WANTED: ASHTON EMERSON

“YEAH. it would be.” it’s the desired response, but it still manages to inflict pain, a blow to baby’s heart —- but he’ll recover. baby keeps his features even, produces another mp3 from a pocket inside his jacket, and begins sifting through its contents; after a prolonged beat of this, he settles on something that’s fast, but he’s only half-listening, the bulk of his attention devoted to studying ace. he doesn’t seem too beat up, a couple faded bruises perhaps —- but there’s no tell-tale sign of grievous injury. no limp when he’d walked in; no dribble of blood from stitches, not that baby can discern, anyway, and that quiets him some, eases the pulse in his throat from a jackhammer to something passably normal.

baby fits an untroubled smile into his features and cocks his head, noncommittal. “just sayin’, you know. thought maybe you got bored, wanted a change of scenery or something, is all i meant.”

ace can feel baby’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t bother to meet it. it’s best not to, because surveying baby’s wounds only irritates him—  it prods at something better in him, the remnants of his humanity price hadn’t been able to strip from him entirely. not because he cares about baby, particularly, but because when he looks at him, his scars, all he can remember is himself. and he’d really rather not deal with that right now.

she can feel eyes on them by now, the gazes of passing by campers boring into her, but she ignores it—  by now, they shouldn’t be surprised, not with her reputation. mikayla’s eyes don’t stray from ace’s face, watching as his face changes color, feeling satisfaction as opposed to guilt. he deserves this. not only for what he said to her, but for what he’s done to everyone. if she were to let him die, to let him keep choking until his heart stops, she’d be considered a hero, not a murderer.

there’s a fraction of a second when she considers it, but the possible repercussions aren’t worth it. even if most campers would thank her for killing him, she doubts chiron would see it the same way. camp half-blood’s become home to her; she’s not going to throw that all away just because ace emerson’s an asshole.  “  okay, whatever.  breathe.  ”  the coughing stops just as she removes her weight from his chest, though her gaze never wavers. she’s not an idiot; she knows it wouldn’t be out of character for him to try something as revenge, but she’s not about to let ace, of all people, be the one to spill her blood.  “  say sorry.  ”  and maybe it won’t be genuine, because she’s not giving him much of a choice with the force in her words, but insincere or not, it’s rewarding, knowing she’s one of the few people in this world that can make him.

the longer he chokes, the more he fades in and out of reality —   one moment, he’s there, mikayla desousa hovering over him, and the next, he’s seventeen again, struggling for air, price schuster’s arm wrapped around his neck, the image of his home, burning, fading into blackness as he loses consciousness. he doesn’t quite get there now, though, because mikayla spares him before he could pass out. breathe, she says, and he does, his airway opening up, oxygen rushing back to his lungs in a painful exhale. 

ace’s eyes close, an arm cradling his broken rib, his body shaking with rage. he should kill her. he’s faced far worse than a daughter of aphrodite, of all things —  if he wanted to, it wouldn’t be that hard. (or so he wants to believe, at least; there’s something different about mikayla, about the way his strength seems to be nothing compared to hers, how she’s not afraid to use her charmspeak for darkness  —  it would be hot, if she wasn’t so annoying. if she was straight.)  fuck you is the response he wants to give, because ace emerson doesn’t apologize, but he obliges anyway. he doesn’t have a choice.   “  sorry.  ”  his voice is strained, his throat still aching. eyes open, jaw tightening as he looks at her, debating whether or not he should reach for one of his many weapons.

but she’s watching him, waiting for that. he’ll try for it later, when she’s not so on guard. when she’s fully expecting it. 

“I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN A WHILE.”

baby does well to keep his tone neutral, void of any harbored disappointment and reluctant relief; it’s a dangerous thing to be sentimental, but apathy doesn’t suit him, so he feels it fiercely anyway, emboldened by a feeling of relative safety provided by the shades perched on his nose. baby taps out a rhythm – keep yourself alive by queen – and wonders if ace can hear what goes unsaid: i was worried that you were dead. he could’ve easily been, and baby’s stricken with the sudden fear that ace will die and baby will never hear; he’ll simply disappear, and baby will have to live with that, the occasional thought spared towards this man that he can’t even consider a friend – he’s just nicer than the rest. baby withdraws into himself, tasking himself with finding a different song, reframing his mouth into a frown as if it’s a strenuous job. he hopes ace ignores him, offers nothing more than a shake of his head and a venomous rebuke; it’d make it easier to summon the hatred he should feel, the detachment he feigns so well.  // @hienous

mikayla’s lip curls in blatant disgust, bile threatening to rise in her throat for the suggestion alone. she might be violent, sure, but she’s better than him nonetheless—  there’s a reason she’s not hated by the entire camp, but he is, and for once, it doesn’t entirely have to do with her appearance. he reminds her of her father, in a way. needlessly brutal, lashing out at the world because he can’t figure out any other way to deal with his own self-hatred. mikayla knows she’s not a good person, but she’s above that, at least. she doesn’t want to even dignify him with an answer, because he’s not worth her breath, not worth even acknowledging, but then he goes on.

