Daffy Duck

there are two types of people at camp half-blood.

people who understand what’s going on, and people who have witnessed you and percy jackson interact.

no one has ever been both.

it starts small, the way it always does. someone, usually a newer camper, someone who hasn’t learned yet, sits near you two at the dining pavilion, thinking it’s a normal decision, a safe one even. percy’s a hero, after all. you look harmless enough. maybe a little too smiley, a little too relaxed, but nothing alarming.

and then someone says something completely normal.

“can you pass the pancakes?”

and that’s it.

that’s all it takes.

you freeze.

percy freezes.

there’s a moment, just a second, where your eyes meet, something silent and immediate passing between you, and then it’s over.

you both lose it.

not normal laughter. not polite, quiet chuckles. no—this is full-body, can’t-breathe, doubled-over, wheezing, the kind of laughter that makes people around you slowly stop eating because what is happening.

“pancakes—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out before dissolving into laughter again.

percy is worse. he’s halfway off the bench, clutching the table like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “don’t—don’t say it again—”

“i didn’t even—” the poor camper holding the plate looks like they’ve made a terrible mistake. “i just—”

you wave a hand like you’re trying to apologize, except you’re laughing too hard to actually form words. percy attempts to breathe, fails, and drops his head onto the table with a thud.

“you had to be there,” he manages weakly.

you nod immediately, wiping at your eyes. “you really did.”

the camper does not feel reassured.

it’s not just the laughing.

that’s the thing.

if it was just the laughing, people could maybe get used to it.

but it’s everything else too.

like the pranks.

the constant, relentless, personal pranks.

it’s a normal afternoon at camp—training, talking, people minding their own business, when suddenly percy is sprinting across the clearing like his life depends on it.

you are right behind him.

“GET BACK HERE!”

“IT WAS FUNNY!”

“YOU DYED MY SHIRT PINK!”

“IT LOOKS GOOD ON YOU!”

he does not stop running. you do not stop chasing.

camp has learned to move out of the way.

there’s a brief moment where percy almost escapes, almost, until you tackle him from behind, both of you going down in a mess of limbs and grass.

someone nearby doesn’t even flinch.

“five drachma says she wins,” they mutter.

“you’re on.”

annabeth finds you both in the sword fighting arena.

this, unfortunately, is not unusual.

what is slightly unusual is the current position:

percy is on the ground.

you are sitting on top of him.

he looks like he’s lost a war.

“say it,” you demand, gripping his wrists to keep him from escaping.

“no.”

“say it.”

“never.”

you lean forward slightly, narrowing your eyes. “percy.”

he glares back, equally stubborn. “i’m not apologizing for something that was objectively funny.”

“you replaced my arrows with rubber ones.”

“they still worked.”

“they bounced.”

“that’s still working.”

you tighten your grip.

“apologize.”

“make me.”

annabeth doesn’t even react.

she just steps over you both, completely unfazed, adjusting her armor like this is a perfectly normal thing to walk in on.

“whatever he did,” she says calmly, not even looking at him, “he deserved it.”

“thank you,” you say immediately.

“betrayal,” percy mutters.

“you’ll live,” she replies.

“barely.”

you shift your weight just slightly.

“say it.”

“…fine.”

you pause.

“fine what?”

he groans. “i’m sorry.”

you tilt your head. “for?”

he stares at you.

you stare back.

annabeth sighs softly in the background.

“for replacing your arrows with rubber ones,” he says finally, like it physically pains him.

you consider it for a second.

then nod.

“acceptable.”

you let go.

he immediately tries to shove you off.

you do not go easily.

the thing is—

people don’t always get it.

from the outside, it looks like chaos. like nonsense. like two people constantly on the verge of either laughing themselves to death or actually killing each other.

and yeah, sometimes, it kind of is.

but there are moments.

small ones, quiet ones.

like when you’re both sitting by the lake, not saying much, just skipping stones and existing in the same space without needing to fill it.

or when you hand him something without him asking, already knowing what he needs.

or when he stands just a little closer than necessary, like it’s instinct, like it’s habit.

it’s in the way you always look for each other in a crowd.

the way conversations don’t feel right without the other interrupting.

the way even your chaos… fits.

perfectly.

and yeah, other people might feel a little left out sometimes.

standing there while you both start laughing at something that makes absolutely no sense to anyone else, something triggered by a single word or a look or a memory no one else was there for.

but to you?