hiatus

Clark must be tuned into the same wavelength that Jimmy’s on, because they’re both sharing a look and adamantly shaking their heads. 

It’s not that Jimmy hates you. In fact, you’re admirable, even though he doesn’t get the chance to talk with you much. He doesn’t know about Clark, but since you transferred from the Gotham Gazette, the office has been...weird. 

You make a point to move if Clark sits a chair too close during meetings. And yeah, Clark can be clumsy, but accidentally hip-checking your desk on the daily is too suspicious. 

Hell, when Cat Grant is making theories, it’s serious—I bet the lore is deep, she said at Mr. White’s surprise, in-office birthday party, like, plagiarism and CIA assassination deep. 

Even if you and Clark weren’t mortal co-worker nemeses, the two of you are on opposite—no, completely different spectrums. For Superman’s sake, you’re a World Press nominee, one of the highest recognitions in photography. And Clark is...well.

Clark is just himself with all his slouched, ‘I’ve got a really weird intuition thing’ glory. 

And he’s also Jimmy's best work friend, minus the fact that he’s MIA for what seems like half the work day. 

“You know we need her,” Lois mutters bitterly, taking another slow sip. Clark looks anywhere but at her, shifty. “Come on, just for one photo. It’ll really help the exposé.” 

She says it in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way, the subtle singsong tone she takes when she knows no one would ever think about disagreeing with her. It’d be great ifs and could you help withs, that’s Lois Lane. She’s used it plenty of times, mostly during interviews to get a quote she wanted. 

Jimmy, an unwilling victim, has learned that Lois is very persuasive when she wants to be. 

Eyes crinkled with mirth, she smiles at the two of them, close-mouthed. Jimmy doesn’t know how she does it, spending days hammering away at an article and still having the energy to throw her weight around. 

“Just this once?” 

He looks at Clark, who looks back at him. A kind of silent pact forges in their sidelong eye contact, trying to see how long they can go resisting Lois. Her smile widens by a fraction, knowing that it’s just a matter of time. 

Clark breaks first, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. 

“Okay,” he sighs out, collapsing in the nearest chair. It creaks under his weight, threatening. Speaking of which, Jimmy doesn’t really get how the biggest guy on the block can still be a loser dork (affectionate). A mystery for the greats, he supposes. 

“But,” Clark says, scanning Lois over the rims of his thick glasses. He tugs his collar by a smidge, faintly displeased, or uneasy, “I’m doing it tomorrow.” 

“Fine by me,” she grins, reaching over to shut down her monitor. It goes dark, sapping the blue glow that Jimmy’s gotten so used to. He blinks a few times to get rid of the spots that dance in his vision, then stretches. “Take Jimmy with you. Some people just need a face like his for some convincing.” 

Jimmy perks up at the mention of his name, arms still raised up. The idea of him being attractive to you is slightly scary. Even more so than the unanswered girls in his DMs, because you're like, the greatest of the greats.

...Okay, subjectively speaking. But he’s been subscribed to your photo collection for years when you were still with the Gazette. You’re the camera Superman of the modern generation to him. 

So excuse him when he jumps for the chance, eager. 

“Yeah, Clark,” he blurts. “I’ll help!” 

Lois grins, smug. Aw, shit. Jimmy’s fallen into the trap for Clark—hook, line and sinker. 

— 

“So, what's the deal with him and…” 

Hint-hint, nudge-nudge. 

Jimmy doesn’t want to say your name too loud, lest Clark’s weird hearing picks it up. Even though said man is halfway down the street in the opposite direction, he’s heard stranger things from farther and louder places before. 

A little bird told me, and all that.  

On late nights like this, it’s customary for Lois to walk Jimmy to the station downtown since she lives there. It’s the nearest part of the central city to Bakerline, where the island and mainland are connected by bridge and underground train.

They worked out this routine months ago, and it’s well-oiled enough for Clark—the Midtown Man—to know that Jimmy is in safe-ish hands, if he doesn’t get baited into an impromptu investigation. 

Lois exhales through her nose, amused. “You really haven’t seen it?” 

“I mean,” Jimmy stutters, dragging the scuffed soles of his sneakers along the downhill sidewalk. A loose pebble of concrete skitters away, landing in a patch of weeds sprouting from between the pavement cracks. “I know they’ve got some weird thing. Cat thinks it’s gotta do with the CIA.” 

She laughs, fuller and louder. Jimmy checks over his shoulder—safe. Clark, silhouette now smaller, is still walking straight on, probably whistling a tune to himself. 

“Kind of. Not really. Cat thinks a lot of things,” Lois decides. Objectively correct: Cat drinks rumors for breakfast. Not enough for the front page, but enough that Steve has a crazy long browser history trail because he actually believes her. 

She squints and tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Clark never really said much about it, but I did find a polaroid of them in his wallet. Captioned cider and cowboy, whatever that means.” 

Ah, the perks of being an award-winning journalist. Clark probably forgot that ratty leather thing on his chair again, leaving Lois to stake her claim on the prime real estate of other people’s business. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if his own wallet had been in her hands. She probably knows more about him than even Clark does. 

Jimmy whistles, “So, bitter exes?” 

“Maybe from a long time ago,” she agrees, nodding lightly. “They looked pretty young, like high school.” 

“Oh, bitter sweethearts.” That’s a hundred times worse. No wonder you both act like you’ll catch the plague being around each other. 

Weirdly, he can imagine it. Clark, skinnier and in the threadbare red flannel from Smallville that Jimmy spotted one winter, layered under Clark’s suit jacket for warmth. You, probably with your arms around each other, in the same Midwest, buttfuck nowhere fashion. 

“Mhm, that’s what I was thinking.” 

Jimmy’s still trudging forward when he notices the weird silence. He glances back to see that Lois stopped ten feet away, a curious glimmer in her eyes, jaw shifting. She looks at Jimmy, that mastermind smirk already blooming on her face. Jimmy stares, questioning, and kind of worried. 

She catches up with a full-blown grin and her hands in her pockets, posture too wound up to be casual. 

“Why are you—oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not good bait!” 

“How do you feel about a little case on the side?” 

— 

When Clark Kent enters the office, it isn’t without a wall of apologies as he squeezes between his coworkers. Almost six and a half feet, so he sticks out painfully, like Superman in a sea of civilians—except there’s no way he’s Superman, of course. 

(It’s kind of ironic once you think about it, how big Clark is. You don’t really realize it until you’re turning away from a conversation and bumping those thick glasses right off his nose. How long has he been standing there? No one knows.) 

Jimmy chases him into the revolving door, the lemonade he picked up from the bodega across the intersection sloshing around in its waxed, paper-plastic cup. Skidding to a stop, he catches his breath as Clark apologizes in a low voice for taking up space in the doorway. 

They scoot forward, shoes squeaking against the marble tiles of the entryway. Foot traffic is slower than usual today, aggravated by the door. Jimmy thinks to tell the Chief that the rotator mechanism needs oiling, but he knows it’ll only get done six months after he brings it up. 

“You’re not late this time,” Jimmy quips, inching along. The wings of the door finally open, washing a fresh wave of air over him. Thank god, he was about to start sweating through his shirt. 

Clark lets out a breathy little laugh, not quite believing it himself. “Yeah.” 

He looks kind of…excited? Kiddish, if that’s the right word. Posture finally having an effort put into it and head held high, like he’s searching for something. 

Oh. 

Did Clark get up extra early—or rush through his morning routine, or run instead of walk to work, et cetera et cetera—just ‘cause he finally has an excuse to talk to you? Jimmy can’t quite believe it either. 

Clark Kent, the supposed bitter high school ex of yours doesn’t seem so bitter anymore, grinning wider than he has this entire week.  

They squeeze into the elevator together, pushed against the back wall where the speakers croon corporate, scrubbed jazz into Jimmy’s ears. He grimaces at the artificial saxophone riff, too clean without the surrounding chaotic raff that he loves in improvised jazz. 

“It’s just for five minutes,” Clark mutters, craned weirdly with his satchel clutched to his chest, shoulders titled at an absurd angle as to make sure Jimmy can hear. “Small talk, right?” 

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Jimmy replies, sloshing his lemonade around to see how much he has left. Half a cup, which will last him thirty minutes before he needs to run for the nearest vending machine. Maybe he could ask an intern instead—they like him a lot. 

The mental plan to get hopped up on soft drinks for the whole day doesn’t deter Jimmy’s pondering about your and Clark’s relationship for long, though.  

“...Do you hate her?” 

Clark goes silent for a moment, pondering as a plucked bass melody joins into the sax’s fray. Quiet, “I don’t hate her. We just…haven’t spoken in a while.” 

“Bitter breakup or something?” Jimmy tests. 

Clark doesn’t scowl or push his hand up under his glasses for an eye rub. He just sighs, a heavy and burdened kind of exhale. Forlorn, gaze unfocused and directed at something on another plane entirely. 

“Not really. I don’t know, maybe?” A defeated sigh. “I guess you could say that.” 

The elevator lets out a pleasant ding when they get to their floor, and Jimmy dogs behind a slumped Clark. 

Just a minute ago, he was all sunshine and smiles about you. Flipped the script and shot the plot, and now he’s moping his way into the office at the slightest suggestion of feeling hatred. Fuck, this guy’s a total sap. 

“Come on,” Jimmy says. He slaps a hand onto Clark’s back, urging him along toward your desk. “Just think about it this way: if you start talking again, maybe you’ll be on better terms.” 

Clark picks up speed, just a little. Still hiding the pep he wants to put in his step, but Jimmy can tell all the same. 

Your desk hasn’t changed in the ten or so hours since he left last night. Still a whirlwind of organized chaos, every corner still stuffed with camera equipment. 

Except, you’re there now, computer screen painting your face in bright blue light instead of the empty chair Lois had pointed at earlier. And the stupid thing is, Clark starts lagging behind Jimmy, suddenly enthused to stay the reserved man everyone thinks he is. 

He stutters in his gait, runs his fingers through messy hair once, then twice, and then gingerly—so slow and delicate—unwinds his arms from around that old satchel. The leather bag peels off the front of Clark’s chest comically, like a poster slowly falling off a wall. 

Jimmy almost snorts. 

Lois is right. Once you start looking, you can’t unsee it. 

(“I’m just saying,” she said last night, boots clicking against the pavement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, too restrained to really be casual conversation. Jimmy knows that look on her—she’s hooked on a story, and trying to sell it at the same time. “They look at each other like they’re still in love.” 

He scoffed. “No way.” 

“Just see for yourself,” Lois shrugged, pulling ahead. Then, like nothing had ever happened, like the notion of you and Clark together despite it all had never existed, “Come on, you’re gonna miss the last train.”) 

