THE DESIRE BEFORE DESIRE

it  is  decidedly  true  that  bunny  does  not  enjoy  the  company  of  hermes'  son,  but  that  is  a  fact  that  could  also  be  decidedly  untrue.  she  doesn't  scoot  away  from  ezra  as  he  sits  next  to  her,  but  from  bunny's  lips  comes  a  tired  sounding  sigh  as  she  tosses  a  strawberry  stem  over  their  shoulders.   “   i  am  my  father's  darling  daughter,   ”   she  muses.  with  her  sticky  fingers,  she  turns  the  page  of  her  book  and  points  to  a  line  to  read  to  him.   “   ah,  yes,  what's  good  is  always  loved,   ”   she  says  —  almost  in  a  stage  voice  but,  not  quite,  it  doesn't  sound  right,  even  to  bunny's  ear.

—  IF  THEY'RE  SURPRISED  BUNNY'S  TAKEN  HER  seriously,  she  doesn't  show  it.  her  eyes  drift  back  to  the  dark  water,  the  moon's  reflection  distorted  by  the  wavelets  that  extended  from  her  foot's  methodic  disruptions  to  the  surface.  the  girl's  reflection  joins  her  own  in  the  water,  their  arms  folded  over  her  knees  and  creating  a  distinctly  unrecognizable  figure,  but  even  bunny's  is  virtually  a  stranger  in  the  dim  light,  a  reflection,  perhaps,  of  life.  the  burden  of  vulnerability  was  not  one  she  lays  lightly  on  anyone  and  perhaps  that's  why  a  laugh  bubbles  out  of  them,  a  harsh,  unexpected  sound  in  the  quiet.  "jesus,"  they  snort,  chin  resting  on  one  knee.  "that's  cheerful."  there's  a  thought  prickling  at  the  back  of  her  mind,  sharper  than  most,  digging  its  way  through  and  out.  extinction  was  natural,  but  somehow,  there  is  more  optimism  in  her  for  their  future,  at  least  as  a  whole.  "i  think  as  long  as  the  gods  have  use  for  demigods,"  there  is  a  carefully  placed  indifference  in  her  voice,  aware  of  who  their  audience  is,  and  who  her  father  is,  despite  the  thought  making  them  feel  a  little  like  a  house  pet.  "they  will  find  a  way  to  keep  us  alive. don't you think?"

they  sing  like  an  oracle,  possessed  by  the  voice  of  a  god  —  a  reminder  that  makes  bunny's  lips  spread  into  something  of  a  smile.  too  wry  to  really  be  one,  too  happy  to  be  a  frown.  the  gods  will  always  have  a  need  for  demigods,  a  use;  it  often  feels  like  they  are  no  better  than  mortals,  maybe  worse  off.  those  with  no  relation  to  the  gods  at  least  are  left  alone,  they  are  killed  without  thought  or  pain,  one  fell  swoop,  a  single  blink  and  their  lives  are  over.  demigods,  though,  are  unique  in  the  way  that  they  are  needed  and  bothered  from  the  moment  they  are  born,  thrust  into  fates  that  they  don't  get  choose,  shown  a  life  in  which  very  few  of  them  are  ever  awarded  for  their  feats.  fight  these  battles  and  die  a  hero,  slay  our  enemies  and  die  a  hero,  be  a  hero  and  die  a  hero.  she  gives  alicia  a  small  shake  of  the  head.   “   they'll  definitely  find  a  way  for  us  to  keep  ourselves  alive.   ”   she  groans  and  rolls  onto  her  back,  the  ends  of  her  hair  breaking  the  surface  of  the  water.   “   maybe  we  shouldn't  worry  too  much,  then.  everything's  already  planned  out  for  us,  isn't  it?   ”   

* and  isn’t  that  godhood  ?  a  form  so  divine  it  burns  to  look  at @ptolomeas

Dull, clipped fingernails drag along the clay walls of the trench, scalloping each ray of sunlight pouring through the thatched roof. It's a well-disguised location, despite being pretty close to camp. She did a good job choosing this one, and a better one constructing it. All by her lonesome, no special gifts involved (save for a few safeguards around the entrance — she wouldn't necessarily require her mother's help with this if she had access to a hardware store, but that's the tradeoff for this life).

