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She’s working in the dining area when he first spots her. He’s standing a few meters away, but her earphones are on, and he can hear the loud rock, thrashing beat. Her fingers move in stark contrast to the pounding, drawing careful lines, precise curves. Curls fall from her bandana, currently marred with flecks of wood dust, when her head ducks down closer to the paper.
He swallows. “Hey,” he says.
Of course, she can’t hear him. It’s harder to go closer, especially when he feels like he’s being a disturbance. The Camp is slowly building itself back, grunt work is being shoved into every empty hand, responsibilities entrusted to those who have bones left to carry it. Percy feels stupid. Standing in perpetual dusty air, between the injured and the ghosts of those he couldn’t save, all he can see is gold. Her hair, her smile.
She looks up, suddenly. Her eyes.
She’s stunned for a moment, eyes open as wide as arms, and her pencil slips down. Everything plays out in slow motion, his brain is not used to this kind of focus. It’s a battle, the most subtle rise of red up her neck is the slightest stir of an opponent’s shoulders, and then—because Percy always loses against her— the finest turn of her lips is a dagger that pierces right through his heart. While Percy bleeds out, her cheeks press against her eyes, softening the big circles, and soon—he sighs, so he can die in peace—it grows into a grin.
She gets up too fast, unmindful of the proximity of the table, her stuff, and it all rattles when her knees knock against the wood.
He steps forward hastily, his right arm outstretched.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. Her grin dances back and forth; goes behind curtains, and comes into stark view again, like it’s unsure of its existence. Is it acceptable to feel such joy because of only his presence?
“Am I disturbing you?” His gaze drops to her abandoned work. She’s sketching a new cabin, he realizes, and his heart flutters. Percy has been busy aiding the construction of new homes for new campers, using wood, building material, and young hope to fill the miserable space left behind by those who died. The word feels weird in his mouth. He thought he had made himself used to the idea of dying, telling himself every day until his 16th birthday that his place here was temporary. Maybe that was why he always teetered on the edge of letting Annabeth know his true feelings. How can you build something permanent when you know it’s gonna be knocked down? He couldn’t do that to her.
Now, guilt blooms with every beat of his heart, shame reaching every cell of his body, knowing that he’s standing triumphant on the zenith a mountain of corpses, lives sacrificed for his victory.
“No, you’re not”. She steps away, standing in front of him, but not close enough for him to take her hand and drag her away, but close enough that he knows she is offering him her time.
He puts his hands inside his pocket, fiddles with his pen. Wanna go for a walk? Balmy sunlight drops down to the earth in the form of his voice, the color of his eyes, the smirk of his lips, and Annabeth gives in.
The gravel crunches under their shoes, amplified by the silence around them, and travels through the thickness in the air. They walk straight, eyes drifting frequently, lost wanderers trying to find a sign. Annabeth folds her hands, to hold in the energy that’s been trying to burst out. His hands, fisted in his pockets till now, escape out rashly. What does he do with them? What—What is the purpose of fingers? His fists clench and unclench in panic, he feels too hot under his hoodie, there are too many rocks here—
Calloused fingertips slide down his palm like drops of water, and before he could flinch, before his deepest instinct kicks in, they close around his palm, tight and secure. He doesn’t flinch though, no battle instinct kicks in either, other than the one to close his hand around hers. He can’t turn around before steadying his breath, and when he does, he finds her looking straight ahead, gaze unfocused, eyebrows slightly furrowed. She can probably see him in her peripheral vision, but her eyes decide to continue their dance ahead.
Percy feels light—so silly, and so giddy. His bones are so empty he could fly. The feeling is so utterly different from the heavy dread he’s been waking up with for months, that his body welcomes it with open arms, probably too much, turning his limbs to mush, brain to a broken radio that only utters out her name.
He grins big, unable to hold it, and squeezes her hand, way too hard. A beat passes, and then she crushes his palm.
He moans in pain, and it blends into his laughter but doesn’t retract his hand. She still doesn’t meet his gaze, but her toothy smile reaches her eyes.
He’s still looking at her when she points out to a big rock on the left. “Let’s sit there?” He lets himself be pulled, away from the shore, away from the noise.
“I didn’t see you at breakfast, today,” he says. Their thighs touch, hands curled awkwardly in their laps, backs against a boulder. Her eyes stay down, as he looks up.
“You were looking for me?” Her voice is insolent and teasing, his heart didn’t sign up for this ride. On one hand, he wonders how long they could push and pull; in a way, he’s become addicted to this rush of blood, the sensation of being so wholly consumed by her gray eyes, her calloused yet soft fingers, her scent of lemons, syllables of her name. It’s new and old wrapped seamlessly together, this feeling of being alive is so different than the one he’s used to feeling in battle—this one’s imbued with hope of a hearth, the sweetness of his mother’s cookies, the ecstasy of being washed over by a wave.
“Of course,” he admits, eyes falling from the distant trees to her pink face. “I miss you.” The thing is, it’s not enough for Percy. It’s not enough to just get a whiff—he wants to bask.
Her chest rises and falls sharply. She drops her head onto his shoulder, golden waves stand out against the tangerine of his shirt. “I’m here, now,” Annabeth mumbles.
The ending of her sentence tapers off, and Percy’s body tenses. He knows she’s given him the reins, and as much as Percy wants to, fear confines him. Not for himself—he’d reach into his chest and rip out his beating organ if she asked.
“I miss you the most when you’re here, I think.”
“Oh?” It’s a whisper now, the weight of these words too heavy, otherwise. Her head turns a bit, he feels her cheek nuzzle into his skin.
“Yeah. Because—”
“Because?” She says, without missing a single beat, and he can’t help but chuckle. She’s always been too fast for him, burned brighter.