Jimmy is pulled out of his flashback by a cough. Back to present. 

You’re turned around in your chair, monitor displaying a default login screen. Vaguely, he remembers you tapping the lock button on your keyboard the moment he stepped within five feet of your desk. 

Jesus, insanely private people these Gazetteers are. Jimmy’s heard stories of coworkers sniping each other's scoops in Gotham, but he didn’t think it’d translate into borderline supersenses. Good thing you’ve moved to Metropolis, where the only journalists you’ll be afraid of are Lois or Cat trying to worm a confession out of you. 

“Hi, Olsen. Need something?” You give him a mild, porcelain-polite smile—typical Gothamite manners. Doesn’t quite reach your eyes, which are low lidded in the daylight and rimmed with a faint red. 

You look exhausted. As if you haven’t really gotten used to the light in Metropolis, squinting because not being in the dark of Gotham is hurting your eyes and circadian rhythm. 

He lets out an embarrassing ‘uhhh’ before his thoughts can catch up. Then, he does as Lois does, and jerks Clark forward by the elbow. The man’s body protests more than Jimmy thought it would, shoes super-glued to the floor. 

What the hell is this guy made of? 

Jimmy tugs again, and Clark finally snaps into it, stumbling forward like a thrown ragdoll. His glasses sit lopsided on his face as he stares. 

You give him a look, one that seems almost telepathic, and the words just start pouring out. 

It’s like Jimmy never existed. He watches as Clark mumbles out his words, little fragments of ‘Lois wanted’ and ‘sent me’ and ‘it would be…appreciated,’ said in the way questions are reluctantly asked. 

You look at Clark, and only Clark. Head tilted, elbow propped on the edge of your desk and temple cradled by your fingers. Eyes never leaving, like his voice is the only sound in the world. Like you’re trying to cling onto every single one of his words so you can commit them to paper later. 

And Clark doesn’t even look at Jimmy for help, eyes naturally attracted to yours. He can’t pull away, it almost seems like.

Launching into a soft-spoken spiel about the background of Lois’ exposé, he details sources and photo-ops and how he ‘really shouldn’t be telling you this because it might be dangerous, but I wanted you to know that—’ 

Now Jimmy’s sold on Lois’ side-quest, or whatever she called it. 

If there are any other explanations in the entire universe for two people looking at each other like it’s the last time, speak now. No? Going once, going twice? Alright: it’s love. 

Let's put aside the mysterious estrangement and the tense incidents that have everyone convinced of your mutual hatred. Despite it all, you’re still looking at Clark with the sweetest face Jimmy has ever seen on you, and Clark is standing up taller, chest almost puffed out. 

"We’re talking about it over dinner on Saturday, if you wanna come,” Clark says, a soft sort of grin lighting up his face. It’s not the awkward, left side of the face scrunched smile that usually comes when someone cracks a bad joke. This one is kinder, shredded wide-open. 

Yearning. 

“You sure?” 

“Lois won’t mind,” he shrugs, and holy shit—Jimmy did not know Clark’s pupils could dilate like that. Like dinner-plate wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around an uncanny pool of tar. Kind of alien, if he really had to put a word to it. “It’ll be like the old days.” 

Your hand falls slowly to rest on your desk. You sit up straight, posture conditioned. Just like that, you’ve hardened back up again, porcelain-polite mask sitting over your face. Cracked over the mouth, just a little, clay falling apart in the way your lips curve sadly down. 

“I just saw Lois,” you breathe out with a half-hearted head tilt. Jimmy follows it, and sure enough, a familiar dark-haired troublemaker is squeezing out of the elevator. “I’ll talk to her about it.” 

“Great,” Clark says, morphing back to his usual posture. “That’s great.” 

You swallow, giving him a single, curt nod. “See you.” 

Copying you, he draws his mouth into a terse line. Softly, with a sick gleam in his eyes that could make Jimmy almost throw up at, “Yeah.” 

Clark moves faster than he can say ‘Daily Planet.’ Jimmy looks back, incredulous, at how fast the man skitters back to his own desk without bumping into a single person. 

He has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on. 

Instead, he scoots on over to Cat’s desk, weaving through a group of interns who smile and wave and offer him a coffee. The gossip writer is already staring at him, eyes wide behind her huge cat-eye glasses as she fiddles with her golden earrings—a habit when she knows she has a story. 

“I rescind my CIA theory,” she whispers, twirling a strand of hair around her painted finger. Cat nods as if she’s trying to convince herself of it. “They’re definitely dating.” 

“Nah,” Jimmy says, leaning an elbow on the wall of her cubicle. “Hear this: bitter exes.” 

She gasps. Actually looking concerned, she hides her mouth behind the back of her hand. “No.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Really?” 

He nods, glancing back for a moment. Clark is trying to hide it, but he’s never been the subtle type—answering a phone call, he leans back in his seat, and Jimmy can trace his gaze right back to you talking with Lois.

Jimmy kind of wants to hit the two of you over the head for being so stupid. 

Cat hums, clearly seeing it too. Grimacing, she taps her index finger against her chin. “Oh, yeah, definitely.” 

— 

This must be karma with a side of cosmic comedy. 

Jimmy supposes that while it’s one thing to speculate that his co-workers are in love with each other, it’s an entirely different thing to spy on them. But it isn’t his fault. Scout’s Honor! 

If anyone should receive fury from the gods, it’s Cat. She made him do it. 

…And he complied. Just one picture, though. Nothing more, nothing less, but it was enough to capture evidence of you and Clark, frozen in surprise on the six-inch display of Jimmy’s phone. 

(“Take it!” Cat hisses, nudging him below the ribs. Ouch—sharp elbows. 

“I don’t have my camera!” Jimmy panics, patting himself down like a swarm of ants are crawling all over his body. Where is that damn phone? 

The photo-op before them: Clark, hunched over his keyboard, picking out the words in his article one by one; you, giving him a hard sidelong stare over the lip of your coffee cup. This has happened multiple times in one way or the other. 

Clark looks at you, and you look at him—never at the same time, though. It’s always with some wounded, twisted kind of longing in both of your eyes, one that reminds him of an animal trapped in the bushes. Scared of stepping out but needing it so badly at the same time. 

“Hurry,” Cat urges, gesturing her arms in your direction. She's like an animated Italian grandpa, Jimmy thinks, fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He can see Clark shaking his head to himself, not quite happy with his article, and you smother a smug grin into your coffee. “She’s looking!” 

Clark spins around immediately—as if he heard the gossip columnist’s urgently whispered cries from across the damn newsroom and needed to see it for himself—and freezes when he makes eye contact with you. You nearly choke, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

Jimmy’s thumb finds the shutter button. 

End of story.) 

What he doesn’t get is why the hell it isn’t his phone, but his cameras that are cursed. He almost cried handing over his two beloved Nikons to the repairman and sobbed for real into his pillow when he found out both their mirrors were jammed and needed to stay in the shop for a business week. 

“But it only took a few hours last time!” he protested. The repairman just shook his head sadly and stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the rack of repairs, nearly buckling under the weight of fifty-something cameras. 

Now, back at the office with zero equipment and a hundred photo-ops, Jimmy feels peeved, and kind of crazy. 

Lois frowns, leaning back in her rolling chair. Clark is out of the office for lunch again, an occurrence that’s become too common. He’ll probably be back in ten minutes, saying that the foot traffic was terrible because Superman was doing loops in the sky. 

“I did say that mirrorless cameras were better,” she says, giving him that I told you so look. “Less moving parts and a better sensor.” 

Jimmy sulks with a soda in hand, sucking air through the straw and making the wheezing, burbling sound a finished drink always makes. He mutters, mostly to himself, "A mirrorless isn't as romantic as a DSLR.” 

Lois’ face pulls in on itself—definitely judging. “You’re gonna say some shit like ‘a camera is like a woman,’ aren’t you?” 

He nods, solemnly clutching his fist tight and placing it over his heart. “A camera is like a woman.” 

“I have to say that I agree.” 

Jimmy nearly shrieks and jumps in his chair, a shiver ripping along his spine.

You’re leaning your right elbow on the short, thick wall on the side of his desk with a small smile cracking over your lips. An old-looking camera bag is slung across your body, the dark strap stark against the washed-out maroon of the crew neck sweater you’re wearing. 

(Smallville Giants?) 

In the background, Lois chuckles and crosses one leg over the other, ankle on knee. 

Embarrassment burns through him. 

“Exactly,” he huffs out, flashing a full grin. His leg starts bouncing out of control, and he digs his fingers into the orange plush of his chair’s armrest. “God, I—you kind of scared me.” 

You’ve warmed up since the day he and Clark stumbled around your desk like fools. Cracking a smile here and there, telling jokes steeped in dry Gothamite humor. Sometimes, Jimmy swears he can hear a tiny Midwestern twang fighting the polished city accent you have. 

“Sorry,” you say, head tilting as your grin widens. “Heard you don’t have a camera.” 

Jimmy nods, not trusting his mouth to say anything else. Lifting the strap over your head, you place the bag on his desk. By the sound, it’s heavier than it looks. 

He gazes at you with stars in his eyes. “Seriously?” 

“D5. You can borrow it for now,” you tell him. Casual, like you aren’t handing over a precious relic. He almost feels a prick of jealousy in his heart. Back in school, the wealthier kids were too stingy to even let him near theirs. 

He still loves the D500 he managed to scrounge up the money for as a broke college kid. But this...he might start salivating and floating like a Looney Tunes character. 

“For real?” Jimmy can’t believe it. Maybe this curse has a silver lining that’s too good to be true. 

“I’m trialing a Sony mirrorless right now.” And then you lean a little closer as if this is just a secret shared between the two of you, blocking the side of your mouth with a palm, “Personally, not as sexy as a DSLR.” 

The Kansas accent that he’s only ever heard from Clark bleeds into your words, just slightly. 

Bingo! 

Jimmy slaps his thigh with a wide grin and points at Lois, victorious. “Told you so!” 

You laugh as you slip away. 

— 

The sands of time run quicker when he has a stellar camera in his hands. 

He spent the entire day wandering around the city until his feet went sore, the camera strap tight to keep it as close to his chest as possible. There is no way in the entire universe that something is going to happen to the D5. He’d die before that happened. 

Even from the tiny display window, which is smeared with permanent fingerprints—believe him, Jimmy already tried everything to wipe them off—he can tell the difference between your and his equipment. Especially for Superman photos, he notes. 

