as she deciphers the hidden meaning behind your exchange. She should’ve known Luke didn’t actually want to sit with her and talk about her latest chess match—the son of Hermes loves a good game but has no interest if he’s not the one winning. They both watch you rush back to your seat, the swaying of the bus pushing you farther and faster until you fall away out of sight. 

When she gathers her thoughts, the words lay heavy on her tongue like a hot iron until she spits it out at her older brother. Annabeth Chase sparingly cusses, you see, mostly under her breath and really only when she’s stumped by a situation, especially since she’s only just turned eleven a few months ago—but she looks at him like a foreign object she doesn’t know how to dissect.

“You’ve got nerve, Luke. How do you always fuck up this bad?” Her dark braids drag over her shoulder as she turns to look the other way, away from him.

Luke swallows dryly, biting down on the flesh of his cheek. Between his plan for today and his impeccable timing of monumentally screwing up his relationship with you? 

It’s like Annabeth hit the nail on the head, and he couldn’t agree more.

—

“Alright, places everyone,” you drone, tapping your pen against your clipboard like a gavel before a session in court. The Hall of Gods is just as unruly as your campers when you don’t water down the juice boxes, you realize—Olympians are mulling about the throne room, chattering and making it known that they’d rather be doing who knows what on the only day of the year that it’s mandatory for them to be parents. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently agree—there are much better uses of your time that you can think of right now, like making sure to hand Michael his epi-pen before lunch and hoping Connor and Travis aren’t scamming every seller blind at the street-markets of Olympus.

Everyone else is enjoying their free time and you’re…here, watching Apollo, god of music and truth, annoy his twin by sending birds to fly circles around her head. 

Cacophonous laughter startles you, turning to see Hades watching the chaos with his arms crossed over his chest. Draped in black, his chill expression looms over the papers in your hand as he peers at the schedule.

“Siblings, am I right? Sorry you have to deal with mine.”

“Divine Hades,” you bow your head slightly, “they’re erecting your pedestal for the solstice as we speak, I apologize in behalf of—”

He waves a hand dismissively, “No need, child. I know you’re just doing your job. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t if they’re all acting like children,” you mutter, the both of you watching Zeus bicker with Hera with increasing volume before she storms out, not before addressing the god of the Underworld with a nod.

And he smirks, letting out another laugh that the sound of it quiets the Olympians and sends them towards their seats like obedient students in a classroom. The nymphs are finished pushing the newly-fashioned slab of a throne into position, twelve turning into thirteen and Hades makes his way over as well, gesturing back at you, “Remind me of your name again?”

You say it calmly, clicking your pen. Your dad is sprawled out on his throne, legs over the side as he stares at the ceiling, “Alright princess—let’s get this show on the road.”

“Will we be waiting for…” your voice trails off, briefly looking towards the door.

“Nonsense. I’m sure you can brief her afterwards,” Zeus booms, and you swallow. There goes your lunch break.

“Of course. And Hermes?” You ask, eyes flickering to the only empty seat.

“Working.”

Clearing your throat, you stand tall to address the deities in the room and though you can’t look any of them in the eye, (besides your father that’s already guzzling his fourth cup of ambrosia at eleven in the morning) it does not deter you from what you came here to accomplish. Might as well do the job well if there’s nothing else to look forward to for today.

You go over the schedule of events like an automated system, not stopping even when Ares starts sighing at the end of your sentences and Demeter sends daggers toward Hades with her eyes. It’s enough to wonder why those without children present today even stay. Formalities, you presume.

“Any questions? Good, I’ll see you all in here at four o’clock,” you quickly say, not giving them a chance to interject—spinning on your heel to walk out of there with even a shrivel left of your patience. 

You find yourself running through your list again by the time you reach the end of the hall: you need to grab the tapestry that cabin 6 wove for their mother’s shrine from the bus, Lee needs help bringing in the harp after lunch, and your brothers need enough wine glasses to fill with water for their performance since they haven’t mastered the conjuring trick so well yet.

Her presence imposes itself upon you before you spot her perched next to the windowsill—the queen of the gods is not meant to be a decorative wallflower, after all. 

“D-divine Hera,” you stutter and stop short, “Would you have a moment to go over the schedule?”

“I know the schedule, child. I’ve been here longer than you. What is it, your fourth year running this thing?” She’s expressionless, maybe even a bit bored with the topic as she looks down at you. You stare at the peacock feather shawl that hangs off her shoulders.

“Third, ma’am.”

Hera smiles (or at least it sounds like she is, talking to her has always felt like twirling on a minefield), “It doesn’t surprise me that all of this falls on a woman. Where’s your husband?”

“My what?” 

You don’t mean to, but your knee-jerk reaction is to look her in the eye and the both of you are surprised by that. Hera’s perfectly arched brows are sky high now, but you haven’t been incinerated yet, so you can deduce that she might like you (or is still contemplating the matter), “The one with the pretty face, such a shame about that scar. You two were inseparable last year, I just assumed…”

With a face on fire, you clear your throat, “Oh. Luke and I aren’t…” Your eyes press closed, hot-red embarrassment brimming into tears you don’t expect to surface. Another reminder that he’s not your…anything right now.

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, “Sometimes I forget what year it is. Human societal norms and all that.”

A soft wind billows through the open air, and you hug the clipboard to your chest. You are not about to trauma dump on Hera. Though in a way, she might understand you more than you think.

“I sent him away, I guess. Sometimes it’s much easier to do things alone,” but even you don’t sound convinced. The side of Hera’s lip quirk upwards and she looks at you knowingly, “I agree. Though I guess there are worse things in life than sharing the hard parts with someone you love.” 

Looking down at your shoes, you’re not sure of what else to say. It reminds Hera of her and her husband, before time complicated everything. In the early years, every obstacle feels world-ending until it passes and all you can do is laugh with the person who was by your side. 

“I don’t have to be there later, don’t I?” the queen of the gods mutters. You shrug. Your opinion doesn’t matter, clearly, because she continues, “I don’t have any children in the show that are performing but…I want to be there.”

“I get that,” you say awkwardly, shaking your head to not fumble this conversation further, but she smiles, patting your shoulder as she walks past—it almost feels like a blessing. 

Or maybe she wasn’t even listening to you at all. 

She stops at the end of the hall.

“Trust is a fickle thing, child. It has more value once it’s been broken, and rebuilding it takes two sets of hands. Catch and fall, push and pull, go and follow.” Hera looks back at you again, her white dress swishing at her hips, “Do you agree?”

“I guess.” 

The queen of the gods looks at you thoughtfully, a girl humbly offering her heart out to her divine presence and wanting her partner, a son of Hermes at that— over any glory Olympus can provide. 

Oh, to be young and in love—it makes one invincible.

“Then I hope he makes it worth your while.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and they echo to meet her like a bittersweet greeting. Hera smiles, seeing them run through your head like a video on loop—replacing bloodied bandages in a dark train car, glitter and giggles in a locked room, burnt chocolate chip cookies, and face masks in the dim light of a bathroom. 

Marriage has definitely changed over the millennia the goddess has lived through, but what you and Luke share is what she considers to be its truest form—that of two souls choosing one another over and over.

—

There’s not a lot of things that can make the herald of Olympus stop in his tracks. He holds as many titles as the letters that fly through his fingertips—though Hermes delivers mail with gratifying ease. The job has always been second nature; being a father…not so much.

But all the power in the world cannot compensate for the fact that you cannot save your children from themselves.

So when he sees you leaning against one of the ornate marble doors outside the Hall of Gods that afternoon, he wills himself to join you in real time. Infinite versions of himself scatter across the Earth with every second that passes. But you look familiar, and well, the trickster loves solving a good puzzle.

