rusted collarbones

  and  it  was  a  good  thing  he'd received  the  message,  too,  because  xander  happened  upon  a  distressed-looking  homer  lurking  under  cabin  12's  window.  "what  the  fuck  are  you  doing,  you  fuckin'  creep?  didn't  peg  you  for  a  peeping  tom.  are  you  high?"  there  was  no  need  for  the  question;  he  could  feel  that  he  was.  "must  be  some  drug  if  it's  made  you  think  i'd  be  okay  with  you  here  with  your  cock  out  looking  in  at  my  fucking  siblings.  i'll  fuck  you  up." 

His toes wiggled in the net of threading he had wrapping them in for the sake of trying not to leave footprints. It was a good idea when he was high, but proved to be aimless when the weight of his presence was still buried into the soft dirt.

"You've got to be tripping, man," Homer said, peeling his body off the side of the cabin using every focus and every thought of his being. In Homer's defense, he was wearing more clothes than usual when he was notorious for his silk kimono and tattered jeans. "And it sounds like a bad one if you're just seeing dicks all around."

* 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍  𝐈𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  beckett  burns  too  hotly  to  sit  still,  the  lingering  chill  in  the  june  evening  air  sticking  to  his  skin  in  a  way  he  can’t  stand.  normally  he  can  fall  asleep  easily,  but  tonight  he  has  energy  to  spare.  tossing  and  turning  unbearable,  instead  he  sneaks  out,  careful  on  the  cabin’s  creaking  steps  —  curfew  had  never  been  a  word  he  felt  applied  to  him.  jogging  around  camp  he  lets  his  muscles  loosen,  burns  off  energy  though  he  never  seems  to  tire.  hanging  around  the  edges  of  the  camp  to  avoid  being  seen  where  the  ivy  and  branches  and  stones  are  thick,  he  hardly  has  to  focus  at  all  for  a  soft  glow  of  light  to  guide  his  steps.  he’s  next  to  homer  without  realizing  it,  slowing  to  a  stop  he  listens  to  his  question,  “  the  sign  out  book  you  mean  ?  ”  he  asks,  “  i  skip  that  thing  half  the  time,  if  i  can  get  away  with  it,  it’s  annoying,  ”  even  the  five  minutes  it  takes  feels  too  much  to  him,  thoughts  only  ever  on  his  own  whims  “  i  think  they’re  getting  stricter  with  security  now,  though,  ”

The night's like velvet— inviting, but it's embrace quickly turns heavy and too hot to be any comfort. He knows it doesn't matter if he's here or there to escape it, but he's a coward to think it is. He can make the grass greener on other side if need be. The trouble is that no matter where he goes, he remains the company that poses a threat to himself. Whether it's the smell of his mortality tainted by a goddess, or his false hopes, no where is safe.

"I was scolded about not signing it last time," Homer recalled, turning to make out Beckett. Even in the dark, he cuts through the night with a muted glimmer. Night isn't meant for children of Apollo like this, but Homer swears he still finds the light. It makes him sick that he fixates on that for a moment, and he shakes his head to himself. "But I told them I never left the grounds."

He lifted the cigarette to his lips, every breath measured by the pollution he swears sedates him best.

the corners of phia's mouth threaten to lift at the acknowledgement of mr. d's melodrama, but she turns her face towards the treeline so the forest is the only witness to her trespass. stand up in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly and revere your god. phia wasn't sure that leviticus had envisioned dionysus as said 'god', but she intended to adhere to his guidelines anyhow. mirth successfully leashed, she casts a furtive glance at homer out of the corner of dark eyes. she's unsure that she's heard him speak a sentence that wasn't a puzzle all summer — the straightforward nature of this conversation tip toed on the border of uncanny valley. " you shouldn't say that, " she chastises, though her tone holds the memory of the amusement whose presence she hadn't allowed to show on her face. her heart picks up as she realizes he's let her in on a secret — however inadvertently. secrets were kept between friends, and though this one was likely widely shared (chiron and mr. d the only excluded parties), phia is unaccustomed to the feeling of belonging. the loop has never been something she has existed within. " oh — " her intrigue fizzles, and she takes a step back, lower back pressed against the porch railing. " i don't really . . . imbibe in psychedelics. " former president nixon's words had spilled from her mother's radio six years prior: ' if we cannot destroy the drug menace in america, then it will surely in time destroy us. ' her mother had nodded her affirmation and prayed over nixon's smug inaugural photo in the days following.

"Me, either," Homer agreed. At least not here, and as of late. His past didn't matter much, and he was on a strict budget to stress the sudden promise he seemed to have made to keep it true. Then again, Camp Half Blood was probably the longest and cheapest trip he'd ever taken if he didn't count some of the psychological trauma inherited as a demigod. "Terrible for you. Who needs Lucy in the sky with a diamond when we know it's a guy with horses on fire?"