Now, alone in his room, parents already put down to bed, Jimmy longingly runs a finger down the worn leather grip of the Nikon you passed to him. It’s a good model, one of the best. He’s yearned for something as good as this since high school. 

Fighting sleep, he springs the hatch in the side of the camera’s body and pops out the memory card. 

Wait. Blink three times. It isn’t his, and it’s older than the ones he uses by a lot. Hell, this is ancient. 

Jimmy is rocketed out of his grogginess, back going ramrod straight. 

If this is your SD, and it’s this old...what photos do you have? 

It’s a natural thing for journalists to speculate, he justifies, knowing full well that he’s been infected with the investigative virus. 

Invasion of privacy—invasion of—invasion— 

His hesitance is interrupted by the faces of his two nosier co-workers. Cat, ever the devil on his shoulder, telling him that a peek doesn’t hurt. Lois, hands on her hips and head shaking left to right, saying, “Journalists dig deep.” 

He boots up his computer, vision seared with the annoying flash of white that always precedes the login screen. Jimmy follows the motions: insert the card, scroll to find his files, select the—almost two-hundred shots—he took and move them to a local folder. 

Meanwhile... 

He almost sprains his wrist with how fast he scrolls back into the card’s history. 

The first one he finds is approximately dated to when you and Clark were in high school. Far too early for a kid to own a D5, and the quality proves it, grainy enough to be from an amateur camera. 

Clark is without his signature glasses in this one, the edges of his body burnished in white-gold. He’s still pretty big, but he leans more to the gangly side with the way his clothes aren’t as filled in. His hair is longer, not as curly, but his dimples are the same. Smile kind, bright blue eyes turned to crescents. 

Handsome, in a way Jimmy never expected him to be. 

He’s lying on his side in bed, surrounded by a gingham-flannel duvet and a striped pillowcase. Pale light streams in from a blurry window, thin beige curtains fluttering in the corner. His hand is buried in the long hair of a border collie as he looks up at the camera with a glint of tender fondness in his eyes. 

Jimmy can tell you’re the one who took this, even though the composition is kind of clumsy. Explaining it is hard, but it’s just a feeling. You always take pictures that make people feel romantic about the world. 

Next. 

This one is around fifteen years from today, and it’s Clark who’s taking this one—he's talented with his words, but it seems that photography has never been his strongest suit. 

Your face is rounder, younger, nose crinkled in displeasure about being half-buried in a pile of loose hay. Still, the corners of your mouth are angled up as if you’re happy to see Clark on the other side. 

Dirt is smeared on the front of your shirt, and the rest of the details are hard to make out, but Jimmy thinks you’re on the floor of a barn. Someone else’s cut-off leg stretches from the side. The angle of the shot is tilted, like Clark had fumbled with the shutter and almost dropped the camera.  

All the way to the bottom now. 

Jimmy feels a strange wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spending his entire life as a born-and-raised Metropolitan sounded so perfect, but now he isn’t so sure. He’s almost envious of what you and Clark had. 

The colors of everything are faded together, except for the sky, which is exceptionally blue and clear. You’re both about four, or five—kindergarten age, completely oblivious about your futures. Standing in a field of brown-green grass and dirt, you wear matching white Little League jerseys. 

Smallville 1 and 2, emblazoned across your backs in red. A glove and bat are laid to the side. Clark’s neck-length curls spill out of his cap, and you’re just an inch taller than him. Your small hands are clasped together as you both watch the field, like if either of you let go, the other would disappear. 

He ejects the memory card and wipes his eyes. 

Fuck. What went wrong? 

— 

Apparently, further intruding on your and Clark’s personal life means rigging the Saturday work dinner, if hanging out at a bar could be considered that. 

“It’s the perfect excuse,” Lois mutters to herself, hands stuffed into her pockets. She has that scheming expression on her face again; narrowed eyes, tongue caught in the pocket of her cheek. “They have to sit next to each other, so make sure you’re not late.” 

She was ecstatic to hear about the pictures harbored in your SD. The ever-changing theory has now gone from co-workers with deep hatred to bitter exes to sad, estranged childhood friends who never had the time to fall in love.

Good thing he didn’t tell Cat, because she would have gone running to the nearest movie studio to pitch a romcom idea. 

“Are you sure this’ll work?” Jimmy asks, falling in step next to her. Just to be safe, he checks over his shoulder. As per usual, Clark is already nowhere to be seen, having already turned the corner. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it takes for Clark to get home, if you live in Midtown too, and if you ever pass by each other on the way to the store or something. That would be awkward. 

Lois hums, a hesitant sound. She tilts her head, suddenly interested in studying the non-existent stars. “Like, seventy...five percent sure.” 

“Seventy-five?” 

“Alright, eighty,” she decides. For real this time! is what goes unsaid. 

Jimmy sighs and kicks a pebble down the smooth sidewalk. 

— 

“Sorry, am I late?” you ask, rushing over from the door. 

Wow. The sunshine in Metropolis can really change a person. A time where you would sit straight-backed and stone-faced at your desk has been long forgotten. You look brighter now. The exhausted weight you used to carry around the office has disappeared, and you walk over with a pep in your step. 

The heavy slab of glass and wood swings close behind you, dimming the light available in the bar. Jimmy notices that your shoes are more casual than the ones you take to work, and you’re wearing the same Smallville Giants sweater. 

You weave past a group of college kids playing pool, the sound of your steps masked by the loud clack of an eight-ball being sunk and the cheers that follow. 

“No, no, you’re great,” Lois says, sliding out of the booth. You wrap an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug without an ounce of hesitance. 

Jimmy, stuck next to the wall, politely waves at you from behind Lois, to which you respond with a small grin. Placing your bag on the bench opposite from them, you slide into the booth and take in the warm light of the bar, how the air smells like alcohol and salt. 

“How was the camera?” 

“Amazing,” he blurts, palms glued to the tabletop, a little damp from the last wipe-down. The nerd in him is so psyched out right now. “Like, wow. I’m not betraying my D500s, but that’s a dream camera right there.” 

There’s no indication that you know anything about the childhood photos you accidentally left in his hands. You laugh, a soft sound that comes whispering under the rock song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. “This your regular spot?” 

Lois flags down a waiter, nodding with a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, this is an official invitation to join our long-running tab.” 

“If this were Gotham, we’d be jumped in an alley two weeks ago,” you say, looking around the bar with a sort of wonder in your eyes. Jimmy supposes things aren’t like this in Jersey, but then again, the rent is cheap, the architecture is gorgeous, and the jazz is sexy.  

Besides, it isn’t like Metropolis doesn’t have her own handful of nutjobs. They’re a lot more partial to obliterating Superman and ruling the world than gassing an entire city, but tomayto-tomahto. 

Lois orders the sweet wine she always does—ever the sugar addict—and Jimmy gets himself a beer, much to your and the waiter’s surprise. He has to flash his ID to prove that he is indeed older than twenty-one. 

“Is it mean if I thought you were a cub until last week?” you ask. Then you turn to the waiter. “Sparkling cider, but water if you don’t.” 

The server nods and turns back to the main bar. 

Jimmy gets the hint-hint, nudge-nudge look from Lois, her brows raising as she looks at him from the corner of her eye. She serves it with a sharp jab of her elbow into his side. Ouch—once a victim, always a victim. Good thing he has a thicker jacket on to soften the blow. 

“Apple cider?” Lois frowns, inquisitive—extra verbal emphasis on cider. Jimmy runs back his mental film reel, trying to remember why the hell the association of you and the drink is so familiar. “I don’t suppose you’re abstaining.” 

You rest your chin on your right hand, elbow propped on the tabletop. The moisture that Jimmy felt earlier has long dried up. You get a wistful glimmer about your face, eyes flicking up to the corner of the room where a baseball game is airing. 

“I’m not,” you explain, tearing your attention off the screen like it’s hard. “I just like it. Reminds me of home, you know?” 

“Right. Perry told me about your file,” Lois says, ever the confession-puller even though she acts like she isn’t doing anything. “The Planet has Smallville One and Two now.” 

A frown pulls at your face, not quite sure if you heard her right, “Sorry?” 

“You know, like Thing One and Two.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” You smile, but it’s a little shakier. Miffed, Jimmy seriously considers bumping Lois’ foot with his own. 

Luckily, she doesn’t press any further, letting the conversation flow naturally from your mysterious origins to current world events—the drinks come now, numb to the touch and beading on the glass, and your eyes are sparkling just like the cider before you—to the exposé. 

The reason why the three of you are here in the first place, sharing anecdotes related to the scandal about to be thrust upon the world. It has something to do with widespread corruption in the precinct that patrols the ports, and in the three times Lois has almost gotten herself killed, she’s connected it to a Gotham cartel. 

Jimmy tells a wild, borderline tall tale about being chased down Main Street by a gang of cops. He had to hide in the alley behind his favorite bodega for an hour before slinking back to the office. Mr. White wasn’t very happy about that. 

(“Great Caesar’s ghost!” he exclaimed, acrid cigar smoke puffing everywhere.) 

You pull up pictures on your phone of suspicious activity you’ve captured in the area, from police loitering for too long in corners to pristine vans driving through the city across the bay. 

Perks of being connected, you say, keeping your voice low, Gotham isn’t as bad as most people think. Sources are basically endless. 

The bell at the door rings, though it’s barely heard over the din and racket of pool-playing jocks and the jukebox, now playing some Beatles song that Jimmy can’t remember the name of. Lois slouches in her seat, slowly peeking out from the booth to check who just came in. It’s Clark. 

He stumbles over in a pair of slacks that don’t look tailored enough and the knit sweater Lois called ‘sick of the laundry machine’ the last time she saw it on him. She gives him a curt once-over, disapproving. 

“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding the floor exceedingly interesting. His glasses are askew, sliding down the bridge of his nose like he’d just shoved them on and his curly hair is whirlwind-messy. “Foot traffic. Superman.” 

“It’s always him,” Jimmy drawls, knocking back a sip of his beer. 

You look up at Clark. Eyes shining like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, you pinch your mouth into a tight line. 

Clark, still in his typical daze, wonders out loud, “Cider?” 

He says it in a feather-soft tone, quietly poking. As if he’s a kid again, Little League glove resting in the dry grass, tugging at your arm when a teammate steals a base and making sure you saw that too. 

Your drink is half-finished on the table. There’s a ring of room-temp water around the base, sure to join the hundred others etched into the wood. A pearl of condensation rolls down the side, chasing the bubbles still fizzling in the ice. 

The puzzle pieces in Jimmy’s head finally click together—the polaroid Clark allegedly keeps in his wallet. Cider and cowboy. You and your childhood best friend. 