“I know you,” he says matter of factly, yet he can’t put his finger on it. His voice is deep, like a howling wind; it blows your hair back even when he stands still in front of you. Your gaze lifts from your clipboard to travel across his face briefly, but you don’t look him in the eye. You can’t even if you wanted to—incineration by divine form and all, so you weren’t about to test your luck with him. Tempting though—you’ve heard enough about Luke’s father to want to burn holes through the god’s head like he could yours.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the other campers for the rest of the show?” Hermes prompts again, despite your silence. He is the god of communication after all. But there’s not a single thing you could think of telling him besides, “Shouldn’t you? Your kids have been waiting all year to see you.” Mortal lifetimes pass in the blink of an immortal’s eye—but he can’t spare a few minutes to see his kids? Hermes shrugs, like it’s nothing of the sort. Nothing he can do about it. Olympus takes priority. 

“The work never stops. You would know that.”

There’s a startling shriek that escapes from the seam of the doorway as little Will Solace shuffles through the doorway shyly. He tugs at your sleeve, keeping his head bowed and mumbles your name, “Where’s the bathroom?” The god replies to the kid instead, looking at the tiny fractals of light that reflect off the boy’s hair, “Uhhh…down the stairs and to the left, fourth door.”

“Need me to go with you buddy?”

He squeezes your hand and shakes his head, undeterred by the fact he interrupted your conversation with an Olympian, instead going to hop down the stairs without looking at either of you, “Miranda tried to sing again. She should really just stick to plants.” 

Perhaps the presence of gods isn't as impressive to a mortal when their godrent regularly visits them.

“So why exactly did you want to speak with me?”

You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall and wonder why Luke’s dad is still in front of you. After all, he has to have better things to do than make conversation with a moping girl with a workload stacked to the heavens.

Hermes repeats your name slowly as if he’s memorizing the way it sounds coming off his lips, “You look a little lost. So much so that it made me take a moment here with you.”

“I’m right where I need to be unfortunately, so…thanks but no thanks.” He’s the god of many domains—finding lost things being one of them, good luck being another, among the others. He can feel—actually, he knows that you’re searching for something even if you yourself don’t know what it is. The force that summons him to you feels thick, like quicksand that pulls him in planting his winged feet to the ground. Hermes observes your standoffish attitude and wonders if he’s offended you somehow. 

Pushing down the yearning you feel for his son who sits inside the marble doors, you wonder if it would’ve hurt less had Hermes not made your want known to you, an ugly, embarrassing thing that feels like a lump in your throat. His caduceus vibrates loudly in his pocket and with a sleight of hand it appears in front of him, clacking buttons. It’s annoying to be treated like an inconvenience, especially in a time of need. Like father, like son, you suppose.

But unfortunately he’s right. You’re a lost little thing, mind scrambled from this hellish week and where you left off with Luke. You want him with you in all senses of the term, both right now as you glare at his father and in the way one breathes air through their lungs—autonomic, because you simply can't help it. Hermes looks at you again, scratching at his ear as if everything about standing in front of you is making his ears ring, “Who do you belong to again?” He’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. The sound of trumpets pierce your ears when the door opens again, this time Castor catching his breath as he calls your name, “Hey. Where’s the little pipsqueak? 7’s going on soon.” Everyone seems to know you except him. 

How intriguing.

Rolling your eyes, you grumble, “Bathroom. Go back inside Cas.”

“See that’s the problem, Luke asked me where you are, should I tell him you’re…” The blond looks at who you’re speaking to and swallows, “busy?”

“That’s it. You’re Luke’s girl—” the frown that deepens on your face makes him pause, “I thought your name was Trouble?” The god looks even more confused, scratching his goatee—his son, through his nightly devotions, has asked for a lot of things from him in his short lifetime. The realization comes to the forefront of Hermes’ mind like a thumbtack pierced through a map as you respond. 

“Sometimes.”

In the past year, Luke’s narrowed it down to two things: to guide him onto the right path in life and to make sure you live well enough to be on it with him. That’s what was sacred to him—but Hermes could only see himself fulfilling one of them, if we’re being honest here: an unfortunate trick of the trade.

You grimace—maybe being in there and facing Luke would be better than having this conversation with his deadbeat dad.

“Only with him,” Castor smirks, and you shove your brother towards the stairs to go find Will. 

“How did you know that, anyway?”

Hermes chuckles, looking you up and down as if seeing you clearly for the first time, “His thoughts are even louder than yours. Even though he probably has nothing nice to say about me, he thinks about you all the time, that son of mine.”

“And what do you do then? Let it fall on deaf ears?”

“Listen, I’m not allowed to meddle,” he murmurs, a twitching hand ghosting over your shoulder. He wonders if can offer comfort —you know Luke better than the idea he has of him in his head, the glimpses of his son’s life that he’s allowed himself to see. You’ve been there these past few years to live it with him. Hermes swallows, retracting his arm to put it back against his side. The door swings open again—and it’s your father this time, cradling a wine glass that fills with ambrosia when he swirls it in his grasp.

“Kid, what’s the holdup—where’s the little sunspot and Thing 2?” Mr. D raises his glass with a grin, clapping his best friend on the back— “Hermes, my friend. Making a pit stop?” 

This just got even weirder—your head starts to spin a bit. 

Talk about a nightmare blunt rotation.

Between their lighthearted banter, Will and Castor skipping up the stairs towards you, and Pollux popping his head out of the doorway to yank the glass out of your dad’s hand (“SISSY! He’s drinking my musical instrument!”), you shut your eyes to center yourself. This might be the worst day of your life. Chaos becomes you and your blood is boiling at being surrounded by too many men when the only one you care about won’t even lo—

“Kid, you okay?”

Breathing heavily, you don’t realize you’ve clenched your hands into tight fists, and your dad doesn't know what to do. There's a thought that passes his mind as swiftly as his friend can scale the world that Luke would know what to do. Mr. D doesn't mean to, but he scoffs under his breath, shaking hand extending to reach out to an equally trembling shoulder and you flinch before it makes contact. 

"M'fine, I just need a second to think."

Pressing your palms into the pits of your eyes, your father watches you inhale a breath that seems to calm the storm brewing in your core, even for a moment, “Cas, take Will inside for his cabin’s performance. D, next time, don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” you say calmly as you conjure another glass of water and hand it to Pollux, not before taking a few sips to steady your resolve and perfect the tone of the vibrations. 

Sip. 

Too sharp. 

Sip. 

Perfect.

Putting the now fully functional instrument of water in your brother’s hand, he happily walks back through the door and now you’re just left with two gods that look at you somewhat impressed. 

“Can I help you with anything else, or are you both just going to waste my time?” Tapping your foot, your face is expressionless again, any previous traces of emotion wiped clean.

“Princess, you know you could talk—”

“Nope,” you protest, “Nothing’s wrong at all. Just ready to get this day over with.” It’s rude and to the point, but you have no patience left, “ and all offense D, I’m not gonna talk about my boy problems with you, and especially not you,” you grit pointing at Hermes, “neither of you would get it and I don’t even fully get it, and partially you two are the reason why we’re like this!”

“What did Luke do?” your dad says incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. He’s sobering up from the buckets of ambrosia he’s consumed—itching to find out about what the golden boy could ever do to agitate you like this.

The gods will never know what it feels like to love someone like this—every fiber of your mortal being constantly anticipating an end without knowing when that is. You sigh helplessly, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I don’t know who I am without you, and he only knows who he is because of you,” spitting the words out like acid, you seethe, “we’re not exactly normal teenagers, you know, so thanks for that. I can handle it from here.”

And you push past the both of them and walk through the marble doors like nothing even happened.

"Makes sense he'd fall for her," Hermes mumbles, “your girl is a force to be reckoned with.” If not a bit insane like his best friend. 

"Yeah. Just remember I can tear your boy limb from limb. Just because she can handle it doesn't mean she should. Pray your kid fixes it or fucks off. " It’s the truth—poor Penthus was just an example of Dionysus’ contradictory behavior. Ruthless punishments were like a walk in the park for your father. A jilted noise escapes Hermes's throat as if his own truth was trying to claw its way up his esophagus. The future of humanity rests on the shoulders of his favorite son, and for once, the messenger god is still---in fear? Guilt?