If she was smart, she'd have kept it to herself. But she's never been half as smart as she likes to think she is, so she's sitting knee-to-knee with Bunny, the army surplus canteen she traded O.C. a pair of fishhook earrings and a friendship bracelet for handed back and forth between them. They're playing one of her favourite games. She names a wine for Bunny to try and make. Jo tastes the wine to see if she actually knows what it is, enough to see if Bunny managed it. "This can't be a Zinfandel. I'm so certain I'd die on it. Aren't they white wines? I swear I've had a real one before."

She takes another long swig — doesn't matter what kind of wine it is, she can taste the alcoholic content, and by the Gods, she will have her nerves soothed before they're sent out. Even if they're cutting it a little close to the deadline. Whatever. It's not like she knows how to drive, anyways. Nerves, yes — she's a little nervous, so what? This is so far beyond her capabilities. There's a reason she's so paranoid. There's a reason that, despite her hatred for camp, she hasn't left since she arrived, hasn't even tried, has begged not to be made to.

She's scared. Thank the Gods for Bunny. Thank Big D in particular.

She reaches across the space between them, to hand the canteen back, but also to let her hand linger against Bunny's, to reach up and brush her cheek. It's a little more affection than she'd usually allow, but she's a little tipsy (more than a little tipsy), and she just — Gods, Bunny's sweet face. Her eyes, those big tired eyes, the eyes of her friend — Gods, her friend! What a thing for someone to be, Jo's friend. And for Jo to be Bunny's friend — almost unbelievable. Someone so special.

It's not what she really wants to ask. It's not the right question – the right question is too embarrassing – and she won't get the right answer – if Bunny said what she wanted to hear Jo wouldn't believe her – but it's the best she's got, with half a second before Bunny stops drinking and starts talking again.

the  summer  is  a  strange  and  sultry  time  —  usually  always,  but  especially  so  these  days.  with  more  hours  in  the  sun,  the  crowd  at  camp  half - blood,  as  she  has  observed  for  the  past  two  summers,  tends  to  go  mad  with  their  own  insanity;  tearing  each  other  apart  as  the  cabins  become  more  crowded  and  pushing  the  boundaries  as  far  as  they  can  with  what  limited  supervision  they  receive.  this  summer,  while  as  fervid  as  ever,  has  been  the  strangest  and  even  bunny,  a  girl  of  strange  demeanor,  is  starting  to  grow  weary  of  the  oddity  surrounding  camp  half - blood.

or,  lack  of  oddity  surrounding  camp  half - blood,  her  metaphorical  magical  blanket  no  longer  wrapped  protectively  around  her  skeleton.  the  lack  of  mist  is  to  blame  for  the  increase  of  strangeness.

but,  her  ankles  are  crossed  and  her  knees  are  to  her  chest  and  this  strange,  sultry  summer  is  not  one  she  has  to  suffer  alone.  of  course,  at  camp  half - blood,  bunny  hopewell - ward  is  never  actually  ever  alone,  but  she  is  not  surrounded  by  friends  or  like - minded  souls,  companions  that  can  warm  her  ugly,  beating  heart  even  in  the  heat  of  the  summer.  none  of  the  other  campers  are  quite  like  jo,  in  that  way;  none  of  them  matter  quite  as  much.  the  gaze  bunny  sends  jo  is  so  unlike  her  character  that  if  anyone  else  were  to  witness  it,  they  would  accuse  her  of  possession  (  as  if  any  kind  of  demon  could  ever  enter  her)  —  but  the  simple  truth  is  bunny's  raw,  unfiltered  adoration  is  only  ever  reserved  for  a  select  few  people.  jo,  as  sweet  as  the  spring  and  as  strange  and  sultry  as  the  summer,  has  earned  it  by  nothing  but  her  presence  alone.  sprightly  and  scintillating  and  someone  that  burns  so  bright  it  would  be  impossible  to  not  be  caught  in  her  orbit.

