ANGELS FELL FIRST

For now, Patroclus has kept the formula that Hypnos has given him only between the two of them, mostly because he truly just wanted to help the younger scientist and would never steal another person’s work and secondly, which was a little selfish, he did think that Hypnos would be better of in a place better suited for him and Pontius was that but for now he’ll keep those thoughts to himself.

The comment brought a small smile upon Patroclus. “We can.” The smile didn’t fade as Hypnos continued rambling, some parts were valid and true and other made Patroclus shake his head, of course one scientist can figure a machine or a formula, but it’s takes a team and several minds sometimes and thinking that Hypnos was mostly alone…

“Well, while you’re correct that you cannot enter our labs for now.” Patroclus emphasis those two last words. “We can work in my office and if there are any tests or checks that need the lab, I’ll make sure to do them while you’re still here.” He hoped that it would be enough for Hypnos, he didn’t want yet to request access to the lab for them, it was too soon. “You have me to talk to during work,” Patroclus smiled for a moment, trying to reassure Hypnos “and if you wish to let anybody else on the formula, I’m sure Circe would be interested as well, but that’s your choice.”

For now, they say. Like there’s a possibility for that to change, like there’s not a mountain of reasons for why it cannot that keeps growing bigger and bigger by the day, like the decision of where he grows roots is there for either of them to make. Patroclus says ‘for now’, and even if it’s an empty proposal they should both know better than to read into, he smiles.

“That sounds good, I’d been hoping to get some work done while I was here actually,” already, he’s mentally going through the checklist of tasks that he can perform while outside of a lab-setting. He’ll be mostly limited to doing calculations and research, but with the resources here, he should be able to stay productive even if he’s not actively creating.

Eurydice stares out at the moving waves as she nurses an orange juice, straw bumping against her lower lip. The glass is cool to the touch, and the croissant she holds in the opposite hand has begun to flake off onto her fingers. She wonders where the others are, especially given Meg’s text about how one or two had straggled to find their way home from the shore. 

The idea of sleeping under the stars was appealing, but on the sand? Eurydice could think of better things – a warm bed, a soft duvet, a pillow beneath her head. Of course, she’d slept in worse conditions, neck bent out of shape with a bottle of wine in her lap. But if she didn’t have to, and if she were in her right mind, then why would she choose to do so? 

It’s by chance that Eury glances over their shoulder, gaze locking onto the back of a familiar stark blonde head. Eurydice takes another sip of her drink, considering the state of Hypnos before she approaches. She knew it had been a long night for them, and the last thing she wanted to do was bombard them. After a moment, she decides to approach him. 

“The orange juice is quite good. So are the croissants. I think I got chocolate, so I don’t know about the others. Tisi asked about the bear claws, so I’m sure those are good, too.” She tilts her head back slightly to look up at him before smiling evenly. “We can get a chair before the next presentation, if you want.”

The days since the disastrous infernal that was the after-party have been blessedly devoid of contact—from familiar faces and strangers alike, from anyone of import and not. He’d been anxious at first, habitually reaching for the phone that doesn’t exist anymore to check on those he’s become conditioned to expect attachment to.

But he’s since decided to put them out of sight if not fully out of mind, content to loosen the death-grip he’s kept on those red lines that bind, and let the hauntings on the other end drift. It’s been too long since he’s been his own person, and if it doesn’t last, he’s going to enjoy what time he has left.

He’s found his way to the water’s edge again, a common occurrence now, as though the ocean can ground him where gravity and a guilty conscience cannot. If he misses nothing else about this trip, he’ll miss being this close to something so vast and ever-changing, salt in his eyes and sand between his toes.

when every fibre in his body is wound up so tightly and he’s on the edge of snapping (and maybe breaking, but certainly damaging himself in the process) mene turns to hypnos. he wishes he wouldn’t, not because hyp isn’t a safe option, but because mene doesn’t want to add to their list of burdens. hyp always knows how to lull him into calmness, and before long, mene finds himself on a private boat. 