He can feel her heart beating so fast, the rhythm fogs his brain, and he resists the urge to grab onto her fingers, to use his anchor to come down to this mortal world.
He inhales and starts. The words tumble out, coming up for air after hiding underneath for years. “This past week, you’re all I could think about.” It’s a sprint, and he’s out of breath.
Annabeth lets out a small giggle. “Gods, Perce”. He wonders if she believes him if she’s rolling her eyes.
“No, I’m serious—” He’s laughing too, now, they both infect each other. “The other day, I almost walked into a tree.”
She laughs harder, shoulders jerking, head raised from where she had been hiding it. Her hair’s a mess. Percy smiles harder, too, for completely different reasons. He catches a glimpse of her face, eyes not ready for the light they emanate.
She lets out a small murmur when her breathing slows down, one that rips out the ground underneath him. “Me, too,” she says. So much for being the spawn of the Earthshaker.
“Annabeth…” He wishes he could scream it out, so the trees here will never forget her name, but for now, it’s a whisper.
“Yeah?” The word floats like a flake of snow.
Where does he go from here? He scrambles to find the right words, the perfect words, but she looks up at him, and his gaze slips down to her, surrendering itself to her gravity without a complaint.
He’s free-falling. The gray of her eyes, the pink of her cheeks. The upturn of her nose. The slight opening of her mouth, like there are words she needs to voice, but melt against the warmth of her lips. His eyes stay there, against reason.
“Can I kiss you?”
Her gaze drops to his lips, too. “Okay.” She says, fazed, head gently giving into his pull.
Their lips crash— so, so unlike the way they had kissed on the pier, or under the water. His tongue reaches into her mouth, frantic; hands into her hair, so desperate. And even though he’s the one pushing her back, he feels like the one drowning. Her hands fist the collar of his shirt, and that spurs him on. It’s too sloppy, with too much tongue and no rhythm, but he can’t let go. He just has to kiss her.
Annabeth’s hand pushes on his chest until he breaks away. “Wait.” She heaves. Her exhales come out harder than his, the pale skin of her face had turned the shade of strawberries he was supposed to be harvesting.
He eyes her lips, red and shiny.
“I—Uh, Fuck.” One of his hands reaches into the mop of messy hair on his head, and grips it tightly, chiding himself. “I’m sorry—”
“Shh, Percy.” She interrupts and grabs onto his arm. Her grasp is tight, fingers coiled like rope, holding his panic back.
“Close your eyes.” He obeys the command, eyelids locking fully. He feels her come closer, hot breath scorching his skin.
Annabeth’s fingers reach out gingerly, softly cupping his face. She used to think the world would break him. Maybe, that is one of the reasons why she disproved of him, initially. He’s always been braver than her, stronger. Love is not for cowards, even some warriors aren’t strong enough to carry it. Her thumb peeks out, slowly stroking his cheekbones. She watches his throat as he swallows, watches as his eyes struggle to stay close, pulse as it labors to slow down.
She presses a kiss to his right cheek, and then to the other. She sees his right hand clench and brings it to her waist. His touch is too tender, so unlike the rest of the world. He’s pure, so unlike the sea.
And she’s not, she thinks, as she presses a kiss to the one corner of his lips, and then to another. More than white scars, there are imprints of ghosts on her body. The people who abandoned her have never left her soul. Castellan and Grace, and the most painful one is her own: Chase.
Annabeth feels more than sees the twist of his lips. Time moves like blood when she brings her thumb forward, to nudge his lips apart. He’s so different from her. She’s wound so tightly and he moves like water, he knows love and isn’t afraid to share it, while all her life, she’s had to hold onto the inches of affection people would give her; way too less, way more selfish. She’s afraid of tainting him, afraid that by asking for more she’s going to tempt fate, lose the one good thing in her life. Towards the beginning of the summer, Annabeth was ready to take whatever he could offer her—shared Oreos, silly jokes, races up the Hill.
Something makes her bolder, now. Maybe, it’s the fact that they both survived, against all odds, that they refused to let fate weave them into different tapestries, that at the end of the day, they both chose each other. Or maybe, it’s the sight of his full lips, furious blush, soft face.
Annabeth bends down, lips grazing his. She presses the softest kisses, slowly feeling the crescendo build. He lets her have him, yielding. Chaste, and cloud-like, they spread themselves thin on the fabric of time, and when his hands start running across the length of her arms, her waist, the boundaries of her body start blurring, losing the sense of space, of time.
She runs her tongue along his bottom lip, nudging his mouth open, while he gingerly acquiesces. It’s slower this time, and somehow, she burns more. They both push and pull, as they do in casual conversation, watching and relishing in each other’s reactions. Salt and young smoke blend, but they don’t separate once to reach for the air.
Finally, long after numbers and seconds have lost their purpose, they break apart. Percy pulls her forward, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, and her limbs settle into his body. They’re both breathing heavily, looking at anything but each other. Percy presses a kiss to her forehead, and her heart cracks into two, an arrow lodged too far in.
She lets out a breathless laugh, eyes still shut.
They sit like that until the sun melts into the sea. The sky looks as she feels— there is a beauty to giving yourself to another person, to weave yourself into another so close that two tapestries look like one. To be the horizon and wait an entire lifetime for the sun, to meet in rendezvous, and then return each other to themselves.
Annabeth raises her head and looks at Percy. His head rests back against the hard rock, eyes peacefully closed. When he opens them and matches her gaze, she lets the arms of the ocean carry her. What do you do, she thinks. Her bones feel too young to bear a love like this. What do you do, with a love so deep? It occurs to her that he’s art, and the only way to consume art is to immerse completely and find yourself in it. She hides her face in his neck, his hot breath rains on her skin. What do you do when the ocean loves you, except offer her your hollow bones in prayer?