it’s really a shame that her impulse control is laughably weak, because all she’s going to do is prove him right, show herself as the irrational, violent girl she is, just like him, but the panic, the rage, his words ignite is strong enough for her to forget about all that. immediately, he’s shoved out of his seat, hard, and she follows soon after, placing a shoe on his chest, pressing down until she hears one of his ribs crack. the hands he has around her leg are useless, because she doesn’t budge, only moving to lean down and growl,  “  choke.  ”

ace emerson’s life is just a series of easily avoidable mistakes, and this is no exception. he expected the retaliation —  he’s not an idiot, just a dick. and still, that didn’t fully prepare him for the impact of being shoved to the ground, skin of his elbows tearing in his attempt to catch himself. that is nothing, something he could easily brush off, but the breaking of his ribs is less than desirable. ace’s features contort into a slight grimace, though he doesn’t make a sound, because it’s still manageable. he’s had more broken bones than unbroken in his lifetime, so he can handle this. 

finally,   he’s able to tear his eyes away when he approaches a boring headline.    at this point,   it didn’t quite matter where they were,   and how public the space was.    gods be blessed for the mist,    right?     the unimpressed stare finds itself swooping over to his right,   eyes bright and disastrous.    a once-over at the tall,   battered man beside him had him sighing.    such a handsome face,    so full of shit.     consistency was key.       ❛❛       no,   it really could not.    sit down.       ❜❜     because ace would never hurt him.      and back his attention goes,    page sixty-two.     the clarifications,    claims and demand for a drink were all duly ignored,    but the five dollar bill over his lap compensates to a degree that wills him to cooperate.     kenneth was the type to keep score for a good tease,    anyways.       ❛❛       beer,        ❜❜     he called back inside.    the filthy dollar was his to keep;    his pretty smile against the sun light enough of a transaction for the bartender to comply.    out came a pint,    sat by the ashtray on his table top.    the next headline:    he’ll crash the car and blame the road.       ❛❛       any reason you’re terrorising this part of the street?     i haven’t seen you in a year.        ❜❜

it’s when he sits down that he realizes just how sore his body is; now that his limbs aren’t burdened with the responsibility of keeping him upright, all they do is hurt, but it’s nothing he hasn’t long ago grown accustomed to. the moment the beer’s set out on the counter, ace reaches for it, the glass raised to bloodied lips. it washes the taste of iron out of his mouth, a momentary relief—  it’s gone in seconds, downed, not enjoyed, the glass set down with enough force that ace is almost surprised it didn’t shatter.  “  fates don’t want to keep us apart, obviously.  ”  the truth is he doesn’t have any reason. he moves only with the intention of avoiding the police, so maybe it is just fate that brought him here. he doesn’t really care.

you’d think under the sheet of his perfume,    the glint of the setting sun against his ray bans,   and the crisp breeze,   that he would circumvent the stench that followed the men in his life.    all blood and booze without reason or doubt,   deliberately penetrating the peace of mind he had build around his magazine and late evening cuppa.     at its notice,   his nose came to an irritating twitch,   wrinkling with mistrust and disappointment.    he didn’t bother looking up past the fence of the hardcover in his hands,   no;   he would know this man blind by scent alone.        ❛❛       we both know that day will never come.       ❜❜     papers turn,    page thirty-two was a bright red headline.       ❛❛       have you come to cry on my couch again?       ❜❜

“  it could.  ”  if ken were anyone else, he might threaten to make it happen. (or, more likely, skip the threatening all together and get right to it.) but he’s not, which is fortune for ace, because his fists are already stinging with open wounds and bruises—   the last thing he needs is another fight, regardless of how willing he always is for one.  “  i don’t cry.  ”  there’s no room for tears anymore, hasn’t been for years, his anger and hatred taking up too much space to allow for it.  “  get me a drink.  ”    his pride doesn’t allow him to ask for one, not wanting to admit that his pockets are empty, save for his car keys and a five dollar bill, smeared with blood   —   the latter being all that the man he’d beaten to death only an hour ago had in his possession, much to ace’s annoyance  —   which he pulls out, tossing the dollar onto ken’s lap.  “  you can have that.  ”