hesperia finds its way to his tongue, and all the bad things in the world begin to fade away. it’s in these moments, with his head on hyp’s lap, looking up at the blinding sky, with biskóto laying over his legs, that mene thinks he is happiest. 

lethargy takes hold, and mene could easily drift away to the land of the sleeping, but he fights it, because he doesn’t want to waste any waking hours where anxiety doesn’t have such an iron grip on his spine. fingers sinking into biskóto fur, mene takes a slow breath. “i wanna know what you see when you look at me,” a question that’s long been on his mind, but never quite had the courage to hear the answer to. mene doesn’t look at hypnos, eyes still looking to the sky. “don’t worry, i’m too fucked to get upset. i wanna know what you really think.”

It’s not the same as being at home, drifting through the Elysium canals on one of the gondolas, but it’s the closest they’ll get with present circumstances, so he accepts without complaint when Mene approaches him with the proposition. This at least is familiar territory, an old habit worn and comfortable around the edges after so many rinse-and-repeat’s through the years.

He’s also on his back, the sun blinding even through closed lids, his own tumultuous thoughts calmed by the rocking of the boat beneath them and the grounding weight of another body against his. With fingers running through Mene’s hair, lazily working out any tangles or knots, he’s on the verge of drifting off for an overdue nap when their strange request jolts him wide awake again.

His hands still. It’s an odd thing to ask someone, definitely, and slightly concerning after the night they all had at the afterparty, but he’ll humor them first. “I see..”—someone both haunted and haunting, someone with heartbreak eyes and a lost-boy smile, someone with one foot on solid ground and one foot in the mire and still unsure whether or not now is the time to run—“I see you, I just see you, simple as that.”

Patroclus was checking a few things on his computer as Hypnos was looking around the office, a small smile was across his face. “She’s in the greenhouse with the plant babies.” With their talk in Olympe and exchange of information, Patroclus was more interested in bringing Hypnos in their team, the young man seemed like a bright person with the future that could be even brighter if he stepped out of the shadows that were Tartarus. 

“Sit down.” He mentioned to the chair in front of him, there was no for Hypnos to see his computer since the hologram will show all the information they needed to know anyway. Patroclus hoped that if he helped Hypnos fix his formula, maybe it’ll become the reason he’ll switch to a place that will give him the resources he needed to make helpful drugs.

With a click of a few buttons the hologram of the formula showed up. “I looked through it between work, it’s very impressive.” Patroclus smiled. “Without any experiment, I can only guess but I did notice a few minor calculating mistakes, which I don’t think were the cause of Morpho’s issues, but they should be fixed.” It was a problem, not being able to test the results of the few things he has tried. “There were a few components I tried in stabilizing it, but I cannot be sure without controlled testing.” Patroclus showed Hypnos the several ingredients, giving the formula a different look with his swap.

He hums at this news and drops into the indicated chair, slightly disappointed he wouldn’t get to see Alice just yet, but surely they can tour the greenhouse for a visit later. For now, there are more important matters to discuss. The sight of the holo has him sitting forward, peering intently at the data that pops up, humming again more absentmindedly as he takes in the changes and calculations that Pat’s made in the short time they’ve had the formula for. It’s no guarantee fix, given he only gave them partial information to begin with, and neither of them is working with ideal conditions for conducting proper testing. But it’s something certainly—a different perspective if nothing else, a chance to see how his work looks in the eyes of another scientific mind. He’s grateful to have even this much.

“It’d be nice if we could work on it while I was here,” the comment slips out unguarded, another one of his many wayward thoughts that has managed to roll off his tongue before his brain catches up enough to stop it. It leaves him scrambling to repair the gaff after finally realizing what he said, hoping it doesn’t come off as him having ulterior motives.

[ ... ]

“It..” Alecto swallows thickly, looks back up to meet his gaze. She would never equate him to a broken bird. He was stronger than that, but it seemed as though he’d fallen out of the nest. She could recognize sleepless nights on him, she always could. “Honestly, it fucking sucks. Not used to it yet, but, you know, for the sake of it all.” Alecto laughs, and it’s forceful, and it hurts her chest on the way out, like she doesn’t deserve to present anything amounting to joy in their presence. “But it was my decision, so. It’s what I’m living with now.” Alecto realizes then, that she still has her hand on his wrist. They drop it after a moment and clear their throat. “Hopefully this won’t take long.” Whatever this was, Alecto has forgotten. All that matters are the half-baked apologies that crowd at the back of her throat.