It could be considered a miracle in itself how fast you react. Jimmy notes the heavy way you swallow, throat bobbing as you reach for your bag, draw it toward you, and— 

You let Clark in. 

Apprehension hangs in his body as he slides into the booth. Clark sits board-stiff, unsure of his standing with you. You elbow him, harder than Lois would do to anybody, and the man doesn’t budge. 

His face just keeps getting ruddier by the second. If this were a cartoon, his glasses would for sure be misted with the same steam pouring from his ears. 

Lois coughs. “Right. Could we get to fact-checking the piece?” 

“Yeah,” Clark squeaks. The leather of the booth’s cushion makes the same sound when he scoots a little closer to your side. 

Your elbows end up bumping somewhere between the second round of drinks—Clark and the weird looks he gets for drinking fucking milk are hilarious—and Lois going on a tangent about how Central City is a great place at this time of year. 

Clark stills, watching your reaction, but you don’t need words. You don’t jump back like you’ve been burned. You just settle into some kind of semi-normal truce area.

Relaxation finally melts into Clark’s bones, and he stumbles into the conversation with a banging opener about meeting a brilliant college kid there. 

“I think his name was Allen?” 

Lois laughs, fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “We should all cover the science fair they hold next year, then. Just to confirm your source.” 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting to the space where your elbow meets Clark’s. “We should. It’s close to home too.” 

Jimmy catches Lois' eye. Can you believe this?

He realizes that his investment isn’t so much about the mystery anymore. That’s something you two could keep to yourselves, because there’s no way in hell Jimmy would willingly learn the painful lore. 

It’s more about the way you glance at each other. Held-back, ready to run full-tilt without hesitation if someone gave the green light. You’re clearly in love, and everyone can see it. 

Now, the real mystery is how long it’ll take for you both to admit it. 

—

The warning comes right as he starts inching away from the roof's edge.

"Robin."

Damian drops his shoulders, eyes flicking upward in exasperation.

"Just looking around," he huffs, nose wrinkled. Grayson calls it the hoity-toity voice, much to Damian's annoyance and Drake's amusement. "Thought I saw something."

Batman frowns, clearly skeptical, but doesn't say anything else. Just turns back to the winking lights of Gotham, dark cape billowing behind him in a snapping cloud of shadows.

Finally, he has something to do.

Leaping from one building to the next, Damian dogs behind the scrap of red as it veers around corners and slips into grimy alleyways like the silverfish in the darkest nooks of the Bat Cave. Is that...?

He chases beyond the territory of their current patrol, down from Coventry to the Upper East Side, a clusterfuck of old rowhouses, shiny condominiums, and everything in between.

Father won't be very happy about Damian running far, but they have earpieces and the Batmobile for reason, so.

"Got you," he whispers to himself, grinning as the Red Hood steps into the soft, diffused circle of a suburban streetlight. Todd is favoring a side, right hand pressed to his left oblique as he darts down the alleyway.

This is interesting. No guns, no bike. Just the man who's name is whispered like a mournful prayer in the Manor, limping through the backstreets like a lost puppy.

Damian scoffs, finding another reason why he's the better Robin.

Silently, like he's been trained to since birth, Damian creeps down to the next rooftop, landing with little more than a crunch of grit-gravel. Anyone listening would mistake it for a stray cat.

He watches as Todd yanks down the fire escape ladder to a stout, refurbished tenement, a heavy, rusted groan ripping into the night air. That should be considered a safety hazard in itself.

Todd scales the escape, quieter than Damian expected him to be. He can't be blamed, having spent years hearing the same old stories about the crazy guy who shot up half of Gotham.

It's like the entire block holds its breath as Todd works the latch to a dark window on the third floor. Across the back-alley, Damian shifts to lay flat on the roof, disregarding the dirt and pigeon-crap under him.

He has like, twenty of the same costume already, so Pennyworth not being able to dry-clean a stain out shouldn't be a problem.

The latch pops, a pin-drop click that's barely discernable from a rustle in a trash can or a pebble skittering in dense foliage.

Then the lights in the apartment flick on, and the red-helmed burglar flinches like he's just been flash-bombed.

Damian almost laughs with entertained glee. Take that, Todd.

But he doesn't run away, and the sharp grin on Damian's face is wiped clean off. A pair of bare legs and bunny slippers shuffles into view, then loose, cotton shorts and a soft camisole.

Oh.

That's you.

Damian remembers you, even though you're soft with sleep and aren't wearing the dull scrubs from Mercy Hospital. It was a couple weeks ago, when he and Father rushed a bleeding-out informant to the ER.

He didn't really know why Father cared so much, but he supposed the information was good, and it'd be a bad thing if the hero of Gotham let someone—scum or not—die on the street.

You were the nurse who told them that everything would be okay, all with a smile on your face. It matched the ID card hanging from your hip, plastic picture inserted into a Superman case.

You removed your gloves with a snap to offer a lollipop from the nurse's counter to Damian. He turned his nose up and stomped back to the Batmobile.

Father had only offered a sympathetic tilt to his mouth when Damian discovered the same lollipop in his toolbelt ten minutes later, to much of his horror.

Damian grits his teeth when you slide your window open for Todd instead of turning him away. Or the smarter choice, calling the cops.

He digs around his toolbelt once Todd scrapes the shit off his boots on the grate of your fire escape. Somehow, he manages to squeeze his huge body through your window frame.

Wingdings? No. Weeks old lollipop that looks suspiciously like the ones from Mercy Hospital? Damian hurls it toward the nearest open dumpster and makes the twenty-foot shot, as expected.

Ah, here it is. Brand new Wayne tech from the R&D department—he's been waiting to try this one out.

The gadget is a capsule meant to be loaded into an air-pumped launcher. Well, launcher implies too much. It's no more than an air gun, really.

The really special thing about this is what's inside the capsule. Drake had dubbed it the spyder-bot, a six-legged thing barely the width of Damian's thumb, outfitted with a cutting edge microphone and camera.

It connects by Bluetooth to a holographic screen, which he props in front of him. The capsule is shot at your escape landing with a quiet puff, and three spyders pop out of the little ball and crawl into the crack you left in the window.

Triangulation. R&D has really one-upped themselves this time.

Damian tunes into your conversation, watching the feed on his holo.

"You've really outdone yourself, Red," you're saying. Todd has shed his jacket and shirt, leaving the battered expanse of his upper body exposed.

He's bruised all over, hydrangeas of purple and black blooming on his chest. Damian clicks his tongue—not even he looks that bad after a week of patrolling.

You start peeling back a thick patch of dressing on Todd's side, the one Damian spotted him clutching on the way to your apartment. The gauze comes away with a sick sound, revealing an oozing wound underneath.

"Ripped your stitches again," you mutter, shaking your head. Todd groans, and one of the spyders zooms in.

Damian has to screw his mouth shut before he starts laughing. That damn idiot took off his domino but left the modulator mask on. He looks so fucking dumb, laying on your carpet in a stupor like a concussed Magic Mike dancer who only got the job done halfway.

"Yeah, well," Todd starts, head tilting up to look at the damage. His head thuds back to the floor, apparently seeing enough. "Ditched the bike in Coventry and ran the rest of the way."

You frown, gloved hands gently swiping a damp towel over the wound. "You didn't have to do that."

"The bike's loud, Doc. What, you want to attract attention here?"

Aw, coos a voice in Damian's head. He wrinkles his nose; it sounds suspiciously like Grayson. He wants to protect her.

"No," you say, quieter. You twist the towel over a bowl, watery red droplets wringing out of it. "But I also don't want you hurting more."

Todd laughs, breathy and rough under his modulator. "'S fine. I get hurt all the time, and you always patch me up good."

"I thought you don't do trust." You rip open a surgical kit and fiddle around with the curved needle and a pair of forceps.

He shakes his head like it's something funny, eyes flicking upward. His fingers twitch when you sink the needle into his skin and drag the thread through.

Todd grits out his words like they're hard to say, "Never said I did, 'cause you already know I can kill you if you say anything."

All bark and no bite. For the guy who dicked around while taking down half of Gotham's criminal empire, Todd's not really all that threatening when he's around you.

You probably know it too, with the way you raise a brow at him. "Alright, Mr. Big, Bad Red Hood. I can turn you over to the cops at any time, too, and someone in prison'll do the job for me."

You don't mean it either.

Still, Todd lets his head roll to the side you're on, gazing up at you with something wounded and soft and animal-in-the-bushes in his eyes. You don't notice, too tangled up in stitching the oozing gash in his left oblique.

Damian catches his own reflection in the holo, halfway through a disgusted gag.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, Todd turns away and you start studying him like he's some sort of wondrous miracle. All these missed chances, playing right in front of his eyes.

Damian might just start ripping out his hair strand by strand.

"Hey," you murmur, soft, blinking slowly like you're trying to fight off sleep. You finish off the last stitch, a row of neat thread holding Todd's oblique together, and take off your gloves with a snap.

Putting your hand on Todd's bare shoulder, your thumb runs back and forth along the transition between clavicle and trapezius.

You lean a little closer, the corners of your mouth quirking. "You sleeping?"

"No," Todd grunts, rolling his head back to face you. He looks up at you through his eyelashes with some sick kind of emotion that Damian has seen when Father looks at Mother.

"Well, I'm going to sleep," you say. "I've got a twelve hour shift tomorrow, so don't do anything stupid."

"I'd never," Todd says, tone completely straight. Earnest, in a way that makes Damian's lip curl into a grimace.

You make a sound that's half laugh and half scoff, standing. Todd lifts himself up with a soft groan, one that leaves your eyes lingering on him.

He just sits there for a second, hand curled in the fibers of your carpet like he's trying to memorize the feel of it.

"See yourself out, hero," you breathe, resigned, padding over to the light switch. Todd's eyes chase you, stare miles-long and intense.

What is it that Arsenal guy used to say? Right—bunch'a pussies.

Father patches into the comms right as the spyders start skittering back to him.

"Damian." Uh oh. Legal name isn't a good omen. "Robbery in Old Gotham. En route to RV at Mercy Hospital."

"Fine," he grumbles, dusting himself off. Todd is standing like a damn statue on the landing of your fire escape, looking miserably at your dark, locked window.

"Why are you in the Upper East Side, anyway?"

Damian fishes his grapnel out, shooting it at the top of your apartment building. Todd's head snaps up, and he grumbles to himself as Damian swings past; the wind howls in his ears, so he can't hear what the former Robin is saying.

"Funny story, Father..."

(He is so leaking this at the next family meeting.)

“Mark, I promise you,” you say. The pillar fan tilts toward you, providing the barest breeze to kiss the sweat coating your forehead. “It is not that deep.” 