His thoughts are still trying to catch up with the rest of his body, but as he watches the door shut softly behind you, his winged shoes start to flap to signal his imminent departure.

“He's a good boy. He knows the worth of being loved by the right person at the right time. If he’s anything like me, he’ll cherish it while it lasts,” Hermes smiles as he fades from view, “and if he’s not like me at all—he’ll make sure it’s forever. But it looks like we’ll be in-laws, bestie!”

Mr. D groans, waving him off and conjuring another glass of ambrosia—when he walks in to rejoin everyone for the show, his boys are killing it on the musical glasses. He surveys the crowd, watching Luke Castellan only have eyes for you even in this dark crowded room.

“Shit.”

—

Nights on Olympus are prettier than what you’re used to. The stars are much closer than they would be if you were still on Earth, and they act as a natural nightlamp hanging over the enchanted ceiling of the ballroom you and your kids occupy for your one night stay. Yawning into your fist, you spot Charlie Beckendorf who’s already fallen asleep directly on top of his sleeping bag, sweatshirt on backwards and tennis shoes still on. Offering to take the last thirty minutes of his shift after watching him nod off earlier against a marble column while doing everything in your power to try to fall asleep was a no-brainer. But now that you were actually wanting to stay awake yourself, your eyelids didn’t seem to want to cooperate. 

Figures. Nothing you ever wanted has ever happened the way you wished for.

Sleep pricks at the corner of your eyes like dust from a sandstorm—presumably Hypnos forcing a hand on you getting rest. Here on Olympus he’s only a few doors away, after all.You rub your knuckles into the sockets of your eyes quite unkindly, hoping it’ll do the job. Even blinking is taking an added effort.

Patting your own cheek lightly to stimulate your senses, you cross your arms and decide to take another lap around the room. The rubber of your boots clomp louder with every shaky step and—

Tap-tap. Tap. T-tap.

D is rapping his knuckles against one of the glass doors on the perimeter like he’s playing the drums.

“Shhhh!”

Arms outstretched, you slip past rows of sleeping children, narrowly missing stretched out arms and fallen backpacks as you glare at him, “Are you trying to wake up all of Olympus?”

He looks at you with amusement, rumpled clothing and looking like a tiny, angry raccoon. You must’ve forgotten to take off your eyeliner, but he doesn’t mention it.

He brandishes two cigarettes in his hand and nods toward a door he left ajar leading onto the sprawling, wrap-around patio. And you swear you start floating towards him like an enticed cartoon character—surely you’re dreaming. 

Is there even a designated smoking area on Olympus?

“How long have you known?” 

The words almost slur out of your mouth as you swipe at his fist like a man starved—Mr.D can’t tell what exactly you’re asking. He’s known you’ve smoked since he found ash in the windowsill of his office. He’d known you and Luke have been having problems since you both started to sit at the opposite sides of the room during counselor meetings. Some things about you are harder to catch onto than others, and Mr. D is known for always being a little late to the party.

Dionysus, the god, was a late arrival to the Pantheon. Him as a father, he’s often late to discerning the happenings in his daughter’s life.  But he’s also known that boy has loved you long before he drunkenly stumbled onto his porch. Could smell it off of him— love makes people do crazy things after all. Out of all of your partners, he always thought the golden boy was just as bad—if not worse than you, gods willing. But you two were good kids, and the thought makes him chuckle, “I’ve always been able to read you, kiddo. I get there eventually.”

“Besides when I first showed up at your doorstep.”

“Shock of my life, actually. And that says a lot. You should be honored,” there’s a stupid smile on your father’s face now as he looks out onto the darkened horizon, glittering city lights on the floating mountain top. Olympus has changed in the years he’s been gone from it without him noticing. He looks over to you and realizes you have too—no longer fourteen with your hair sticky from Kool-aid, or multiple sun-tan tattoos. You always liked making a project out of your boredom.

Laughing gruffly—the base of your throat itches and you surface for air sounding like something being strangled. Blame it on the lack of sleep or teenage angst as he so aptly calls your temper tantrums, but he pulls you in to rub your back, leading you further down the walkway with a shushing, soothing coo as you whine, “What if this is the best I can be?”

“You’re nineteen, princess. A hell of a long way to go. To be honest, it gets worse as the years pass.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” you groan, smacking your head against the cool marble. “That's like a blink for you. For me it feels like I’m constantly getting off on the wrong foot. How do you do it?”

He sighs and looks at you—and all of a sudden you see your father’s age in the way he grimaces. Left to do the dirty work, the things the gods don’t want to talk about, meant to endure because every ion of his existence has reeked of resilience. 

Because it’s what’s expected of him. 

You see the resemblance now.

His wrinkles are prominent and eyebags are heavy when he doesn’t fortify the image of a silly asinine man as he lets it all melt away in front of you.

You light a cigarette and puff life into the lit end to burn the other one, breathing out and handing it over. Smoke billows around the two of you as you lean against the marble railing—-but nothing has ever been so clear. It rolls through your lungs, warming you inside and out. You lean your head against his shoulder.

“I think you could shake this whole place up if you wanted to. Never met a more stubborn kid in my life,” your dad mutters, jostling when you elbow him, “I mean it. For a lack of better words, you’re a once in a lifetime kind of girl.” He’s not looking at you, but the sentiment wavers in the air and settles slowly until you learn to appreciate it. 

“You mean that?”

D has had a share of his own struggles, from being ejected from his mother and birthed from Zeus’ thigh, to being curb stomped by Hera herself, and of course the occasional trip to the Underworld. Suddenly your life pales in comparison. 

“Get that look off your face and stop thinking so badly of yourself. Life is not a dress rehearsal—just give it your best. I'll be in the wings for as long as you need me,” he swallows, “If you want that. I’m the only one dealing with this prison sentence, anyway.”

“I would like that.”

The god scratches his neck before dragging his Birkenstocks toward the door, swiveling to point at you, “Get to bed. You've got an early morning tomorrow.”

“I know. Is that an order?” 

“Yeah, twerp,” he mutters, lingering by the glass, “Quitting cold turkey is never fun. Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. I've always been more of the type to go and get it myself though.”

“Cold turkey,” you repeat, nodding distantly. 

Letting go means to accept that you let it in. And if you’re not ready to let it go, fight for it. 

For a bunch of wordweavers, you both suck at talking to each other. It must be an Olympus thing to talk in riddles, but you’ve never been deterred by a challenge. Your fragmented conversation means a lot more than he’ll ever know. With a newfound appreciation for your dad, you smile and take a few puffs of the cigarette, taking a seat against the wall to let everything sink in. The comfortable weight of nicotine in your lungs lulls you to sleep, a momentary reprieve from everything. 

You swear you shut your eyes for just a second. Just a moment—to rest them a tiny bit.

And Luke slips out the glass doors in the other direction towards the throne room without you noticing.

When you wake up, it’ll all be over.

—

It’s snowing by the time Luke comes back. Biggest day of his life—something he’s been waiting for for months now, and it was just too goddamn easy.

And yeah, Luke understood that it is so irrevocably wrong to steal from the gods. 

But then why was it so easy?

Of course, it was all thanks to you. You don’t know it, but you helped the pieces fall into their perfect places. Keeping you up last night with the fight and leaving you to your own devices all day kept you indifferent enough about him to not notice the smaller details—him switching the night shift schedule around to his liking and making you the only obstacle between him and the Master Bolt and the Helm of Darkness (well, Ares was too, but onto more important things).

Everything happens for a reason, right? 

Getting on your last nerve has always been easy, and though he hates seeing you cry—it almost makes him feel guilty that there’s a certain thrill that soars through him when you two fight. You love him like how you argue, with an unbridled passion he loves to sink his teeth into.