There is something in how she looks at him now—like he really is a firefly, a worm turned moth, caught in a jar of their making, glass wings and glass heart all on display and threatening a shattering—that makes him itch to claw out of his own skin in protest.

It’s always been like this. Them, older and wild and forever racing ahead blind. And him, the youngest, the least like the rest of this motley pack of misfits he calls family, kept sheltered for far too long in a misguided venture of love. He never wanted their pity, never needed their careful handling. If he breaks, he’ll break and piece himself back together, the same as them—the same as he’s done for so many of them time and time again.

So don’t assign the blame so easily, he wants to tell her. Don’t rush into deciding that it’s on you alone to shoulder the aftermath of something beyond either of them. If he cannot let go of anything said, that is his reality to deal with and his demons to fight. She has enough of her own without taking on his as well. “It’s fine, Alecto,” he says instead, a cracked record on repeat as many times as it takes for the words to become truth. “It is.”

Maybe not yet, not right this moment, but it will be. This job will end, just like they all must eventually, and she will come back to them. Because Pontius has yet to sink into her proper, she’s said so herself—Tartarus is still home, and he’s selfish enough to admit a small prick of relief at hearing that.

Zagreus knows the only way he is getting Hypnos to engage in recreational time is if he all but kidnaps him. That’s fine, it’s the part hey played in Olympe and it’s the part he’ll play again here. The boat taking them out to the diving spot is on time and though there are rentals, Zag’s skips past the concept of fiscal responsibility and simply buys them both new diving wetsuits. They match, down to the kitsch fish print. Zagreus can’t stop grinning at them and the flippers that make them both waddle around. “Arcadia was great! Had to drag the dresser in front of the door each night though. Wasn’t allowed to open the blinds or curtains either. Achilles and your mom made me promise I would. They were certain I was going to get kidnapped or sniped.”  Zagreus practically hangs over the railing now, trying to see if he can catch a glimpse a dolphin snout underneath the clear waves. “But it was still a blast. Did some sight-seeing, Athena introduced me to Briseis, ate a lot of good food, acquainted myself with many a margarita-”

Somewhere behind him, an instructor says: ‘Sir, please keep your limbs inside the boat.’ Zagreus pulls himself up and over the railing that he’s practically folded himself over, arm outstretched to try and touch the water. He flicks the sea water off his hands.

“My father texted me photos of a sad Cerberus waiting for me at the door every night. No way I could have stayed longer.” They both know it’s not the sole reason of his premature return. “Besides, this was just the pre-trip. A quick mental health break. I told you, next time I’m taking you.” He would have, this time around, but again, they both knew.

“Uhm..” he wrinkles his nose slightly at the imagery Zag is painting with his words, trying to mentally picture a ‘vacation’ where you have to hole up in your hotel room every night like a wanted criminal on the run. Really, what is it with the adults and this ongoing paranoia that all of the kids are liable to be kidnapped if left to their own devices. “I guess better safe than sorry?”

The instructor frowns heavily in their direction, clearly disapproving of this pair of tourists and their flagrant disregard of safety protocols. He smiles apologetically and moves to stand closer to the railing, but doesn’t bother trying to restrain Zagreus. Years of running after the older boy with arms outstretched and caution falling off his tongue have taught him there’s little point to that venture. “I’m glad you had a good time though.”

Thanatos spends most of the return journey in the fetal position, braced against the best guess of what agony awaits them at home. He brackets himself with people he loves, a weighted blanket of bodies that change guard with the hours slipping by, blurred together like trees out of a train window. Hypnos and Eurydice, the most frequent. Occasionally Nyx or Meg. Achilles, once, though Than is more sure he imagined the cool hand the back of his neck more than anything else. 