with  her  chin  on  the  tops  of  her  knees,  eyes  focused  on  the  droplet  of  water - turned - wine  tucked  in  the  corner  of  jo's  mouth.  bunny  is  unable  to  stop  the  smile  from  sprouting  on  her  lips.  she  is,  to  her  loved,  loved,  ones   ( her  dearest  ones,  her  most  dear  ones),  a  woman  of  few  words  at  all.  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  and  someone  can  say  everything  by  saying  nothing,  and  if  someone  knows  her,  they  know  how  to  interpret  her  silence  (oh,  you're  right,  said  with  the  smile,  it  is  a  white  —  i  was  thinking  of  my  favorite,  red,  of  course,  so  red  it  burns  ).

she  takes  the  flask  with  a  laugh  —  half  a  laugh,  as  genuine  as  it  can  get  —  and  tilts  it  back  with  the  weight  of  this  summer  hanging  over  her.  it  burns  and  hurts,  precisely  the  way  it's  meant  to,  and  she  didn't  make  the  wine  so  potent  on  purpose  but  her  chest  aches  at  the  thought  of  what  lies  ahead.  begging  her  father  to  let  her  stay  bore  no  fruit.  he  asked  whether  she  was  a  hero  or  not  and  didn't  like  the  answer  she  gave  him,  so  he  told  her  she  might  not  be  a  daughter  worth  saving  —  you are my biggest waste of time  —  and  she  withered  away  before  him.  he  didn't  even  have  to  try  to  beat  her  at  pinochle,  he  just  did.  he  beat  her  completely.

* 𝐀𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐔𝐍  𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒  𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑  𝐇𝐄  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒  that  he  should  be  becoming  more  himself,  that’s  how  it  always  goes  for  him  —  the  light  on  his  skin  making  him  solid  as  if  cast  in  gold.  but  instead,  in  bunny’s  company,  it  seems  to  cast  its  shadows  at  a  slant  —  unease  lingering  where  the  radiance  meets  the  swaths  of  grey  hidden  away  from  the  sun.  it  lights  bunny’s  face  in  a  way  that  is  ghastly  and  divinely  beautiful.  her  features  carved  out  harshly  by  the  maddening  contrasts,  unsettling  in  a  way  that  evokes  the  sublime.  (  and  isn’t  that  godhood  ?  a  form  so  divine  it  burns  to  look  at,  the  truest  embodiment  of  the  sublime  ?  )  it’s  terrible  and  intoxicating  and  he  thinks  he  can  feel  his  senses  slip  away,  he  delights,  ever  so  slightly,  in  the  feeling  of  it,  though  he’d  never  show  it.  “  try  distant  and  cold,  ”  he  corrects,  though  he  doesn’t  really  care  — his  grandparents  held  nothing  for  him  but  a  trust  and  a  life  he  would  not  lead.  instead  his  eye’s  watch  as  an  ant  moves  across  a  leaf,  quick  and  determined  but  almost  certainly  doomed. he  considers  her  counter,  him  at  the  helm  of  a  cause,  organizing  and  rallying  and  pulling  together  the  camp.  it’s  exhausting,  as  a  thought,  yet  a  lure  lies  hidden  at  the  edges  of  it;  eyes  on  him,  at  the  center  of  everything,  they’ll  fall  at  your  feet.  he  isn’t  one  for  self  reflection,  yet  the  presence  of  bunny  seemed  to  twist  it  from  him.  who  could  know  but  her,  doesn’t  she  already.  he  doesn’t  speak  it,  his  conceit  or  his  desire,  instead  he  continues  along  the  conversation  that  they  have  carved,  “  they  always  say  people  are  more  generous  at  those  events  if  they’re  inebriated,  ”  something  he  had  learned  at  fourteen,  sneaking  flutes  of  champagne  and  half  drunk  whiskeys  when  no  one  was  watching,  “  i  can  only  imagine  how  altruistic  they  might  become  in  a  bacchic  state,  incite a little ecstasy you’d  be  nothing  but  invaluable  to  the  cause.  ”   