“You’re telling me that Violet making a point that she wants to sit in the back of the theater is ‘not that deep?’” Mark rolls his eyes, exasperated. He stumbles up, steps sluggishly to his bed and flops down without ceremony. 

You follow him. Sit on the edge of the mattress, the bottom of Mark’s (Séance Dog) socked foot pressing into the side of your thigh. “You always make me sit in the back with you. How is that not different?” 

It is completely and totally different, though. Here’s the thing: you and Mark are friends—besties, even, when you don’t roll your eyes or want grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. You most definitely don’t make out in the back of a movie theater like a pair of freaks. 

Case in point: you’re in his room, door shut all the way, and his parents are out on a date. Debbie doesn’t even have to give you the shovel talk any time she leaves you two alone. That’s how much integrity your friendship with Mark has. 

And Violet? You don’t really have much of an opinion to say something about her. Well, not if you want to sound like a real bitch. 

But just to put it out there in an unbiased manner, you know she’s been plotting on him since the middle of sophomore year, and you did not appreciate her joining Yearbook. You were even less appreciative watching her save random candids of Mark to her personal drive. 

(Alright, you did the same thing, but only for the ugly ones where his face is warped, blurry, or could star in a horror movie. And you do that for William too—with full consent from both, obviously, and totally not for the purpose of exchanging blackmail material.) 

You can’t blame her for liking Mark. He’s funny, kind, cute at the most inconvenient of times. Even though his grades are average and he looks like he would be an e-dater, you and the rest of the school know that Mark Grayson is one of sweetest, most genuine boys out there. 

You also can’t blame him for freaking out either. Violet is pretty; shiny hair and clear skin and natural makeup. Heart lips and doe eyes. His type, probably. It’s the first time a girl has given him her number, and this will be his first kiss or more. The realization hardens into a pit in your stomach. 

But back to what’s important—you just don’t think they’re good for each other. She’s in love with an idea of Mark found through candids and hallway talk, and you know who he really is. Not that it makes you a prime candidate to be his girlfriend or whatever. 

He sputters and kicks his foot. You grab him by the ankle, hot skin on hot skin. That makes something flip in your stomach; you swear it’s the pint of ice cream you polished off from the Grayson’s fridge. 

“Look,” you start. Mark lifts his head, glares at you with a heat-addled blush. You want to push him off the bed. And you also, maybe, want to your profess affection. “Violet’s liked you for—I dunno, probably a while. Asking out a guy isn’t easy, so if you’re just gonna go to get some, don’t go at all.” 

She’d better thank you for this. Here you are, playing seesaw with your judgement and sticking your neck out for the girl you try to sit very, very far away from in the yearbook room. 

Pure denial, saucepan eyes and hands waving in a distraught flurry, “I’m not. She’s pretty, and nice, and I do want to go out with her. I just…” 

Mark rolls over onto his stomach with a long groan, squirms with discomfort. Pinching his calf, you raise your brows at him when he looks over his shoulder, whole face and neck splashed with pink. Spit it out, already.  

“I don’t know how to kiss,” he finally admits. Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes—barely five seconds since you told him not to go if he only wanted something out of it. Mark rushes to defend himself. You’d think he was sunburnt with how much pinker he gets. “Jesus Christ, just in case! And it’s not like you know how to do it, either. Books—or whatever you read—don’t count.” 

“At least I have a tutorial,” you mutter, giving him a once-over from your peripheral and scooting away. You know what your sneer must look like; some mix between judgy and terribly disappointed, and you’re probably right, because Mark lunges for your hand and pulls you right back. 

“Okay, Ms. Tutorial, you haven’t had any real-world experience,” he reminds you. He pokes your cheek with a lopsided smile. 

Singsonging right back at him, “Your tissue-lotion combo doesn’t count as experience either.” 

You know you’re evil, but it’s not like William doesn’t bring it up either. If they get to tease you for reading sometimes spicy romance stories, then you’re allowed to serve the ball right back into their court. 

If he wasn’t pink before, Mark lets your hand fall and turns scarlet. Mouth dropping and slow head turn and all, like he’s the butt of a sitcom joke. You can almost hear the laughing track playing in the background while he struggles to fish for his words. 

Just barely above the drone of the fan, nothing below a mortified, high-pitched squeak, “You wouldn’t.” 

You laugh and dig your hand into his hair, mussing it up. “You know I’m kidding.” 

And you’re telling the truth this time around. That makes him frown (fussy as always), but he still settles down with his head resting atop your thigh, eyes pinched shut. He’s so cute, whispers a voice at the back of your head, he pouts like an overdramatic baby. 

You trace a line between the two moles on his cheek and wish that your heart would stop trying to break open your ribs. 

Mark reopens his eyes slowly, a revelation dawning. Oh, you don’t like that look on his face. It’s the kind that landed both of you in detention before finals week for the parking lot incident. Curse Mr. Porter—forever remembered as the worst US history teacher, by the way—for insisting that you get your first transcript strike, all for a little eggshell on his car. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you sigh, exasperation creeping up your spine. You just started to forgive him for his AC grievances. Mark smiles at you innocently, brown eyes going soft like he’s the male lead of a romcom. “Why are you giving me that look?” 

“Since you read so much, you should know what girls like, right?” he asks, goading. He’s got that angle to his mouth that tells you he’s trying to fight back a fit of giggles. 

Is he still hung up on this? You speak with hesitance, hands fisted at your sides just in case you can’t hold back the urge to strangle him, “Right...” 

“So.” He draws out the ‘o’ all the way, until he runs out of breath. A quick inhale, and then, “You said it yourself. It’s basically a tutorial.” 

“So?” you can’t help but lead him on, even though you don’t like where this is going. Don’t say it. Don’t ruin it. Fingers finally uncurling, you press your palms into his duvet to fight how clammy they’ve become. “I’ve never actually kissed someone.” 

“So,” Mark says again, a hopeful smile gracing his mouth. Faint dimples and constellation freckles—compared to his reaction when you brought up the tissues, he’s practically stone-cold serious. “We could practice on each other.” 

He says it like it’s the simplest thing, kissing your best friend. 

You hold your breath, count to three. A high-pitched guitar riff from his CD player. It matches the ringing in your ears. 

You’re supposed to say no. 

On the Immortal’s soul, Mark is still your best friend, no matter how infuriating and impulsive and stupid he may be, or how many times you want to smother the lights out of him with his own pillow for being those exact three words. And fuck, how does he get his pupils dialed up to dinner plate diameters? 

But all that falls out of your unsteady mouth instead is a dumb, “I guess,” and Mark looks so happy that he could kiss you. Well, you just signed your soul away to let him do exactly that, but not before— “You gotta brush your teeth first.” 

—

You glare at Mark’s reflection in the mirror. 

He gives you a look with raised brows, toothpaste foam clouding around his mouth—what’cha looking at? You shake your head, expression blank—none of your business. 

Speaking only in shrugs and eyebrow wiggles gives you the opportunity to think about your actions without accidentally saying the wrong thing again. God, you’re so stupid for being weak to Mark’s I’m a beagle puppy and I just got kicked look. When you get home, you will be pulling up a picture of them and training yourself to fight back. 

The sink rushing snaps you out of your thoughts. Mark emerges from the basin with cold rivulets running down his face, dripping from his hair, racing down his...forearms. You’ve never paid attention to the faint veins and casual lean muscle your best friend carried, but now you’re struggling to tear your eyes away. 

That’s enough—you imagine slapping yourself across the face and your head snapping to the side from the sheer force—don’t be a fucking freak, you are not like those kids at school who sneak behind the dumpster to get freaky. 

The word repeats in your head: freak, freak, freak. 

Mark grazes his fingers along the small of your back, making a shiver rip its way up your spine. “You good?” 

“Uh-uh,” is all you can manage without choking on the toothpaste in your mouth. You’re getting dizzy with anticipation, chest and stomach organs staging a mutiny and going buck-wild inside your body. 

Telling yourself that this is just practice, you rinse off and drop your toothbrush in the holder beside Mark’s. You keep your face in the sink basin for a little longer than usual; cold, wet hands pressed to your burning cheeks, stars spiraling behind closed eyes. 

It’s just the heat, you tell yourself, disregarding the way your thoughts scramble upon the realization that Mark’s still standing by counter, waiting for you. 

Just the heat. 

—

Knees knock when you and Mark settle with your backs pressed to the headboard, side by side. 

You ball your hands in the yellow duvet that lays over his mattress, and Mark’s own fists are white-knuckling the hem of his basketball shorts. His hair is still drying, face beginning to bloom with that pretty shade of pink again. 

Heat digs its claws into your neck. 

“So,” you start, just as Mark asks: “Ready?” 

He swallows, drawing your attention to the way his Adam’s apple bobs. Strained; an awkward smile, “You go first.” 

He’s all tense, ramrod straight like a cardboard cutout. 

As earnestly as you can manage, you reach for his hands; they’re cool to the touch, veins rising to the smooth surface of his skin. His fingers twitch as you guide them up to your face. The tremors are infecting you too. When his palms finally cup your warm cheeks, your relieved exhale shivers. 

You might explode at the sight of Mark’s eyelashes fluttering. 

“’Kay.” You aren’t sure if he can hear you over the grumble of his fan. You get a little stuck on your words when Mark’s tongue darts out to wet his lip. 

“I think I should’ve turned on the AC,” he blurts, just as quiet. A stillness slips over the room. He sighs, wistful, “Too late, I guess.” 

You burrow your socks into the duvet for some kind of grounding and huff lightly. “Changing your mind?” 

Mark tugs you in to place a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. You swear you erupt into a pile of ash as he pulls away and gives you a sweet smile, eyes still lingering on where he’s just been. “Does that answer your question?” 

You nod a little too fast.  

Holding steady, mouth starting to go dry, “So, there’s this triangle thing that apparently makes girls go crazy—” Mark follows exactly, gaze darting from your eyes, to lips, and back up again, leaning forward slowly. You forget what you’re about to say for a long moment “—yea, that.” 

He’s close enough that if you moved just a hair width forward, you’d be— 

“Can I kiss you for real?” 

The question feels like getting shot in the back. He’s too sweet for your own good. You might be walking away with cavities in your teeth and your heart after this. 

“Wow, you can read my mental instruction manual?” you tease. 

You keep your eyes open when Mark ducks his head to kiss you. You almost snicker—he's got the half-closed eyes and Kermit mouth, the epitome of a boy kissing and the stuff of nightmares for your girlfriends. 

It’s weirdly endearing and calming at the same time. He’s just a guy who happens to be one of your best friends; he can be gross and stupid and a total loser, but you still love him. 