This is not a death march, he thinks, listening to the whine of motors through the window. A distorted, mechanical symphony. Thanatos is not dying, not left open and oozing on the coroner’s table. This is a coming alive – maybe, hopefully. A waking. A looking back to see the life he’s lived with his head shoved underwater. 

The rest is instinct: bags packed, seats taken. Catching at sleep in the travel hours like butterflies in the mouth. Disembarking, driving home. Doors unlocked, bags set down. Unpacked in the next day or two weeks, as if it makes a difference. The party bleeding out into the House from the front door like a ruptured vein. And now this: the quiet agony of Than’s room exactly where they’d left it. Zag’s clothes and his swirled and abandoned in piles on the bed, the floor. Impossible, Thanatos tells himself, to discern between.

Hypnos hovers behind, half-specter. It’s time to get to work. 

“Might be easier if we divide and conquer.” He tries not to look at the outstretched hand as an accusation. “I can take the dresser and closet, you the nightstands and medicine cabinets?” A safe, clean bet; let Hypnos find most of what might be left and make the judgements accordingly.

The fact that his brother doesn’t even remember where all he’s hidden away his various poisons of choice is concerning in itself, something to be addressed perhaps. But he can’t find it in him to lecture right now, so he simply nods, fingers closing on an agreement he hopes won’t turn out as empty as the air pressed to his palm, and turns to bend his attention to the first nightstand.

He’s no stranger to going through Thanatos’ possessions, just as he’s sure his brother’s rifled through his things more often than they’d claim to, but there is something that feels particularly invasive about how he searches the drawers now, methodical, looking for a specific type of guilt. It’s an unpleasant kind of grit that digs into his skin with each bottle he digs out of hidden corners, a reminder of all he’s managed to miss over the years. And it begs the question: what else have they been keeping from him?

He slams the drawer shut with more force than necessary, making the remaining contents within rattle in protest.

It’s not something he can shed, this instinct he may not have been born with but that he grew in his early childhood. The urge to protect, or look after, or at least feel responsible. With Hypnos Erebus, tiny fledgling, so often prone to reclusion in his labs, one of the first people he’d grown fond of after the curtain had dropped and he’d become chained — it’s like instinct, to care. He’d tried not to, really. Tried not to grow roots, but like any plant you put in new soil, he’d done so.

So now, he takes initiative. A rare thing, for Mino these days, but exceptions have to be made. The sight of Hypnos hidden among brambles is fresh on his mind and perhaps he, too, needs a bit of comfort. He orders food in, finds a quiet corner that’s far from the labs and takes Hyp up with him, gestures at the ( not too impressive ) lay out of the greasy food and soon enough he’s sipping something sweet through a straw.

“I find it kind of strange to be back,” he says. “Haven’t been outside of Tartarus for that long in … quite some time.” Mino doesn’t say it to sound pitiful, well aware that he’s somewhat lucky to have gotten out every now and then, if only if it was to assist Thanatos with less pretty jobs. “Has it been okay for you, since Olympe?”

Part of him wants to reject Mino’s invitation when he first receives it, remembering with far too much clarity how they’d last seen him, how he’d allowed himself to be found in such a state by not just one other person, but two. How embarrassing. He’d been prepared to hide in his lab as soon as they’d made their return, and never have to confront that reminder or another living being again.

Instead, he’s here, settling into a corner of the House it seems even he has yet to find in all the years he’s spent under its roof. They’re tucked away from the rest of Tartarus like this, a momentary retreat from the white noise of the world as a whole, and a relief when his nerves still grate with what the looming days promise to bring. It’s not an ideal situation for anyone right now, but he appreciates the effort at least.

“Do you keep Alice in here? Or is she out in the greenhouse with the other plant babies?” he wanders around the office space, careful to keep from touching anything lest he disturb some invisible order or see something he’s not supposed to. It’d been a surprise that he be allowed this far into Pontius at all, just shy of their labs and tech and developments. He wants to ask if Poseidon realizes Pat is playing tour-guide this close to home, but decides he’d rather not know.