in  the  way  that  he  unfolds  in  the  sun  she  can  see  herself  planted  in  his  very  bones.  there  is  nothing  but  suspicion,  no  proof  that  he  can  get  drunk  on  desire,  but  bunny  can  almost  taste  it  —  or,  is  she  tasting  herself?  her  own  blood,  part  ichor,  rich  with  the  dirt  from  which  man  was  made  and  the  sliced  pieces  of  a  godly  grandfather  usurped  by  his  own  children.  she  is  told  that  nectar  is  supposed  to  taste  like  what's  most  comforting  to  her,  think  cookie  dough  or  rich  honey,  but  bunny  only  ever  tastes   ...   nothing.  madness.  desire.  a  drunkenness  that  settles  so  deep  in  her  bones  that  she  can  never  be  rid  of  it.  in  watching  beckett's  stark  normalcy,  his  charimsa,  the  line  of  jaw,  the  slope  of  his  nose,  the  very  way  he  holds  himself,  she  tastes  herself  on  her  tongue  (  nothingness,  madness,  drunkenness  ).  her  neck  is  stiff  and  her  arms  ache.  she  can't  stand  to  stare  at  him.  he  disgusts  her  (  no,  he  DELIGHTS  her,  he  is  the  erinyes  stripping  her  apart  until  she  is  nothing  but  herself  —  the  more  appropriate  word  would  be  terrifies,  horrifies,  sickens  ).  she  says,   “   that's  the  only  way  some  people  know  how  to  love,   ”   and  purses  her  lips. it  goes  without  saying  that  that's  the  only  way  she  knows  how  to  love. with  the  ever  present  prickle  of  uneasiness  at  the  base  of  her  skull,  she  steals  his  words  as  her  own,  rolls  them  around  her  mouth  like  a  ripped  chunk  of  strawberry  flesh.  incite  a  little  ecstacy,  be  invaluable.  a  craving  of  her  own  that  she  almost  can't  deny  (  see  the  scenario  in  which  bunny  agrees  immediately,  begs  to  be  allowed  to  slip  a  little  madness  into  the  eyes  of  every  waiting  demigod  —  see  the  scenario  in  which  a  little  bleeds  into  a  lot,  a  camp  of  cultists  tearing  the  mortals  apart  limb  from  limb  for  trespassing  on  sacred  ground  ).  she  forces  a  smile  onto  her  lips,  finds  herself  trying  to  mimic  beckett  before  her  and  failing.  bunny  chews  on  the  inside  of  her  cheek  when  her  smile  falls,  compelled  back  into  her  resting  state.  she  admits,   “   if  you  let  me,  it  wouldn't  be  a  little.   ”   a  pause.  brief,  but  pregnant.   “   no,  you  know  me.  it  would  be  madness.   ”   

  who  isn’t  ?  the  question  begs  itself.  camp  half-blood,  a  home  for  so  many,  under  threat.  xander’s  level  of  concern  starts  and  ends  there;  this  is  a  place  people,  including  him,  have  discovered  their  truest  selves,  been  able  to  explore  the  depths  of  who  they  are  and  what  they're  meant  to  do.  beyond  that,  the  repercussions  it  may  have  for  the  higher-ups,  he  couldn’t  care  less.  any  inconvenience  to  the  gods  is  a  triumph  to  the  anarchist  in  him.

  “no,  not  exactly.  chiron  wanted  to  talk  to  him  so  he  made  me  leave.  i  was  gonna  eavesdrop,  but  then  i  realised  i  didn’t  actually  give  a  fuck.  seemed  serious  though.”  others  would  be  nosier,  he  was  sure.  “oh,  dionysus,  what  ever  are  we  going  to  do!,”  he  mimics,  pitching  his  voice  up  three  octaves.  “some  losers  came  into  camp  and  there  have  been  zero  consequences.  this  is  a  disaster!  like,  shut  up,  man.  go  smoke  a  j.  be  real.”