For a moment, he wondered if he had shared with the wrong person. Then again, any complaint about reefer was surely not at the top of their list of priorities. The smell of it, of course, could have only helped sell the lie that they were all here as a means of peace, harmony, and whatever else was scripted for their endeavors secluded from the mortals.

after a cursory roll of the eyes, bunny lights her own cigarette before tossing the lighter to homer. the breath she takes is deep enough for her to think ( as one always must think when talking to homer, or having a pack of cigarettes around him ) before she responds, with a shrug of her shoulders, "maybe, homer, i'm just trying to spend time with my father after a deeply upsetting day." bunny leans back in her chair further, as if to prove her own comfort. "you know, questioned by mortals." she pauses, and then lowers her chin, pointing at him with the hand holding the cigarette. "wait, you would know, wouldn't you? ' questioned by mortals? '" bunny clicks her tongue and sighs, lifting her head to focus her gaze elsewhere. "there isn't anything else i have in mind, homer," she admits. "i was going to ask my dad about — the mist, and stuff."

Homer caught the lighter with the little grace that was reserved for him, hand peering out from under the sleeve of green silk and gilded embroidery to claim it. A grin buried itself into the corner of his mouth but succumbed to a smirk as he brought the cigarette to his lips.

"People like us don't look to our parents for comfort," He pointed out. "Unless we antagonized them in the first place, and we're trying to avoid their wrath. Therefore I have to assume the worst again— feeling guilty about something?"

It's a short lived game between them, his very words serving now as a narration for his own play. He almost doesn't want the chaos of the last few hours to end. For once, the world around him has caught up to the tremor in his bones and the trashing in his chest. The peace doesn't need to settle just yet.

CLOSED STARTER ! later afternoon, with @famishcd.

—  "HOMER?"  LILTING  AND  A  LITTLE  HESITANT,  like a  child  after  a  bad  dream  trying  to  see  if  their  sibling  was  awake  still.  uncertainty  in  how  to  approach,  uncertainty  in  what  was  expected  of  them  here.  "do  you  want  to  come  help  me  straighten  up  the  stables?  i  think  some  of  the  swords  and  things  were  stashed  there,  so  they're  a  little  bit  of  a  nightmare  and  i'm  sure  the  pegasi  are,  like,  a  little  bugged  out  and  everything,  too,  and..."  it's  like  a  dam  breaking,  the  spirited  chatter  that  spills  out  of  her  along  with  the  request,  hands  emphatically  gesturing  to  make  each  point  stronger.  their  nerves  were  frayed  at  the  ends,  not  yet  unraveled,  but  certainly  taking  a  toll  on  alicia.  they  feel  heavy,  weight  sitting  on  their  shoulders  much  too  comfortably  for  how  light  they  usually  are,  and  they  need  to  do  something  to  get  her  mind  off  of  it,  ideally  not  where  she's  alone  for  the  next  few  hours.  "plus,  i  could  really use  some  company.  if  you  were  doing  something  else,  i  could  totally  just  tag  along,  too."

There's no doubt that he's always been more comfortable in chaos— there's no right way to act, no certainty to hang anyone by a right or wrong. Existing, in moments like these, seem to be the only thing anyone can do. For once, the constant throttle of his heart against his chest isn't too fast or disruptive. The world finally moves at the pace Homer's been condemned to.

"I would never invite that kind of karma into my life. What do you take me for? What does the grapevine take me for — is it the grapevine? Or the string of pearls? I never know what to take literally." She takes it more personally than she should. Joanna's not a gossip. She spends most of her time checked out from the grapevine entirely. She hardly even knows half these people, not enough to care about their petty dramas, much less share it. Not that he would know — she knows it's not a personal attack. But it makes her a little bitter. She wouldn't even ask if there was something else to do, something else to talk about. If there was a way for her to ingratiate herself to Homer... without speaking. Without having to be a person about it. He doesn't seem interested in offering her that out. "If the joint falls apart – are you telling the bud to do that? I feel like you're not even capable of rolling bad. Your hands just know what to do."

"String of pearls," Homer indicated as he picked up the arm of a vine filled with small clusters of green. Another finger pointed against the glass at the cabin whose structure of leaves was unkempt in his gaze. For someone devoted to metaphor as a means of comfort, this was one of the few times Homer was literal in his expression. "Grapevine. My plant is smaller and most people don't notice it, mistake it for some some under developed grapes. It's a humble form of warfare, in my opinion."

A smirk buries itself in the corner of his mouth at her comment regarding his skin, and it doesn't take long for it to crack wide open into a grin. It never does. It's hard to fight when he looks down at her, fingers still as though a single tremor could ruin it all.

"Some of them," Homer nodded as he finally pulled back his hand, bright blue focusing on the etchings. "Unfortunately, not the better ones and those wash away. The rest are forever, and so much for hand tattoos never lasting. It might be the only legacy I get to leave, though.

For a moment, he's distant. A thought seemed to have pulled him the room, from her company, from everything. His body was still, almost startling, but another fall of hot ash brings him back and he seems to take a deep breath he forgot about.