Besides, he’s far less interested in the space that Pat does his work in, and much more keen to discuss the actual work itself. Granted they’ll have to be careful to steer clear of sensitive topics—the lecture he’d received before leaving only a few days ago replays in his head, drawing a frown from him—but there’s still plenty of subjects he’d love to pick the older man’s brain on.

[ ... ]

Sand kicks up behind them as they make their way towards Hypnos, back now turned. Their shoes sink, and they feel as though they’re being taken down, as if the island is whispering, telling her to turn back, but she does not listen. The crowd moves ahead of Hypnos and she takes the opportunity to pull him backwards, thin fingers creating a circlet around an evenly thin wrist. “Hyp,” Alecto pleads, though she does not know if she has a right to. Despite the falsities, what if her words had burrowed into his heart? “I’m sorry.” It bleeds from the back of her throat, to the roof of her mouth, spinning out to the tip of her tongue.

The salt in the air settles something bitter on the back of his tongue each time he breathes in, sand and brine grit he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. And here he is three weeks in, still waiting for a familiar voice to carry over on the wind, a familiar number to reappear in his inbox, but all he gets is static and the occasional weather report. Today: partially cloudy, with a 30% chance of acid rain.

It’s an exercise in futility and stupidity in equal measures—observe, if you will, EXHIBIT A: How to Make a House of Nightmares Out of What You Love, Loved, Lost; and Trap Yourself Within—but logic and reason have no place in this disorder ruled by the gravitational pull of an unruly heart. What a pity. What a shame. What a waste to have such a sentimental creature for a child, mother.

He’s trying though—surely that must count for something? surely they must see that? “Do not contact her” is a cautionary tale come too late when his first reaction is always to reach out for something already halfway gone, but now that they’re docked, he’s managed to avoid her shadow in the waters, down the halls, a haunting at the fringe unacknowledged..

..until it’s not. One moment he’s alone in a crowd of faceless paper bodies drifting, the next she’s there, grounding in a way he’s only ever found reassuring with her fingers closed ‘round his pulse. And suddenly, he wants to laugh at it all, how so much has changed and yet, nothing has.

“It’s fine,” forgiveness is his sickness to pass on, the rusty dull edge of it pressing at his gut, threatening an evisceration from what he’s learned to swallow down. Because it’s not fine really, it hasn’t been in a long time. Not when they keep returning with less than they left with, and the House is growing steadily silent and still save for Cerberus’ patrolling steps, and the garden they’ve been trying to grow refuses to take root as though it knows better than them all. “Mom explained.”

Above them, the sky curdles and sinks, the promised rain looming large. They’ll start rounding people up to go back to Pontius soon, before the weather breaks, but he can’t move with her holding him in place like this. Nor does he want to.

He hadn’t planned to get too involved in the summit while he’s there. Not that what’s happening isn’t interesting—all of the innovation and development and sheer potential that Pontius flaunts, it’s a little overwhelming, but in a different and far more palatable way than Olympe had been—but his mind has really only been preoccupied with a singular thought since before they’d even left home, and he cannot accomplish what he intends if he lets himself get sucked into diversions the entire time.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, this resolve hasn’t gone down well with certain members of their party, and though he’s managed to wiggle out of one invitation to swim with his friends, he’s not entirely surprised to find Zag waiting for him when he leaves his room this morning. “Okay, I guess I did promise to let you drag me into the water once before we go,” he sighs, resigned but not unhappy to follow them out to the docked boats.

Here’s the funny thing about ghosts and guilty minds alike: they have a nasty habit of crawling out of the walls after the sun falls, seeking retribution for blame you may not be sure is yours to take, but they make certain is yours to live with. And Fates know it’s hard to argue against your own demons when they’ve made a home in the hollow spaces of your body, uninvited tenants with a front row seat to how you collapse in on yourself slow.

The entire trip back to Tartarus feels like a hazy daymare sequence dreamed real, déjà vu in the worst ways how his thoughts writhe into tangled knots slipping out his finger faster than he can catch on. He doesn’t remember anything beyond the sinking sensation that this feels less like a coming home, and more like a funeral procession—two empty pockets in their midst, cold where there should have been warmth; the soft crunch of broken glass and breaking hearts at the bottom of his bag; a world reduced to muffled white noise as he filters out everything and everyone in that tunnel-vision space he falls into when running blind.