And he loves you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. So despite the tear in his side that makes him clench his teeth, his first objective after his completed mission is to sidle over to your slumped form with a smile. Luke slings his jacket over your body and wraps his arm to bring your head against his shoulder. The grounds are weather-protected like at camp, yet a few stray snowflakes still catch onto your hair. You stir, “Lu?”

“I’m here. Not leaving you.”

If salvation could manifest itself into something akin to human form, perhaps it would still look like a god. Being saved is a feeling unfamiliar to Luke—the only person he was always sure could save your ass was himself.  But he wants this, you nestled against him for as long as you want, until his arms ache and pins and needles ravage his body. Luke knows he would crawl to the ends of this earth and the next if it means he’ll be with you. 

Gambling with fate will be worth it if he can find a way to make this love last forever. 

This has to work. You did what you had to do, he thinks.

Sniffing, he kisses your forehead and his jacket faintly smells of smoke. Snowflakes dot his eyelashes and he rubs your arms to make sure you’re warm, “Let you sleep longer. Looks like you needed it.”

“How long have I been asleep?” you say groggily. His thumbs wipe at your eyelids gently with the hem of a fresh shirt, “Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

It makes him grimace, emotional manipulation and a quick escape—hello Hermes!

“I’m tired, Luke.”

He sighs, and you turn to him, the both of you knee to knee, slowly being illuminated by a blanket of cool toned hues from the rising sun, “I know. Let me make it better, baby.”

Wistfully, you tangle your fingers with his in the space between you as if sealing a vow. 

”Every future I envision includes you with me. I need you to know that.” 

Overwhelmed by the events of the night, hell, these past few months—Luke starts to cry. A single rivulet cascading on the cheek adjacent to his scar and you catch it by pressing your lips to his jaw.

“Could you still love me?”

Inching closer, he feels as if you’re not close enough even when you’re breathing against the nape of his neck like this and you mumble, “You’re saying that like I ever stopped, angel.” The line blurs with each breath he takes—to earn a spot to walk amongst the gods, to live a completely ordinary life, or to be stuck in the strawberry fields of Delphini Farms forever. Luke was never awarded the privilege to want for himself before he met you, the absolution to all his wrongdoings. He can feel the quaking of your jaw under his fingertips as he slowly turns you to face him and all you have left to give him is a shattered breath.

“No matter what?”

Pressing his lips to yours as an apology feels like being saved. Lightly, until he pours himself into it and you relent, until the only thing that matters to you is that he’s with you now. Luke would merge your souls right now if he could—a tangled mess of eight limbs and head to head and everything is as it should be.

“Even if you don’t sit with me on the bus,” you smirk. He scoffs, kissing you harder and locking his lips with yours feverishly before resting much gentler ones against your tired eyes, “Oh don’t worry. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Trouble.”

A new day breaks on the horizon the longer you stay out there. But he takes these last final moments and keeps them under lock and key for safekeeping. You leave Olympus in a few hours, and by then there’ll be no time for regrets—his perfect crime with his perfect partner.

[ma1dita]

2/2 @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa  @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant  @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings @silver007 @sunny747 @huang-the-geek @batboygirlie @here-for-the-tea-baby @dreamsandconstellations @phtogravi @minkyungseokie @trashmouthcharley @beedeebee @witch-lemon @evermorecameron @angelicblondie @death-in-love@mymomisbetterthanyours @enchantedstarfish @greencircuit @mxxny-lupin @salvatt1

not your goddess

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 8k holy shit this is the longest fic for this series so far summary: (established relationship (uhhhh, well…)) The one where you both know the best of days eventually have to come to an end. Change in perspective is always good, but it makes you and Luke see your futures quite differently—you wonder if you’ll be together in it at all. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: mmmyeah this is a songfic - goddess by laufey. references to waiting for godot by samuel beckett if you squint

—

[ it always goes like this, could've predicted it || i'm so naïve to think you loved me for me, kissed as I ran off stage || you're too old to play this game, guess you're still growing up at thirty nineteen]

Once you open yourself up to someone and bare your soul to them in honesty, they get a choice whether they want to be with you or not. It’s as simple and as convoluted as that. Normal humans are complex as it is—but to be a demigod must mean to endure all of that and then some. Luke has been especially hard to reach lately, and trying to understand him feels like grappling wisps of smoke. You let him build his whole life around you without either of you realizing and suddenly the walls feel like they’re closing in. Though maybe he always knew that—Luke Castellan is always intentional, and always full of surprises. 

“We should run away from here.”

His voice breaks through the crunching of dead leaves underfoot on your trek to the stables. It’s hard to tell if he’s joking, even harder to decipher when your eyes meet in the dim light hanging above the Dutch doors that you walk through. 

The two of you move as if partners in an orchestrated dance, the steps routine and not needing instruction; you fill up the water troughs and he steps around you to grab the bag of feed while his other hand grazes your waist, beckoning you to the next task. Most days are like this now, plotted out perfectly from sunrise to sunset. 

To be content means that most of it is predictable, and some might call it boring, but it comes with the inner satisfaction that what the both of you share is only yours. 

It’s peaceful.

Neither of you has ever really had that—and in your own way, both of you want to hold onto it for as long as you have it. Like how comets are always predictable; the knowing doesn’t make them any less beautiful.

“Let’s go now then,” you chuckle lightly, not looking at him as you shut off the hose. Bowie, your pegasus, brays in thanks as he dunks his muzzle into the trough, splashing water at your ankles. The water is frigid, a chill crawling up your spine and when you look up, Luke’s already staring at you solemnly, almost blending in with the shadows that drape over the barn. He stands there leaning against the wooden fence with his sharp, stone-faced features carved out by moonlight.

“Baby?” 

Eyebrows furrowing, you take a step towards him and he’s eerily still, holding a hand out for you. His fingers don’t shake once you intertwine them with your own and he’s so sure of himself that his resolve is like a suit of armor. What a funny thought—him needing protection from you of all people, the girl he lays bare with most nights and who knows him at his most vulnerable. 

“What do you think? Do I look like I’m joking?”

Luke’s words creak like metal hinges—coming off abrasive at the sight of your resistant expression. Truthfully, he hates it when you look at him like this—like there’s something wrong about him that you’re convinced you can fix. You don’t do it on purpose, but he’d like to think that you don’t think of him as one of your little DIY projects. This is different, calculated—his plans for the both of you will map out the rest of your future.

“Are…are you planning to leave?”

Though you hate to make the comparison, he’s a lot like his father: a one-track mind with only him knowing what’s coming next. Luke just expects everyone else to keep up, and you’re left feeling like someone’s pulled the rug out from under you as he holds onto your wrists firmly in the dim light. He’s nervous, even if he doesn’t show it. You can still tell by the way his voice cracks, a melancholy sound like he’s pleading for you to understand a hidden meaning you must’ve missed in the past few months of bliss.

 “We are,” he corrects, before his voice begins to falter, “I mean we can. We…we should,” he says tentatively, and your arms jerk forward with the motion as you stumble into his grasp, “Think of it, babe. We could get out of here and do something great. Make a life for ourselves.”

You squint.

He’s not even asking, and that makes it worse, you think—it’s like he’s already got one foot out the door. You’re not sure if he even considered you possibly saying no.

Are you?

Entertaining frivolous conversations that your boyfriend has with you before bed is one thing—but acting on them? The truth is that you’ve never afforded yourself a future outside of the reality that you have now. You never thought you’d have this after everything—running across the country to find your father and make this family in nowhere New York. It wasn’t a possibility that your 14-year-old self would’ve ever dreamed of. 

But then it happened, and you count your lucky stars that it led you to Luke. This is your home; you built it from the ground up with him the day you both stepped into your roles and washed your hands of stupid pranks. And maybe what you’ve always dreamt of is something you already have now.

Is that a crime? To like your reality better because it’s tangible—not everyone needs to be the main character in a sweeping saga. You do have a life, and you’d like to say it’s pretty alright, all things considered.