the  lighter  feels  warmer  when  placed  back  in  her  palm.  bunny  wraps  her  fingers  around  it  and  holds  it  in  her  lap,  letting  her  cigarette  remain  untouched  while  xander  talks.  she  breathes  in  the  air  thick  with  smoke  and  sweat  and  heat,  uncrossing  her  ankles  to  cross  them  again.  dionysus  being  in  an  especially  bad  mood  doesn't  worry  bunny,  necessarily,  but  as  a  demigod  at  the  same  (  maybe  rapidly  declining  )  summer  camp  as  him,  she  allows  herself  to  feel  some  minor  distress  at  his  demeanor.  she  sniffs  and  lifts  her  chin,  pressing  her  shoulder  blades  flat  against  the  chair.   “   that's  not  really  a  good  thing.   ”   bunny's  eyes  thin  for  a  moment,  and  failing  to  elaborate,  she  takes  a  silent,  deep  drag  of  her  cigarette. logically,  it  makes  the  most  sense  that  dionysus  is  in  a  bad  mood  because  of  the  police;  mortals  stomping  on  untouched  ground  with  their  filthy  boots  and  uncouth  demeanors,  walking  around  a  sanctuary  he  was  meant  to  —  protect  isn't  the  right  word,  supervise,  maybe.  she  can  only  imagine  how  his  father  is  reacting.  how  is  zeus  responding  to  the  troubles?  is  he  looking?  likely  not,  she  supposes.  that  is  not  the  job  of  a  god,  it  is  the  job  of  a  hero  (  heroes,  often  demigods,  often  die,  go  mad,  or  lose  the  thing  that  matters  most  —  it's  why  they're  meant  to  do  these  jobs  ). shuffling  to  get  comfortable  (  her  butt  (  bunny's  buns,  so  to  speak  )  is  unfortunately,  of  the  bony  behavior  ),  the  corners  of  her  lips  tick  upward  and  bunny  shakes  her  head  at  xander.   “   dionysus  could  smite  you  for  that,  you  know.  he  brought  you  into  this  world,  he  can  send  you  out.   ”   she  pockets  the  cigarette  and  gives  her  brother  a  genuine  look,  brows  pulled  together,  cheeks  flushed  from  the  heat  —  from  the  antics.  she  says,   “   we  should  go  back  and  eavesdrop  together.  or,  you  offer  dad  a  joint  and  i  go  dig  around  for  some  stuff.  wouldn't  that  be  fun?   ”   

eoin  finnegan  emerges  from  the  tombstone  chic  confines  of  cabin  one  looking  as  rested  as  a  live  wire.  exhaustion,  however,  is  a  privilege  reserved  for  the  perishable  goods  called  people  and  the  uniformed  guns  called  the  police.  look  alive,  soldier.  no  home  other  than  this  one  to  fight  for.  no  cannon  fodder  other  than  the  cracking  voices  consonant  with  campfire  songs  from  the  fields  of  punishment  to  keep  from  wandering  into  the  woods  and  turning  up  spouting  theories  about  the  comeback  of  ulster  paramilitarism  as  ignited  by  a  coalition  of  squirrels  to  die  for.  he  sighs  loudly  enough  to  send  a  hurricane  spinning  towards  south  africa  and  descends  to  find  a  trustworthy  source  of  fashion  advice.

in  one  hand,  you  see:  an  oversized  reefer  jacket  handcrafted  by  only  the  most  arthritis-having  artisans  in  the  world.  there  are  splotches  of  navy  blue  reminiscent  of  the  great  brine  and  its  unknowable  depths  next  to  splotches  of  russet  brown  reminiscent  of  dog  poop.  not  even  daedalus  could  divine  the  structural  destruction  that  is  the  conga  line  of  mismatched  buttons.  wool  lining  houses  little  over  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  half-blood  hill’s  rodent  population  for  incredible  prices.

in  the  other  hand,  you  must  know:  the  exact  same  fucking  jacket.  with  the  exact  same  fucking  stains.

it  takes  all  of  five  seconds  for  him  to  find  someone  worthy  of  stroking  his  ego.  he  taps  them  on  the  shoulder.  tap  is  a  generous  term  for  the  action  that  demonstrates  his  generosity  with  lethal  force.  he  preemptively  decides  to  deny  indemnification,  which  is  more  thinking  than  what’s  been  put  in  this  encounter.  trust  him,  most  honourable  person in a  powdered  wig since orpheus or george onslow or whomstever it was in that overpriced painting on the overpriced postcard,  he  was  just  helping  them  out  of  lyre  tuning  duty.  that’ll  do  it.

