Where do the lost ones belong?

FUCK HARD

FUCK FAST

FUCK BADLY

NEVER USE GENERATIVE AI

CREATE JOY

MUSIC ALWAYS

PSPSPSPS AT KITTIES ON THE STREET

YUMMY SOUP

go see the doctor about that thing

BE TRANSGENDER

KISS YOUR FRIENDS

EAT CHEESE

NEVER KILL YOURSELF

What do you mean you never realized he was bitter and resentful outside of Leo? You missed the part where he started acting out after his mother died? HE SHATTERED HIS GRANDMA'S FINE CHINA DAWG. Brochacho constantly got frustrated by how perfect Percy was. He was pissed when Hazel held hands with Leo. HE CHOKESLAMED CALIGULA?? THAT TRIP GUY? He definitely CONSIDERED beating the shit out of Nico when be couldn't heal her. WIPED OUT A FLEET OF THOSE POISON SPEWING COWS?? he set himself on FIRE. That man can turn himself into a dragon, a swarm of bees, and fuck knows what else. A praetor with Mar's ability to control the dead.

OBVIOUSLY Frank is a gentle guy, but it's BECAUSE he's GROWN to be emotionally mature enough to deal with most of those emotions. That dude had Ares AND Mars telling him to beat the shit out of fuck ass da grease ball. HE SHOVED A SOCK IN A GODDESSES MOUTH, HIS OWN DAMN SOCK.

I fell asleep in my friends' arms. It was eleven at night, we were tired, curled up in a small pile on my tiny bed. I had my head buried in my roommate's side, and one of my closest friend's hand on my shoulder, steadying me. It was quiet and nothingness and peace and their heartbeats in my ears, my hands in their hair.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

We pack four people to that little bed, you know. Laps used as footrests, collarbones as pillows, little lights like moonlight in rustic yellow bathed on their faces. The TV plays an anime. The words are repeated by my dear friend on my shoulder, curled close. My legs are asleep; my roommate may be, too.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

The cat curls on top of our criss cross mess of legs and arms and heads on chests to absorb the warmth of us all. She purrs in contented peace. When my roommate and I are left alone in the quiet, she cries, and watches the door for our friends' return.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I will never kiss them but the top of their heads. I will never touch but the warmth of their arms. I will never take more than what's freely given, and in return I put my glasses on the bedside table fashioned from a guitar amp, and when I lean into their sides, I pick up my vulnerability and place it in their capable, tender hands.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I sing for them. I cry for them. I work and I run and I withstand the worst of the world for them, because some days I get to cradle their forehead on my shoulder and some days I get to see their shining eyes.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Maybe to you. But look beyond explanation. I love them. With my heart in my unsteady hands, with my nose pressed to the side of their head, with the buzzing in my feet and the warmth all around Iike the sunset pushing into the window.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Is it enough to say I love them? With no strings attached? With reckless abandon and utter devotion and freedom and kindness and fear?

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"