“Luke,” you swallow, face scrunching up in the way it does when he knows you’re about to say no, “I mean what about our responsibilities? What about…”

It was cute back when you were fourteen, but he now finds that he hates the way your nose scrunches up when you disagree with something, and it always makes him feel stupid for even asking in the first place. Luke steps away, dropping your hands as he sighs gruffly, “That’s a shit excuse, you know that, babe.” Dust kicks up from under his feet and you think he looks like a child about to throw a tantrum. The pegasi whinny softly behind you, and if they could talk it would probably be something like, Oh shit. Like a flip of a switch, he’s erratic, something pent up inside of him is now uncontrolled.

“I mean what do you want me to say, Luke? You want us to leave? Just disappear and leave Annie and Grover… and my brothers? What then? We don’t have money or degrees, or anywhere to go to—”

“We could make do—I mean we’ve both done it before Trouble, and now we can be together without all this. We don’t need camp. Or the gods’ blessings, I mean what did they ever do for us?” 

He’s tired, you think—because the Luke standing in front of you right now isn’t anything like the one you know. Your Luke loves your campers as much as you do; he’s the type that gives piggyback rides and teaches the little ones how to swim in Canoe Lake. He prays at every mealtime—twice as long because you don’t see the point in it, and likes to fall asleep against your chest in the twinkly lights of cabin 12.

The Luke you know would never want to run away from the home you’ve both created for yourselves. Not without a proper plan. Luke always says that he loves making plans just as much as he loves you, which must mean a lot.

You already have what you want, for now. That’s the contingency of it—for now. You just don’t see it getting better than this; finding camp meant finding yourself, and that’s what your mother always wanted for you. Having a real shot of being a family, even if your dad drives you nuts, and the twins like to fill the bathtub with root beer, and Annie constantly demanding she prove that she knows the first 500 digits of pi comes with the path you chose. 

Family—it’s what you were promised.

“We’re not ready, Luke. I mean… the real world out there is a lot worse than getting a C in archery or avoiding bathroom duty. We’ve still got some growing up to do—what’s the rush?”

He’s testy now—jaw swinging the crick in his neck and he does this when he’s about to say something mean, like the words have to fight their way out of his mouth, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Luke watches you look cluelessly at him like nothing he’s saying is making sense and it’s so frustrating that it makes his head hurt. What happened to you—his free-spirited girl who would follow wherever he leads? You don’t know how crucial this all is—Luke needs to know…

He needs to know if you’ll still follow him wherever he goes, even if it’s away from everything you have here.

But maybe you both imagined growing old together quite differently then.

“You’re making it sound like I’m in over my head about this when I know you don’t like it here. Listen to what I’m trying to tell you,” he bristles, hand leaning over the wooden beam above your head, “This place is getting old. We’re getting old. I want everything with you. Can’t you see that?” It feels like he’s caging you in, and he makes it sound so simple that it makes you laugh.

“Of course I do. All I’m saying is we should think this through more. I mean…We’re demigods. I’m not saying we can’t handle it and I’m not saying no, but—”, you barely finish the sentence before Luke interrupts you again. 

The difficulty with Luke is that when he wants something, he wants it with his entire being. And he never goes down without a fight—even when its with you.

“But you’re not saying yes. Then what are you saying? That you wouldn’t be happy with me?”

Rolling your eyes, you swing yourself out from under his arm and start taking off your apron because clearly, work is not on the agenda tonight. You fling it onto the hook before spinning around to look at him.

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I am happy with you. Here. Where it’s safe. Where we have beds to sleep in and food to eat and the only real reason I have to look over my shoulder is to see if my dad’s bribing your siblings to sneak him alcohol,” you say half-jokingly, and it so badly misses the mark as you see his brows furrow deeper into his forehead. 

“Give me a break,” he seethes, your name rolling out of his lips like acid and he has more to say but doesn’t know if he should. But he’s already started something and you’re just waiting for him to finish it. He has a habit of doing this, rolling the words around in his mouth for dramatic effect. 

This is gonna hurt.

“Oh just spit it out, Luke. Don’t whine like a baby.”

“Your dad? He’s a fucking joke. Can’t stand him half the time and I don’t know how you do,” he starts, pacing around you like a boxer in a ring. You stand still as a statue, eyes lit and tracking him in the dark as he continues, “You know I’m right. He’s just keeping you busy because now that he has you, he wants to control you. And you don’t even get a pat on the back.”

“You do not wanna go there, I can promise you that.”

“Well, I am. Because I’m tired of watching you waste your potential. You used to be so…exciting,” His arms swing around him like feathered wings and Luke shakes his head, turning away from you to look at the moon, “I need you to care about our future too, okay? Cut the shit and be a real fucking person for once and not whatever this little puppet show you put on for your dad is because it drives me crazy sometimes. All the time. I’m losing it, Trouble. Can’t you tell?”

It feels like a blow to the chest and you take a deep breath to placate your feelings in case they’re tampering with his—and you find that the anger is all his own. Your words shoot out like a lit cannon in rebuttal, “This drives you crazy? I didn’t know it was so hard on you, Luke. Poor you, picking up after me when you literally offer to help,” you scoff, stomping over to get him to look at you since he’s so intent on having this conversation, “Do you think you get granted immortality for checking off campers on your attendance log?” He can’t have thought it would be that easy, can’t have imagined you wouldn’t get defensive when things don’t go your way. Because it’s been like that for a while now, and Luke’s been falling off pace with life here. He’s not the all-star golden boy he used to be. Deep down, you know that too; he only likes it here because you do. They say with anything the first year is the hardest—and although he wouldn’t change a thing with your relationship, this took work. Loving you was supposed to be his reward, and it’s as if he doesn’t know you anymore. 

He’s not sure he knows himself that well anymore either.

“Of course not! That’s exactly what I’m saying—all of this won’t help us, so why are we exhausting ourselves instead of focusing on what’s important?” He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the curls to anchor himself to this argument. And now you just want to strike back, to be damned with the consequences. Real love is a mirror, and although it's your first big fight…sometimes it hurts to be seen better than how you see yourself, and it hurts less to inflict it upon someone else instead of admitting that it hurts you.

“Oh so I’m exhausting to be with, is that it?”

He rips his apron off and tosses it at you, “Yes. Is that what you want me to say? You want a bad guy, you’ll get one. I don’t know what to—” His anger has always brewed like a storm—quiet and rumbling under the surface until he’s ready to strike. It comes down all at once and you’re covered in it with no way out but through. You bat the fabric to the ground angrily.

“You wanna repeat that?”

He laughs, a mocking, snarling sound, “You know what, it makes sense now—you’re just like your father. It all tracks!”

Your jaw tightens, pushing through by giving him another chance, testing him. Daring him.

“You wanna say that again?”

The wind picks up at his feet as he spins around you so fast it almost gives you whiplash, “Don’t give me that bullshit.” He’s tired and angry, but you’ve never seen this other side of him before—this ferocity that was unleashed at the idea of you wanting something he might not. Maybe you both are too similar then, too stubborn to give in until someone breaks.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Castellan. I’m warning you. Just because your dad hates you doesn’t mean that mine does.”

He laughs. 

Luke laughs like you’ve just told him you’ve put Chiron in another dress and that pigs can fly but then he looks at you… He looks at you with his chestnut brown eyes and they’re just empty, boring deep into your soul.

“What happened to you?”

It’s a weird feeling, to know someone so well that you can see the other side of them they can’t see for themselves. You haven’t got a single clue.

“I grew up. You were there, Luke. You helped me do it. I wanted to be just like you—the role model, the one that people like, and what, now that I'm not just some crazy idea in your head you’re bored?” 

Your voice cracks and so does a piece of Luke’s heart. You’re too tenderhearted, too good for him, and everything about you sends shockwaves through his being. This is what he told Kronos—even if you had it in you to force the gods to kneel and listen, would you be able to make the jump? Luke blinks, tuning back into your words.