“help.”  a  demand,  not  a  suggestion.  the  rollicking,  maverick  charisma  of  his  monotone  voice  holds  their  attention  hostage,  he  assumes.  even  now  his  eyes  scan,  as  though  staring  hard  enough  will  attune  them  to  the  frequency  at  which  sirens  slice  through  the  sound  barrier.  the  ugly  kind,  that  is.  “which  should  i  wear  when  they  come  back?”  the  musty,  misshapen  lumps  of  linen  nightmares  are  presented  with  a  flourish.  after  a  moment,  he  clarifies:  “to  avoid  arrest.”

father likes to give lessons, life lessons he likes to call them, glaring at her over the shiny rim of a cola can. he's different from dad, who always gave her life lessons with a hand on her shoulder, a bandage wrapped around her wound, hair pushed out of his eyes. of course, dad's life lessons are of a different variety —  imagine a young girl crying over spilled milk, a farm girl putting all of her eggs in one basket, those kinds. father's life lessons are  ...  different. odd. long and twisted and near maniacal, just enough to keep her attention but not fascinating enough for her to carve them into her bones. this is what to do in case of an angry chimera ( and this is what to do if they're happy ) and the list of things to say when talking to a child of [ fill in the blank, select all that apply: zeus, hades, poseidon ]. bunny knows the children of the big three more intimately than she wants to. there is a certain, distinctive air that they each carry; phia, eager for nothing at all ( save for death or invisibility and even then ), twisting the light until she is either here or not; banks, who always smells like sea salt and the east coast beaches, arriving in every lonely space she chooses to occupy; and eoin, a commanding force of charisma and ego, as stalwart as his father. she can feel them all before she ever sees them. father, dionysus, mr. d, he calls it a sixth sense. a feeling one gets when around the most annoying of demigods ( the most destructive, he often grumbles ). bunny tends not to mind them. bunny also tends not to enjoy them. she turns around, peering through dirty, scuffed glass lenses and poking her tongue into her cheek. she says, "i don't think they're going to be paying much attention to you," and turns away from him, finding her place on the commons lawn again before taking a seat on the grass with her things. "they're certainly not going to arrest you or not based on ... unfortunate fashion choices — gods, those are the same, eoin. flip a coin, let the fates decide."

phia knew mortality. she had been frightened into the present time and time again, pavloved into resisting the urge to dream of a future. the first time she’d brought barb back — the dog covered in earth and drooling at the foot of her bed 10 hours after the wei sisters had bid her a tearful goodbye — phia had known intimately the preciousness and privilege of living. each time she brought the dog back, her attachment to her presence as necessary to phia’s life as her half - ichor blood, she was reminded. each time she brought back spartans and soldiers, their tragic valiance scared her so that she physically recoiled upon their simple recollection. if tragedy did not beget greatness, then sophia wei stood no chance of achieving anything remotely great with the little time she’d been shown to have left. her expression remains flat and indecipherable though she holds in a melodramatic cough, one that her mother would have loosed if bunny had exhaled such a milky white cloud less than fifty feet away from her. at this proximity, rebecca wei would have been begging to be given her last rites. she lowers herself into the offered chair anyhow, a tiny rebellion. “ i enjoy revenge in literature. ” and how true that was, her penchant for vengeance as it remained in theory. “ and antigone was horrible to ismene, ” she recounts, “ she knew jack shit about sisterhood. ” cussing was frowned upon — but phia didn’t have many vices.

on paper, there's more that she has in common with piper wei than phia wei, but whatever she once had with phia's sister has long since burned itself out and left this in its place, the ashes of something that could, possibly, birth something else. phia's presence is a larger blot of nothingness ( a concept that to anyone else is a negative absence but to bunny is an other thing ) in bunny's vision than piper's. where her sister burns and explodes like a dying star, phia consumes and devours like a black hole ( which is a phenomenon more worthy of viewing? which is more destructive? less? are they not two halves of one whole? two tragedies one cannot tear their eyes from ). she enjoys revenge in literature. she fades into nothingness and searches for tragedy, for greatness in it, for the opposite —  greatness in tragedy.   (  briefly thought: in another version of this story, phia is who bunny meets first.  ) bunny watches phia take a seat next and muses, “ you never fail to surprise me, phia. ” in a rare gesture of communion, she offers her cigarette to the other, lips tilting into a sardonic smile. “ say antigone knew nothing of sisterhood, ” she pivots, shutting the book in her lap and placing it on the table between them, bringing the bacchae into light. “ didn't she do the right thing? ” a brief pause, and she rolls her next inquisition on her tongue like a cool stone. “ are you ismene or antigone? when faced with it, are you burying your brother or leaving him to be eaten? ”