Love. 

That isn’t something you’ve ever consciously thought about with him in the way couples get comfy in the halls. Dreamt about, maybe.  

You love him in the way you burn CDs for him on the school computers and save up to buy compendiums when his birthday comes around. And Mark loves you enough to let crash in his bed and wear his sweaters when it gets cold. But those are best friend things just as much as they are romantic things. 

You push it to the back of your mind at the first press of Mark’s lips. It’s chaste, stilted, two seconds long, and still makes your heart leap into your throat. 

He’s your first, you remember belatedly. And you’re his. 

Tastes like mint toothpaste, and victory. 

Take that, Violet! jeers a voice in your head. 

Mark doesn’t pull away for long, but you chase him immediately. He surges back, a little looser, tilting his head to slot his mouth against yours. You blink, and then you can’t open your eyes again, too lost in the slide of your mouths. Fuck, is he sure that this is his first time? 

Parting his plush lips wider, noses bumping into each other, soft sighs drowned in the white noise of the fan and still-running CD. He holds you with a sweet reverence, like you’ve been bruised all over, one hand skating down your arm to settle on your waist. 

You gasp when he nips at your bottom lip, startling him. 

Your teeth clack together as he draws back, pulling a light giggle out of your throat. Mark blinks expectantly, a slim ring of brown around his huge pupils. 

Right. You’re supposed to be coaching him on how to kiss with your romance book knowledge. 

“Was that okay?” he asks, hoarse. His throat keeps bobbing, mouth still parted like he’s tasting the air. You think: fuck it. 

You kiss him back, hands tangling into his hair, the rough spikes of his undercut scraping your palms. He’s going to need a haircut soon; you can feel it, the tacky way the longer strands cling to your skin. Mark murmurs your name in a groan, a sound that makes your cheeks go numb with how hot they grow. 

Dizzy, breathless. A string of butterflies unspools in your belly. Everything not Mark fades out—forget the heat, the fan, the heavy bass line of the current song. All you know is that one of your hands is sliding down to rest on his sternum, feeling how his heart furiously tries to meet your touch. 

The thoughts catch up to you, in fragments. He kisses like you’re water and he’s a parched man. Like he loves you, and this isn’t just practice. 

Mark threads his fingers into your hair, hungry, pushing you to teeter on the knife’s edge between sanity and the beyond. You feel weightless, fuzzy in the way shadows are when a smudgy sun peers out from the horizon. You don’t want to stop. You can’t stop, and neither can he. 

In a flash, Mark is moving your leg to the side, settling in the space he’s made for himself. His mattress is forced to dip under his weight—a voice screams about general relativity before you smush it down—pulling you into the supermassive black hole of his gravity. 

You almost pass out when he pulls you closer, knee nudging the inside of your thigh, accidentally finding a strip of bare skin under your shirt. It must have ridden up. A shudder tears down your neck at the hummingbird flutter of his eyelashes on the apple your cheek. 

Moving again, Mark blazes a line of kisses along your jaw and neck. Playing connect-the-dots, or something. Ear lobe, larynx—oh god, collarbone. It comes like second nature to turn your head and bare your neck to him. 

Your cheek meets the cool, polished wood of his headboard. You can’t think straight. This is going to be burned into your memory like how you burn his CDs. 

Faintly, you register the player on his desk shutting off, the mixtape reaching its end. Something, somewhere far-off, sputters to a stop, plunging the room into a silence broken only by the sound of Mark chasing your lips again. 

“‘S just me,” you manage between kisses—Mark hums into your mouth, the tip of his tongue lazily tracing your bottom lip in a heart-stopping move, “or is it getting really hot?” 

You almost try to follow his mouth when he turns his head to check. Separation provides a little bit of relief; you hadn’t noticed just how warm it was with his body crushed against yours. You crack your eyes open, vision coming back to focus just as Mark groans. 

Voice rough with disuse, “Fan’s broken.” 

Your gaze rolls along to meet his—you should have kept your eyes closed. You can only process the sight in fragments; Mark kneeling above you; chest rising at a million shallow beats per minute; eyes glassy, starstruck; lips swollen; skin flushed pink down to his collar; hairline damp with perspiration, the top messed up by your fingers. 

Another wave of sticky warmth crashes over you. 

He looks shit-faced drunk. You probably look the same way. 

“Shit,” you whisper, melting against the headboard. You’re gonna die of heatstroke, all because you kissed your best friend. 

Mark clears his throat, hurriedly fixing his hair. “Do you—do you wanna get fries?” 

“Huh?” 

“Fries,” he repeats. He dives for a shy peck at the corner of your mouth, back to his old chaste self. You don’t know how he keeps his composure. “New place a couple blocks down—free AC, you know.” 

“I guess.” You’ve been guessing a lot lately. Somehow, it’s landed you here. 

He stands up, somehow steady on his feet. “I think we could walk there.” 

“Isn’t it too hot?” 

“I mean,” Mark puts a sheepish hand behind his head, smoothing down the hair you dug your fingers into. Your eyes are drawn to the way his tricep stretches, magnetically attractive. “We just kissed. Can’t get any hotter than that.” 

“You’re gross.” 

—

Mark takes his bottom lip between his teeth, fingers dusted with garlic parm seasoning. 

“Spit it out,” you say, sticking your hand into the bucket perched between the two of you. 

The fry joint is small and reminiscent of a 50’s diner. Harlequin tile, vinyl cushions. You’re squished side by side in a booth, not unlike the way you were sitting against his headboard thirty minutes ago. Just infinitely less tense and sweaty and…intimate. Plus the fry bucket acting as an invisible wall. 

“Did I do okay?” he asks, lifting his thumb to his mouth. Mark licks the salt off his fingerprint—gross. If you didn’t get over your thing against (specifically) his germs a long time ago, you would’ve told him to get his own fries. 

Things are back to normal…not really. Now that you know what hides beneath his innocent exterior, you can’t help but watch his tongue darting out and think back to how it was just in your mouth. 

“I mean,” you pause, rolling back your mental tape, “I liked it, even if it was your first.” 

“And yours too.” 

That’s—what, the third reminder? Your brain activity is brought to a screeching halt. It doesn’t count, right? It can’t possibly. 

Mark looks at you sweetly, all innocent. You can hardly form a thought about his stupid face without having flashbacks to the way his eyes went foggy kissing you. 

Punctuating the long silence that follows, “We were just doing it for practice.” 

He nods right away, eager to agree. With you or his own rationale, you can’t tell. “Yeah. Like doing it with the back of your hand, right?” 

“Right.” 

“Except you’re a real person.” 

“Yeah.” 

You’re on the same wavelength, as always. 

Assured, Mark smiles. You’re strangely comforted by the confirmation that no, this doesn’t mean anything. Your relationship is still holding strong, minus the fact that you made out till you were almost tipsy. But Mark doesn’t have to know that you’re still thinking about it. 

“So when’s your date?” you ask, keeping your voice level. It still breaks off at the end. 

“Friday,” Mark responds, paying no mind to how you grip the edge of the bucket a little tighter. That’s closer than you thought it was. “We’re gonna see Descender.” 

Ouch. Everything he says just drives another nail home into your heart. You wanted to see Descender with him. Hell, it’s the first comic he ever got you into, so it’s special. 

You can’t believe just how stupid he is. 

“What if,” you swallow, inspecting the fry you just picked up, “it doesn’t work out, between you and Violet?” 

“I mean, I hope it does. But if not,” he grins at you with a glimmer in his eyes, dimples taunting you to pull him in, “I have my best friend.” 

“Is that asking for Round Two?” 

“Just saying,” Mark says. He puts his hands up, garlic salt and parmesan still dusting his fingertips. “Now that we’ve got it out of the way, just call me if you wanna practice again. Back of your hand, right?” 

“Except with a real person,” you repeat. A shadow passes over his face, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “Real feedback in real time.” 

Mark gives you dazzling smile worth a thousand watts; it’s the one he always pulls out when the matching halves of your braincells click together, all dimples and smug joy. Your heart flips. 

“Read my mind, there.” 

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, and mentally counted to three. opening your eyes, you make eye contact with the newest addition to camp, and your newest responsibility. bruised and scuffed, the poor kid blinks back at you confusedly as you mull your options. “yes, and no,” you decide.

“our mom’s a goddess, and love is just the most common of her jurisdictions.” 

the new camper looks around the cabin, taking it in, you follow their gaze, lingering on the painted swans on the wall behind you, and bouncing to the pearls adorning the vanity, littered with various seashell trays holding gold jewelry (the first time you had entered these very walls, your throat had tightened at the pure ostentatiousness of it all).

they glance back at you, confused. you sighed again, “yes, our mom is the goddess of love.”

“oh.”

the candles residing in conches flicker as if waiting to pass judgment, and silence blankets you and the new camper once more (this is potentially your fiftieth time attempting to explain the same concept, yet you’re no better at it than when you first started — shaking and solemn). 

needless to say, it’s more than just difficult to explain this tacit rule to new campers — after whatever tragic event transpired for them to realize that the greek gods of myth and legend indeed exist, they simply don’t have the mental capacity to learn the unspoken rules of the whole being a demigod thing.

you could be warmer, somehow, you suppose, with your mother being the goddess of love and all — in all honesty, you’re still not sure how you became the aphrodite cabin counselor, over selina (the entirety of camp half-blood’s favorite daughter of aphrodite) but the counselorship would have ended up in your hands anyway, after everything (the sight of her once-beautiful face as she coughed up blood in clarisse’s lap swims across your memories). 

you pinched the bridge of your nose again, sighing as the candles snuffed out all at once of their own accord (judgment has been passed), “take the empty bed in the corner, we get up at like the ass crack of dawn so you might wanna catch up on your sleep.”

you watched the kid sit on the bed (looking every bit out of place as you did when you first arrived amidst the sheer indulgence the cabin is), and you can’t help but feel a pang in your chest as the child (the entire camp is full of children, but the vast majority of you have never gotten the chance to be the children that you are) stared wide-eyed at posters of movie stars, like tristan mclean, adorning the walls.

with one last glance and forlorn smile at the kid, you walked out of your cabin, your expression hardening at the sight of other campers. the walk to the arena is a short yet bleak one, in the silence you can hear drew’s screaming ringing in your ear (drew is preferable to hearing your other half-siblings, ethan, or even luke; drew is alive).

in the middle of the sword-fighting lesson being taught, you slipped into the arena, undetected for the most part except for the pair of sea-green eyes trained on your figure as you came and stood next to him, clearly hanging back.