“I mean you’re not even asking. It seems like you’ve made your decision for us. What does that mean to you? Us?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. His apology feels heavier than it should, and you can’t figure out why. He won’t let you find out if he even means it. 

“No, you’re not. You don’t even know what you’re sorry for, and now as soon as we’re happy, you get bored. You wanna talk about fathers, you’re just like yours too. Happy?” 

The words come out almost explosive, a shot in the dark and you didn’t think you’d say it, but you did. Thoughtless, without care, until it sinks into him like a sharp blade. Luke’s face hardens and you’re not sure how long he’s been standing so far away.

“Are we?”

It’s almost lights out and you’re still here arguing with Luke, so today was not as predictable as you thought it would be. Unease grips you by the scrap of your neck like a merciless kitten, holding on for dear life. This isn’t a feeling you should associate with the love of your life.

“What did you say?”

“Like you said, we’re demigods,” he says whispering your name, “what do we do now that we’re happy? That usually means something worse is coming up ahead.” Luke scoffs, half in disbelief at his own realization, the other half in defeat, “We’re meant for more than just being happy—that…this isn’t enough. We’re meant for glory, not shoveling pegasi shit and taking care of children instead of planning for a future with our own. This shouldn’t be the end of us.”

Your lip quivers, tongue in cheek and you need to touch something, hold someone, to remind yourself that this is happening. But you don’t reach out to him because if you get too close he’ll see the tears in your eyes. Grabbing the dandy brush, you trudge over to Bowie and rake it through his hair, mumbling, “I’m happy. I’ve got you,” you swallow, turning to Luke, “I love you.”

He’s already in the doorway, swinging the bottom panel closed with his hip as he looks over his shoulder, frowning.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Bowie brays next to you and it sounds like someone blowing a raspberry when they’re tired of a situation—maybe you are going crazy and they do understand—but one thing you do know is that you can’t understand Luke right now. 

The truth is that love is a bunch of horseshit, really.

[ oh, were you surprised by me when you took me home? || When the glamour wore off, reduced to skin and bone || i can't even tell who you want to know || i'm a goddess on stage, human when we're alone]

Your knees hit the dirt again, falling forward onto your hands as you dry heave. In the blink of an eye, you feel Maimer resting against the apex of your neck.

“Yield.”

Clarisse La Rue has barely broken a sweat during this spar, and yet here you are at her feet feeling like today’s breakfast will make a reappearance on the arena floor. The younger girl rolls her eyes as she pulls you up by the leather strap of your chest plate, sighing at the unnatural pallor of your skin as she flops onto a bench with your dead weight following suit as your knees buckle.

“You know, I knew you said you were bad at this, but are you even trying?” she scoffs, throwing a water bottle at you that you fumble in your hands. Winning never feels as good when the other person isn’t putting up a fight. You gulp down the icy refreshment, shutting your eyes for a moment to escape the blinding sun as you mutter, “Never been a fighter unless necessary, Risse. That’s all you.”

“Alright, enough of this.”

Your eyes wrench open as you lean back on your forearms to look at the daughter of Ares. At thirteen, she’s a force of nature on her own and unlike anyone else at camp, Clarisse would never mince her words for the sake of others’ feelings. You needed someone to tell it to you straight.

“You know everyone can tell when you and Luke fight, right? I mean it rarely happens but when it does it always feels like the world is out of balance until you both fix it.”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face and unintentionally hiding from her. That couldn’t be true—the world does not revolve around whether or not a daughter of Dionysus and a son of Hermes had their shit together.

But Camp Half-Blood does.

“You’re lying, La Rue. It’s really not that deep.”

And then she looks at you like you’re stupid, which might be her customary expression for anyone else but to you—well, she at least respects you. For now, unless you keep whining like a badly written love interest.

“Gods, woman. You were so much cooler back then, what the hell happened to you?”

“Clarisse, it isn’t that easy—-” you grumble, putting your face in your hands as you stare at the dirt. Of course, you know that everyone knows, secrets run through Camp Half-Blood like running water. It slips through your fingers easily, soaking through the ground until everyone’s stuck in the mud. Your boots sink slightly into the softening earth and Clarisse realizes you’re crying before you do. 

Why the fuck are you crying? 

It was a stupid argument and it probably doesn’t mean anything but for once, you don’t know what to do. It feels stupid that your body decided to cry before your brain could come to the conclusion. This all feels so stupid.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry, weirdo,” she mumbles, unsure of what to do with a crying head counselor. Her calloused hands rub small circles into your back, and she can’t help but think you need more girlfriends your age. Scooting closer to you, she says, “What I meant was that you were way cooler when you didn’t give a shit about what people think about you, much less Luke Castellan. You’re starting to sound like you’re from 10, and I swear Sil is the only tolerable person from that cabin. Stop crying, please…”

You sniff, “Ugh… This is so dumb. Just lost myself for a second.” The statement rings true, and it bothers you more than you thought it would. There is so much more to you than playing the part of the agreeable girlfriend, the caretaker, the perfect daughter, that if you stared at yourself in the mirror you might not recognize who’s staring back. So many parts to play, and so little of you left.

“I guess, what I’m trying to say is,” Clarisse sighs, “and I’m no good at this feelings shit, but I think you need to remember that you’re allowed to be someone without him…without all of this. And you owe it to yourself to find out who that is.” You look up at her with watery eyes, tucking hair behind your ear as if it’ll help you absorb her words better. 

You can’t believe you’re getting sound advice from a thirteen-year-old, much less a child of Ares on matters of love. 

“It’s nice to be needed,” you mumble, “my greatest honor, I think. But it might also be my downfall.” 

Clarisse smiles crookedly like she’s watching you through a fresh set of eyes. There’ll be no words of this conversation once you leave the arena—the both of you have a friendship unlike most girls here at camp. Never touchy-feely, typical girl talk, but always what you need to hear. 

“How terrifyingly human of you. Yuck.”

“I can’t go on like this,” you groan, slumping further into your folded-over position and she sighs, going to take a sip from her water bottle before squeezing your shoulder.

“That’s what you think.”

[ you took a star to bed, woke up with me instеad || you must have felt so damn decеived when you made up a version of me that you thought you loved || but I am not your Aphrodite ]

When you were fifteen years old and he was just a month shy of it, you had somehow convinced Luke Castellan to run away from camp with you. 

This was back then. Just for a day—just for the tiniest taste of freedom. 

Luke had been at camp for almost a year, and Rye Playland sounded so much cooler than food service with the nymphs—which is one of the few things he would agree with you on. The both of you had kitchen duty for two weeks after getting caught attacking each other during Capture the Flag despite being on the same team, and it ended up with you ripping the fabric off the stick and chucking it into the middle of Canoe Lake. He’s lucky you didn’t lunge for his head, but the game was forfeit, and cabin 6 didn’t talk to you two for weeks because you threw the game. Including Annie, which was a surprising feat in itself.

After that day, you swore to never do anything Luke made himself in charge of and Chiron swore you two would never be on the same team again. You could remember D’s voice that day and how it boomed through the Big House, reminiscent of his father—a crackle of fury and impalpable seriousness that had Luke shaking slack-jawed in the chairs facing the mahogany desk. He’d never been told off by a parent before, much less an Olympian.

Taking it in stride even as the god threatened to turn you both into dolphins, you mimed the conversation when your father’s back turned, copying the odd quirk in D’s brow and conjuring a mouthful of grapes for teeth. You grinned at the son of Hermes like an idiot, a singular ripe sphere shooting out to make an audible thwack against D’s red Hawaiian shirt that made Luke laugh the loudest, ugliest guffaw you’ve ever heard him let out. He choked on his spit when the god jerked his head back to face the both of you like a comic-book villain.

Honestly, he might’ve peed himself a little. Just a tiny bit.