And it’s fine. He’s fine. He can’t afford to be anything but now that there’s so much more to do. Never mind that he has no concrete plans going into any of this, never mind that he’s not sure how much faith he can put in that promise of help—such a strange concept in application to himself—this is his mess to clean up in the end. Perhaps not in full, but in large, and he will not pull anyone else down with him by his volition.

So it is that when they finally reach the House, everyone scattering for the safety of their respective havens, he doesn’t immediately follow suit. His brother’s room is nearly as familiar as his own at this point, childhood memories of spending hours lost under blanket forts with them and Alecto rising briefly to remind him: once upon a time, things had been better, and the person in front of him hadn’t been just a bad photocopy of someone he loves. But now, here they are.

He can count the amount of times he’s left the confines of this self-imposed prison since returning home—once to check in with Nyx to make sure they’re on the same page for getting Than clean (a necessity), once because Mino had asked his time for an evening (a distraction), once to return a jacket borrowed to Alecto’s now-empty room (a mistake). Where before, the lab had become a looming creature from beyond, seemingly determined to trap him from the light of day until he’d given all he has to feed the appetites on high, he now willingly tucks himself deeper into its guts. Trying to lose himself in work, trying to work away the loss and guilty conscience.

It hasn’t worked yet, but his other option is to sink, and he can’t afford that when he has to undo what he created. So he keeps the door locked, changing the key anew to make sure only those who need access are allowed in, and he disappears behind a wall of good intentions turned wrong.

The beeping of the lock has him flinching away from the notes he’d been pouring over, turning to the door with wide-eyed alarm. No one should be coming to find him at this hour—what time is it anyway? how long has been down here already?—no one should be able to enter so easy, so who is this? His phone is dead, he has no way to check if he’d left himself a reminder in a more lucid moment, how long has he been here?

The door slides open, near silent. A familiar figure more shade than human slipping through the gap to step into the light. He deflates. Meg. Hesperia. Argus. Another potential mistake in the making. Right.

Wordless, he holds the bottles out to her in an open palm, pills inside rolling innocuously with the motion. Each is no bigger than a child’s thumbnail. One a flat disc of condensed powder giving off a pale lavender cast under the fluorescent lights—mostly harmless, mostly effective, good for when you don’t want to feel so much your skin burns with the air and your brain threatens to rattle out your skull. One an oblong capsule filled with an indiscernible liquid—not as harmless, not as safe, but meant to drag your senses kicking and screaming into the light when you’re this close to being buried in the mire.

“Hypnos,” he calls, but by that time it’s too late to take anything back. Hypnos flinches back like he’s put his hand too close to the coals of a fire. He backpedals, and all Achilles can really do is watch him. “Hypnos, come on, what happened?” He has a working theory. He doesn’t step forward in case Hypnos really does decide to run like a fleeing animal.

Instead he opens the freezer and grabs an ice-pack, holding it out as an offering. “Use this for the next few days. Take some painkillers, nothing too crazy or experimental, and keep it elevated. If it’s cutting into your production time I’ll speak to Nyx and Hades about giving you a few days off. I’ll tell them you’re sick, or something. But I promised not to tell.” Achilles takes another step closer. “What happened, Hyp?”

They promised. Yes, they promised, and somehow that is worse. Because now he’s tied this ugly thing like a ball and chain around Achilles, a condemnation they hypothetically could shake but he doubts they will, and he hates to think he’s adding his problems onto their burdens. He never should have asked for help in the first place.

The icepack feels like an appeasement and a last attempt at drawing him into a confession all at once. He edges forward enough only to take the offering before retreating quickly in the other direction. “Thanks, I’ll do that,” he hesitates at the door, not quite gone yet—there’s still a chance to change his mind here. Isn’t that the least he owes them, after making them promise not to tell something so vague and incomplete. The words sit heavy and unspoken on the back of his tongue instead.

“Nothing happened. I'm fine, I’ll get through quota, I promise.” And he flees.