“this is usually your shit, jackson,” you say, ignoring how pitiful your racing heart is, and watching clarisse at the helm, steam blowing out of her ears as new campers fell over themselves trying to parry and block with wooden swords.

percy turns to look at you, and from the corner of your eye, you can sense the storm brewing across his face. “maybe i’m not the attention whore you think i am,” he snorts, and there is a small trace of bile in his voice, but you don’t focus on that.

instead, your face burns at the memory of your last argument after you dove in front of ethan’s knife (you still wince when you remember the way his visible eye widened when he realized it was you who caught the blow), and percy’s bitterness as will patched you up, what the fuck is wrong with you, you could’ve gotten yourself killed.

and your weak but indignant reply, i literally saved your life, asshole. are you that much of an attention-whore that you need to be the one on their deathbed right now?

“i’d say you kind of are,” you say, turning to meet his gaze (for a brief, stupid, second you wonder if somehow he was a son of zeus because of how the air suddenly became charged with electricity), arms folding across your chest. “the whole making the gods pay child support is a bit attention-whore-esque.”

percy laughed, a sound you and the other campers haven’t heard in a while (it’s different from before but it is still a sound that in your weaker moments, you admit to craving to hear). “someone had to do it,” he says, sobering up immediately.

“luke tried,” you whispered (the name is still taboo around camp), shivering as you felt percy stiffen beside you. a beat passes and the resulting silence is suffocating.

percy offers you a sad, tight smile before walking out of the arena. you watch him go with a strange pain in your chest and a longing for the before, the laughter leaping across the sun-drenched strawberry fields, the joking i told you so’s during meals, and the softness of the campfire sing-a-longs.

it’s hard not to blame the gods, for that is blasphemy, but on most nights, you find yourself uttering your mother’s name with a tangible acidity, and you find that you’re not alone in this sentiment. the once-reverent echoes of aphrodite, promise me true love, promise me victory, promise me beauty, have now faded to lifeless whispers — formalities instead of prayers. 

even your own prayers are different now, you pray for the sea — if your mother is allowed to be ambiguous with her gifts (curses) then she must expect the same ambiguity in your prayers in return. when you’re done half-heartedly muttering your prayers and sacrificing your food, your gaze meets a familiar pair of sea-green eyes across the campfire, glowing like a beacon in the dark. 

standing up, you find drew, looking every bit as perfect as ever. you lean down to whisper, “lights out at eleven, i’ll be back.” 

drew nods, squeezing your hand before she begins herding the rest of your half-siblings back to your cabin, solemn and toneless (an empty shell compared to the once vibrant and snarky drew from before).

the walk to the beach is silent, although you know that you’re being followed — you didn’t survive the war being complacent. when you finally do arrive, the mysterious figure reveals himself in the moonlight (again, you’d be a fool to not recognize the son of poseidon’s careful footsteps).

percy looks every bit of a character straight out of a tragic romance novel that your mother probably inspired, and again your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — under the scars and the jaded attitude, he is still the same percy jackson with stars in his eyes when he first introduced you to his mother. 

“why do the naiads call you that?” percy asks abruptly, tilting his head to the side as if studying you as he approaches.

barely audible accusations of apatu’ria bubble at the surface of the lake like seafoam; the whispers have followed you since you arrived at camp, and you have never known why.

“call me what?” you ask, feigning ignorance as iterations of deceitful replay across your mind.

percy blinks, confused, “isn’t your mother related to the sea somehow? don’t you know they call you apatu’ria?”

you fiddle with the gold bracelet on your wrist (a gift from selina), percy’s gaze follows the movement as you hesitate. “well, yeah, like i know what it means but i don’t know why they call me that.”

percy shrugged, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “they call me ‘prosklystios’ a lot,” he said (in the way that he knows you, better than you know yourself).  

“so what, we’re just reduced to epithets of our parents? what an honor,” you mumbled sarcastically, staring out at the lake, watching its surface ripple as the accusations grew more fervent. you paid it no mind however, the burden of being a daughter of aphrodite had already claimed its weight on your shoulders. 

“careful,” percy sighed, his gaze focusing on you instead of the water, “might’ve just won a war but that won’t stop either of us from being smited if big guy in the sky thinks we’re being impertinent.”

distant thunder rumbled overhead as if proving his point.

“speak for yourself, pretty boy,” you say, eyes looking toward the firmament littered with stars, incognizant of your admission, “if i got the gods to basically pay child support without being sent to tartarus, i would do whatever the fuck i wanted.”

percy being percy, of course, did not register that last bit of your sentence, a shit-eating grin forming across his face, a slight red hue tinging his cheeks, “you think i’m pretty.”

you turn to look at him, ignoring how your heart hammers at the way he’s smiling down at you, you roll your eyes. “percy,” you say slowly. “my mom is the goddess of love, everyone’s gorgeous in her eyes.”

“yeah, but not everyone’s gorgeous in your eyes.” 

gods, he was so aggravating but the way his eyes twinkled and the genuine elation on his face almost made you admit defeat. 

you crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him, “this is why i never compliment you, you always let it go to your head.”

“aw, c’mon, you love me for it though,” percy says, still grinning widely, his unruly black hair falling into place perfectly.

“you’re an actual attention-whore,” you say, spinning around on your heels and trekking across the sand, leaving percy alone to stare out at the water. you walk back to camp, ignoring percy’s calls of wait punctuated by his laughter as he jogs up behind you. 

“i hope mr. d catches you out past curfew and the harpies eat you,” you say deadpan, once percy has caught up to you. 

“you’d miss me too much and would come to be my hero, again,” percy smirks at you, following along as you head toward aphrodite cabin (you’re secretly very glad for his presence, you hate walking around camp when it’s this deserted — the memories that you tried so desperately to bury try to claw their way to the surface).

“just because i caught a knife for you, once, does not mean that i’ll ever do it again,” you say, folding your arms across your chest as you stand outside the door of your cabin. “getting stabbed is not a ten out of ten experience.”

percy softens, his impish grin still there, but the intensity of his gaze is enough to make you melt, “good, can’t have you dying on me.”

you snorted, “even if i did die, i’d tell nico to raise my ghost so i could haunt you forever.”

percy’s still smiling, his eyes are still soft, and he’s so close to you right now. “go out with me,” he says, suddenly, earnestly.

blood rushes to your ears. “what?” you blinked, staring at him as if he’d grown another head.

percy shrugged, leaning forward to press a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head. you barely registered the action in your mind, trying to regain your ability to form coherent sentences as you watched him. percy looked away from your questioning gaze. “better go before the harpies eat me,” he said before jogging in the direction of his cabin. 

he leaves you standing in front of your cabin door, frozen in shock for another five minutes, before you shake it off, and head inside, convincing yourself that you had imagined the entire encounter. the familiar scent of jasmine envelops you as you linger in the doorway. drew is still awake on her bed, her back pressed against the wall and her head in her arms. she doesn’t bother to look up at your entry until you’re sat next to her, curling an arm around her bony shoulders and pulling her into an embrace. 

the two of you sit in silence as drew attempts to calm her heartbeats to sync with yours, her head resting on your shoulder as you rub soothing circles into the planes of her shoulder. you fall asleep in a tangled mess of limbs, a desperate attempt to close the gaping hole selina left in her wake. this is sisterhood, you think when you wake up and drew’s head weighs like lead on your shoulder.

the bright morning does little to assuage your burdens — you know it’s going to be a long day as soon as you hear campers giggling. rule number one of being a camp counselor: no matter how benign, giggling is the number one sign of trouble.

you took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before turning to the younger half of your half-siblings currently in the process of attempting arts and crafts. “what the fuck do you guys keep giggling about?”

your half-siblings only giggle harder. 

after what seemed like eons, the new camper finally comes up to you — a kid no older than eight, who motions for you to bend down before they begin stage-whispering in your ear, “is percy jackson your boyfriend?”

you immediately feel scandalized, jerking away like you’ve been burned, “no, who said that?”

(when you’re being lulled to sleep by the sound of drew’s imperceptible snoring in your ear, your subconscious spends its time lingering, dwelling on could’ve been’s, and should’ve been’s, the obsession as stubborn as when you refused to believe that percy had actually died on mount st helens.)

the kid continues to smile ‘innocently’, “everyone says that you guys hold hands at campfires.”

sudden flashes of percy’s unyielding grip on your hand and his broad smile, as he forced you into a sing-a-long with him, rise to the forefront of your mind, but that was before — when annabeth still had a steely look in her eyes, when travis and connor’s antics still garnered laughs from everyone (and a rare amused glance from mr. d). now (the after), there is no such jocularity, and percy is kept at arm’s length, reduced to offering you sad smiles across the campfire.

“we do not hold hands at campfires,” you say, struggling to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“but there’s a ‘we’,” the kid says, scrutinizing you up and down.

you have to mentally count to three so that you don’t end up arguing with a literal child (it’s not a great way to prove that your sanctity is still intact). “there’s no we.”

the kid shrugs in an if you say so gesture, giving you one last weirdly knowing look before turning back to their arts and crafts. a weighty silence settles, punctuated only by the sounds of scissors and rustling papers. 

stares and loud whispers follow you around camp, more so than usual for an aphrodite kid — clarisse finds you in the midst of it all, lost in thought when her cabin is supposed to be pulverizing apollo cabin at volleyball, a sharp glint in her eye. 

“you’d tell if me you were dating prissy, right?” she says, her hand faintly closing around your elbow, pulling you out of your reverie. 

“what are you talking about?” you say, eyebrows raising in shock. this wasn’t your first rodeo — just before the war this summer, camp gossip had credited you to be going out with connor stoll, but this was different. clarisse was the fifth person today who had asked you if you were dating percy. 

“so you are dating him?” clarisse looks offended, or well, as offended as clarisse can be, “and you didn’t tell me.”

you can feel eyes on you, watching your every move as other campers subtly pause their activities to listen in. 

“clarisse,” you say slowly, reaching out to hold her forearms and looking her in the eye, “i’m not dating percy.” when she opens her mouth to interrupt, you add, “and i would definitely tell you if i was.”

clarisse exhales, shooting you a disbelieving look, but mercifully leaving you alone with a quiet, “okay.”

you know what she’s thinking, so you offer her a taut smile, patting her on her shoulder as you brush past her. you headed toward the lake, with a feeling that you’d find the answers you were searching for.

the lake is empty except for one solitary figure on the sand, facing the horizon with his hands in his pockets. you hang back for a minute or two, taking in the sight of percy with his eyes closed, and the peaceful look on his face. 

a grin settled across his face as he addressed you, his eyes still closed, “i know you think i’m pretty, you don’t have to stare to prove it.”

you ignored his words, and he opened his eyes to watch you angrily march across the sand to stand face to face with him. 