And the god of insanity himself was at his wits’ end—which is rare for him, very few things can get him to that point. Even less so with people. Pathetic, puny, little people he can drive to madness and violent death. 

But not his baby girl—you know every last nerve to step on, a lot like your mother sure, but still all him in every way it mattered. He loved it, even when he was mad at you like this. He just wasn’t good at showing it, and you knew that to some extent. Plus, you can’t take a man in a Hawaiian shirt seriously, much less a god.

So you and your self-proclaimed archnemesis (frenemy, Luke insists) find yourselves running down Farm Road before first light, leaving nothing but a trail of dust behind you as you rush to catch the LIRR at a stop two towns over.

It was a small amusement park filled with different money-grabbing oddities, tooth-rotting confections, and rickety, squeaking rides that the conductors could fold into suitcases at the end of the day.

Sketchy, but so much fun. You made Luke go on all the kiddie rides with you and screamed your head off like a lunatic; he apologized to the parents of a toddler and said you had too much sugar—but that was a lie, this was all you in your natural state. Berry chapstick, wind-tousled hair, and a smile brighter than a spotlight. And your laughter, oh, your laughter shook the walls of the funhouse even after you crashed into the fifth mirror being too busy poking fun at the wonder in Luke’s eyes because it was the first time he’s genuinely done something for fun and not out of necessity. It was nice, and so were you, for once.

It was the first time you’d let your guard down for him, he thinks back—watching you toss a ball so badly off target from milk bottles set across the booth. You twisted in his grasp (he doesn’t remember getting so close, Luke still swears he was trying to help you aim) pouting at him with those pretty plum eyes and he sighed so deeply you smelled the cotton candy on his breath. For a moment you wondered if he tasted like it too—and then the worker asked if you’ll be trying again and you went, “Hmm? Maybe he’d be better at it!”

Luke rigged the shot with the snap of his finger, all the milk bottles falling to the ground with a crash and he swore on his life he’d sell out every single one of these stupid games if it gets you to bite your lip at him like that again.

There isn’t a single hint of regret that passed that entire day—you were already in trouble, so you both figured that you might as well enjoy it. By late afternoon, your legs felt like jelly and it felt less like you dragging him around the fairgrounds and more like holding onto him for support (because there’d be no other reason you’d want to hold his hand, your stomach just felt funny…that’s all!) Luke was wolfing down a funnel cake, the powdered sugar dust getting all over his shirt and he looked up to see you staring at him with a shit-eating grin.

Hand pointed in the air, Luke simply shakes his head.

“Fuck no.”

But you always had a way of convincing him to do things (Luke is a sucker susceptible to double dog dares) and the both of you are surprised he let you because sooner rather than later, you’re sat knee to knee in a tiny, screeching Ferris wheel cart that inched 100 feet into the sky. The white paint was peeling at his fingertips and the air was warm—Luke tried to focus on that instead of the fact that he was in a metal death chamber in the sky.

“Never imagined a son of Hermes would be scared of heights,” you grinned, nudging him with your foot. You’ve folded into yourself, hugging your knees as you looked at him and he thought that he might be having a heart attack at the ripe age of fourteen and three-quarters. But the pink and purple rays of the waning sun framed you so nicely that he wished he brought a camera—he had the silly photobooth strips from earlier tucked into his pocket, but you looking like that; Luke had etched it into his memory for safekeeping. Not only was he able to breathe a bit easier, but if there was a memory he could materialize from today—it’d be you grinning maniacally through the bars of the cart, pointing at the city in the distance. 

“We’ve finally found something you’re not good at, golden boy,” you grinned, tilting your head to the side and inspecting him like he was a sad hamster in a glass ball.

“M’not scared of heights, I'm just scared of falling,” he reasoned, looking at the rusted floor. You were making your boots dance along to the beat of the fair music, tapping along to the cyclical rhythm. He was more scared of the lack of control he had at this moment—any of the other crazy rides, Luke had stood at the tiny gate next to the conductor holding the plush avocado he won for you, watching and hearing you scream for joy as the machines flung you into the air. The ones he did go on were relatively tamer, and by the third kiddie coaster, he realized that you probably whooped for joy just to make him feel better.

You kissed him on the cheek that day, so close to his mouth (but not close enough) when the Ferris wheel ultimately screeched to a stop. A necessary distraction, you said—but you weren’t sure for who. He tasted sugar-sweet and smelled like the late summer sun. You had never kissed a boy before, unsure if you’d even know how, or if Luke would even want to if you did.

The thought passed when you realized his fingers were clenched and white-tipped onto the guardrails and you…you’re terrible, so you started rocking back and forth, giggling until he yelled at you to stop, pulling you into his lap. 

The conductor thought you two were doing something way less innocent, and you both got kicked out of Rye Playland afterward—but you got your money’s worth.

Well, you both snuck in and Luke definitely pickpocketed someone’s mom.

All in all, it was a great day.

You fell asleep on his shoulder on the way back home, the Long Island Railroad car chilly with the AC. Watching you drool, he thought he might even like traveling again if it’s for fun like this, might even hate his dad less too. Luke threw his whole dinner into the hearth that night with a bright smile on his face even after Mr. D yelled at the both of you in front of everyone at the dining pavilion. After all, the only factor in his life that’s changed in the past year, an addition, if you must— was you.

[ you took me for a fool, you stole my youth, you wanted this so much || you watched me rise then killed my light || and now you know I'm not your fucking goddess ||  oh, i'm no goddess when i'm alone ]

Work is work.

That’s what you’ve both been telling yourselves throughout an already rough week gone even worse, but trying to avoid your significant other is an especially difficult task when you work together. 

It’s the simple truth—you can’t ignore someone you have to talk to primarily because of these two factors: 1. Capture the Flag teams need to be sorted by Thursday mornings to be ready to play on Friday afternoons, and 2. it is weird for campers to see you two not interacting with each other.

Well, it’s Friday now, and you and Luke haven’t talked since that argument in the barn. 

Kind of, but the times you have didn’t count—the past few days have been both of you talking around other people; not directly to each other. Last night at dinner, Chris stared at you like one does when their parents are thinking of getting a divorce, eyes flickering between you two and his cheeseburger. Luke was sitting next to you on the bench blankly picking the tomatoes off his sandwich and you were staring glumly at your slice of pizza.

“Is there something going on between you two?”

He was one of the few brave enough to be blunt about it. You and Luke were all-consuming, like a black hole. It’s hard for others not to notice the gravitational pull, but when it’s bad…. everyone and everything gets sucked in, whether they like it or not. 

“Lee was excited to hear that your cabin is teaming up with them tomorrow. It’ll be quite interesting, all of you with 7 and 9,” you said, wiping grease off the slice with a napkin. Luke’s head jerked in your direction at your words, “Dude what—Chris! I thought I signed off on working with 6? We don’t work with Apollo for a reason,” he hissed, leaning over the table towards his brother. Chris scratched the back of his neck, knowing Luke was right. Cabin 7 isn’t that good in all matters that involve stealth—the last time they worked with them, Austin was scatting under his breath and it got them ambushed by the red team. Opening his mouth to speak, you quickly interjected, “Well it’s about time to change it up—keeps things exciting, don’t you think, Chris?”

Luke sighed, redirecting his brother’s focus to him, “What do you think, man? I just think when it comes to battle strategies we should stick to what works.” Chris swallowed, raising his hand in the air; he was grappling at the edge of a cliff just trying to hold on to either of you—he looked around to see if there was a way out of this. Next to him, Ethan averted his eyes and played with his carrot sticks.

“Funny how that works for battle strategies and not other things,” you hummed around a mouthful of pizza, “Don’t you think, Chris? I just think that you never want to be predictable in these things. It makes everything boring. Or so I’ve heard,” you munched thoughtfully, daring the son of Hermes to break eye contact with you as Luke scoffed, tossing his napkin onto his plate before standing up. He walked off without a second glance, throwing everything into the hearth—plastic tray included, and stormed off toward the cabins. The rest of the table minded their business, shoveling food into their mouths. Chris choked on a french fry.

And you smirked, satisfied at the small win. 

But now, almost a day later tramping through the sodden dirt of the North Woods in heavy body armor, you remind yourself that it is so very hard to prove a point to Luke Castellan. He finds you halfway through the game as you hold onto the red flag post, standing tall at the vantage point and looking like a stone grotesque protecting the area you’re surveying. By the time you notice, a blur of cobalt whizzes towards you—knocking out the three Ares kids standing guard around the perimeter. You gasp, raising a hand sending vines hurtling toward the air until you see him hanging upside down by the ankles, wrapped in green leaves and purple bunches of grapes. Luke’s headwear falls to the earth with a clang.

“I’m not here for the flag!”

You rush over, dropping the pole and sighing, “Luke…you scared me! I thought you were with Beck today.” The blood rushes to his head as he looks at you all out of focus. Seeing you the other way around gives him a new perspective on things—the epiphany almost makes him ache, but that might also be the pressure pooling in his forehead. You brush your thumb against his cheek before letting him down slowly, and all he does is look at you.

“We need to talk.”

“Like, actually this time?” you mumble, hugging yourself as you watch the vines unravel from his limbs and sink back into the ground. You’ve always been a good actress and Luke was the best liar around—this shared penchant for fabricating the truth used to make you one and the same.

It is more obvious now that actors and liars are wholly different; actors live in an imaginary world given to them, while liars strive to create it for themselves. There’s that saying—don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Luke finds that he’s starting to hate all of it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “we can’t keep ignoring this, Trouble.” It takes a special kind of sadness to feel lonely even when you’re with someone. You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling your spirit sink into the ground below you, almost resigning yourself to what will happen next. All the petty backtalk, the times you’ve crawled into bed with him already pretending to be asleep— it all comes down to this. There’s this French word that Annie had taught you a few days ago when you spent extra time snuggled up in her bunk, partially to catch up with your favorite girl and partially… to waste more time before going home to him. 

Énouement—-The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future and seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

“Luke…” you start, watching him sheath Backbiter with a casual flick of his hand, “Would you go back if you could? Before…” Barely able to string your words together, he notices your lip quivering, “Did you like me more back then?”

“Baby…” he sighs, going to wrap his arms around you and you hold onto him in return at arm's length.

“I’m really trying…” you choke out, pressing your lips to hold in the onslaught of things you want to say. To understand? To apologize? The words die out on your tongue.

“I know. You’re always trying, Trouble. That might just be the saddest part.”

Wind whirls through your hair, pushing you against him for shelter as you gather your thoughts. In the silence of the woods, you wonder how many moments you’ve spent drawn to him like this for comfort. Luke’s always there for you, whether you like it or not. For better or worse—you wonder if there won’t be a lot of chances to hold and be held, and you can’t seem to let go.

“I didn’t change, okay? I’m still me. People don’t change, just like the gods don’t. I just don’t see us away from this,” you swallow, tracing a finger over his bicep to distract your burning eyes, “we can’t escape who we are Luke. Me and you. Isn’t that enough for now?”

He lets out a sigh and you know his answer; his shoulders sink low enough that your hold on him loosens ever so slightly. At this rate, you think it’d be easier if he’d just pull the trigger—maybe it would hurt less than this.

“I’ll change the gods’ minds and make them agree. They’ll know us, babe. The glory—”

Everything around you blurs as you hone in on your anger. This whole forest could go up in flames and you wouldn’t give a damn,”Oh FUCK glory! Just love me and that’s enough! Why can’t that be enough? Why can’t you stop running from me for once, Luke!” Your plea comes out like a wail and you push him away, feeling disgusted by what’s come of this conversation. You were never a beggar—the only thing left to do was kneel in the dirt and beg him not to break up with you. Before you can think of the irrational thought any further he shakes his head, almost growling, “How do you still not get it? It’s because I love you is why I can’t.”

“Listen, I love you too, babe. I just…don’t know if I like you right now.”

That’s not fair. He’s sacrificing the entire trajectory of his life and you can’t figure out if you like him? You don’t know the lengths he would go to, can’t fathom the obstacles he would conquer just to make sure that you and him have it all. And you’re not even trying to see it his way—to even imagine that he could make it possible.

Things couldn’t stay the same forever, that you could both agree on.

“You’re all talk, you know that, Trouble? You’re just mad that I want this life more than you. And you know I’d actually do what I need to do to get it. Would you?” he nudges you roughly, “Talk to me! This is your time to get it all out of your system. Say that I wouldn’t do anything for you. You know I would.” Fat tears are rolling down your cheeks; he hates watching you cry. It’s the whole reason he signed away his soul—he wants the world you live in to be a place where gods bow down to you and dry your tears, not cause them. Luke would topple Olympus in an instant if it meant you wouldn’t look at him like he’s a lost cause.

“That’s not fair, you haven’t even answered a single question I’ve asked you. It’s like you’re not even listening to me, Lu—”

“Not fair?”

Groaning, you turn away from him. The flag post you dropped earlier is long gone now—the game is still on and the world keeps spinning whether you like it or not. But you’re disinterested in all that now.

“Do you even hear yourself? To you, I’m still the girl on the Ferris wheel,” you sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve. His hands squeeze your shoulders, begging, pleading for you to understand, “Is that a bad thing? You tell me you haven’t changed—I’m protecting her because you won’t. I’m getting her the hell out of here because I know she deserves more than this. Look around you,” he whispers your name against your neck, “We could forget all of this.” 

But that’s just not who you are. Your shoulders tremble as you hold them up under the pressure. Sure you could see what he’s saying—there isn’t a single future you can imagine without Luke in it. The house, the kids…but more than that you just want to belong somewhere. And Camp Half-Blood is where you belong. With him. 

“I don’t want everything, Luke. I just want you. And if you don’t want this, I need you to tell me now. Because I’m tired,” you warble, digging your nails into your palms, “ and I’m sick of this game. I feel like neither of us are winning.” You take a step back to look at him—sunlight filtering through his hair, eyes wistful and contemplative.

“Maybe we should take a break.”

And there it is. He’s already made his decision, whether he admits it or not. A horn blares overhead, followed by the sounds of cheering. You don’t know who won, and you don’t really give a shit if we’re being real right now. 

“Does it even matter?”

There’s a frozen look on your face like you’ve been struck by lightning, half between a crooked smile and subtle surprise. It’s a knowing look, Luke thinks, what he can see of you through half-lidded lashes and grief. He thinks years from now, if he even makes it that far, it’ll all come back to this moment in the North Woods, and you, the girl he was in love with at nineteen.

“It’s not even worth it now I guess,” he whispers. It makes you laugh—even your laughter sounds sad now. 

It seems that even breaking up with you is an inconvenience.

You sniff, wiping your face and looking around. Everyone’s gone already and Chiron will be looking for you two soon, “Then it’s not worth it. Because you say so… and we’ve got work to do.” Your watch beeps. 

Dinner service starts soon, but before you both head over to the pavilion, you and Luke are expected to set up the bonfire. He nods, loosening the straps of his chestplate, just something to do with his hands, “I know.”

“I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to leave this all behind yet. I’m still needed here.” Until your coming of age ceremony. Until your heart calls you elsewhere and your family can stand on their feet. 

Until then.

Somewhere, you hear Annabeth calling out to you, the melody of both of your names traveling through the trees. You and Luke turn your heads in that direction, before looking at each other once more. He licks his lips, “I know that. We should get back to it, then.” There’s no use doing this all alone, he thinks. And there’s a part of you that thinks there is no use for you when you’re alone.

“We should.”

Neither of you move. 

The winter solstice is tomorrow and there is much work left for the both of you to do.

—

I don’t understand how he grows colder from the same love that warms me. I didn’t know we loved differently—him partly, less and less, and I entirely. - JNH / @shatteredjuvenileday