“are you the reason why everyone thinks we’re seeing each other?”

“yeah, why?”

to say that you’re taken aback is an understatement — you had anticipated some more denial but this was unexpected. and sudden.  

you jab a finger at his chest, “everyone’s getting the wrong idea, so you need to stop whatever it is you’re doing like right now.”

“but they could have the right idea,” percy says, looking amused.

your heart scrapes painfully against your chest, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“we could be dating, for real,” percy says, excruciatingly slow, elongating each word. 

the earth stops spinning on its axis for a minute, and time seems to freeze — for a split second you worry kronos has risen again before you calm your racing heartbeat and exhale slowly.

“i need you to be so for real right now,” you say, your eyebrows furrowing.

“i’m being so deadass right now.” 

“no, you’re not,” you say, turning and walking away. your heart squeezes pitifully in your chest, as you call out, “find me when you stop joking,” before leaving him alone on the shore.

when percy approaches you again, you think he’s finally come back to his senses, though a weaker, more primitive urge inside you hopes that he hasn’t (it’s for the better, you try and fail to convince yourself).

he interrupts your conversation with drew (though the two of you weren’t doing much talking), smiling charmingly at her before asking if he could steal you away for a minute during breakfast. drew shot you a concerned look, waiting for your reassuring smile before assenting.

“you’ve come to your senses?” you ask after percy leads you away from the mess hall.

“i’ve always had my senses, thank you very much,” percy grins.

you roll your eyes, trying not to smile, “oh yeah, i could totally tell when you played rock, paper, scissors with a hundred-handed one last summer.”

“hey,” percy says, throwing his hands up in the air defensively, “i won that one.”

“on a gamble,” you countered, smiling (you missed this, missed him, and the feeling that everything will be alright enduring).

“not the point.”

“then what is?”

“go out with me,” he repeats, sudden, and earnest.

your heart stuttered pitifully. “not this again,” you sighed.

“why not?” 

“why?”

“you know why,” percy tries to make eye contact with you. still, you avoid his gaze, watching the other campers heading into the mess hall give the two of you weird looks. 

“no, i don’t,” you say firmly, before walking away, ignoring his protests, leaving behind a group of onlookers that you could care less about, and percy, who was staring at the spot you had just been standing in.

you returned to your cabin, to the familiar jasmine scent and pearl adornments, and promptly collapsed on your bed. more than anything, you just wanted your mother. you wanted your mother to smooth out your hair as you cried, offer you advice, and get rid of the stupid curse.

the door opens quietly and you immediately sit up, dabbing at your face and hoping that your eyes haven’t turned red and swollen already. drew shut the door gently behind her, her expression softening the slightest fraction at the sight of you.

“do i look that bad?” you ask, trying not to sniffle (and failing miserably).

a whirlwind of emotions cross drew’s face and you manage a watery grin. “okay, y’know what, don’t tell me then.”

drew sits next to you on the bed, handing you a box of tissues, “wasn’t planning to.” 

the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder as she lets you have a minute to clean up before going straight for the jugular. “i heard what happened.”

you laughed, a choking noise that dissolved into weak coughing. drew patted your back. “so, the entire camp knows now?”

“no,” she says, before changing her mind, “well, yeah.” 

“great,” you groaned, “my life is so over.”

drew tensed, tearing her gaze from the posters of hot people on the wall, to look at you, her brown eyes ablaze with fury and her silver earrings (also a gift from silena) jangle, “shut up, you’re the senior counselor of aphrodite cabin, and they’re all losers unworthy of your time. your life so isn’t over.”

(this is the drew from before, the drew that comes and goes in flashes so sudden that you try to piece her together like a puzzle that never seems to connect.)

“the curse,” you say, your throat tight. 

drew’s eyes widen imperceptibly, her blue eyeshadow sparkling in the candlelit cabin, before her expression settles into a scowl. “what about the gift?” her voice sharpens as she stresses the last word, sparing the smallest glance toward the roof of the cabin.

you can’t continue, and you don’t have to — she knows what it is that you’re thinking of (she always has, from the minute you met her, two cold and shaking children alone in the dark).

she shakes her head emphatically. “silena,” her voice chokes, before dropping to a whisper, “silena left us — you can’t leave us too.”

“i know,” you whisper back, your eyes filling with tears. “i know.”

“oh, honey,” drew says sympathetically, drawing you into her arms, and smoothing your hair away from your face as you let out a sob against her shoulder. “break his heart,” she says. 

“i can’t,” you mumble.

“you have to. he’ll die if you don’t, and a broken heart is better than dying.”

“i can’t do that to him, he’s so unbelievably good, drew, he deserves everything and more.”

“ignoring how ridiculously sappy that sounded, look at what happened to beckendorf,” you pretend not to notice how drew stumbles through his name (he looked at silena as if she had personally hung the stars in the night sky), “maybe he wouldn’t have gotten over it, but he would’ve been alive.”

you remember how silena had proudly said she was going to put an end to the archaic rite of passage your cabin was infamous for around camp; beautiful, idealistic silena with stars in her eyes (who liked beckendorf to the point she’d blush profusely at the mention of his name), who had no idea that this would all come crashing down around her some short months later. 

at your silence, drew continues, still stroking your hair, “look, not to make this harder, but even i’ll admit jackson’s one of those guys you meet once in a lifetime—”

“thanks, drew, that was really helpful,” you interrupt, chuckling dryly.

“oh, shut up, i had a point,” drew says, swatting your shoulder playfully.

you sigh, letting her continue.

“so, like i was saying before i was so rudely interrupted, because jackson’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime type of guys—” here, you coughed pointedly, making drew glare at you before continuing, “—you should be like more willing to see him happy and like living a long ass life because you’re so in love with him.”

“so what, either i reject him and ruin our friendship irreversibly or we date and i break his heart and ruin our friendship irreversibly, or we date and i don’t break his heart and he dies tragically and there’s a possibility that i die tragically too?”

drew shrugged, making a tiny braid in your hair, “pretty much.”

you turned your head in her lap to look her in the eye, “how are you so apathetic about this?”

“someone has to be because you’re not thinking this through rationally.”

you groaned, “aphrodite has to hate us.” (you haven’t called her ‘mom’ genuinely except to her face during the winter solstices.)

“no, she lives for this kind of thing,” drew rolled her eyes, braiding another piece of your hair, “she definitely thinks she’s doing us a favor.”

you groaned again, “what if i just avoid him until summer ends and he goes back to school and forgets this happened.”

“i didn’t think love made you this stupid,” drew says, amused.

“shut up, i can’t wait until you have the same dilemma, and you’re the one asking for advice.”

“doubt it,” drew says, wryly.

you rolled your eyes, “okay, but what if i tell him about the ‘gift’,” you make air-quotes, “and let him decide?”

“yeah, but what if that just makes it backfire and makes you die tragically either way.”

“well, at least he’ll know about the possibility? it’s better than just being like ‘oh i can’t date you even though i’ve liked you since i was twelve’ with like zero explanation whatsoever.”

you hear muffled footsteps coming from outside of the cabin, and the door swings open loudly to admit lacy, who looks flustered and out of breath. you and drew quickly sprang up off your bed at her arrival.

“your boyfriend’s asking for you,” she says, looking at you.

drew raises her eyebrows at you, an unspoken are you going to see him? behind it. 

you furrowed your eyebrows back at her, conveying no, shut up.

drew shrugged at you as if saying if you say so.

lacy looks between the two of you, confusion apparent before cautiously interrupting, “he’s waiting outside, by the way.”

you panicked at the thought of possibly confronting percy, “lacy, whatever you do, don’t tell him i’m in here.” you paused, “wait, tell him i’m taking a nap or something, please.”

more shuffling noises can be heard from outside, and drew groans, smacking her forehead with her palm, “what is wrong with you?”

you ignored her, focusing on lacy, whose confusion intensified as she looked between the two of you. “tell him i’m sleeping and he should try coming back later.”

she nodded, before opening the door and stepping outside.

drew stared at you, “y’know, i thought people were exaggerating when they said love makes you stupid but after looking at you, they were so right.”

you scowled at drew. she raised her arms in surrender, “just calling it like i see it.”

lacy returned a second later, “um, he wasn’t outside when i went to tell him.”

that was decidedly odd, but you chalked it up to him being busy or something, and shrugged, “i’ll see him later, it’s fine.”

it was actually not fine, because you didn’t see him later. or the next day. or the day after. well, you saw him but you didn’t see him. percy had somehow uncovered a hidden talent for making himself appear everywhere and nowhere all at once. he was there at meals, laughing with tyson or grover, he was at sword fighting practices, leading the class or giving clarisse a partner, he was at campfires, sitting next to annabeth and connor. yet, the minute you tried to approach him, it was almost as if he’d vanish, like an immortal was running interference.

you’ve taken to wandering by the lake on most nights — your only company the voices of silena (go talk to him, her urging is as present as if she was really there, memories of the time the two of you hadn’t been talking for a week resurging) and luke (what’re you doing out this late, kid? a phantom hand reaching out to ruffle your hair, and the feeling of ice being poured down your back envelops you). 

as the sun sets, the tall and lanky figure — a figure you could recognize on the darkest nights — stands overlooking the lake in true jay gatsby fashion, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans. you stop and stare for a second (maybe a minute, an hour, time has truly escaped you), and suddenly you’re small and shivering in the dark again. 

percy doesn’t look at you when you approach, though he fidgets with his camp necklace. 

“hi,” you say, unsure of where to begin. 

percy sighs, “look, if you’re here to ask for space, i get it, i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable the other day.” he doesn’t turn to look at you or even glance at you through the corner of his eye once. 

“what?” you ask. “what are you talking about?”

“trust me, i get it, you don’t have to try to spare my feelings,” percy says. you want to will him to spare you just a glance. still, he avoids your gaze, focused on the horizon before you. “we’ve been friends for so long, i thought you could be honest with me.”

his words, though not said harshly (percy isn’t capable of being harsh, not to you at least) cut through you like a knife. 

“you heard me when i was talking to lacy, then,” you say, with horror as the realization dawns on you slowly.

percy finally looks at you, and the sheer hurt in his iridescent eyes makes you inhale sharply. a lump forms in your throat.

“i did,” he confirms quietly. “why didn’t you say something earlier?”

fighting in a war hadn’t prepared you for man’s greatest folly, something that you, arguably, should’ve been good at. the lump in your throat is difficult to dislodge, yet percy is patient as you swallow uncomfortably.

“i never meant it like that.”

percy’s eyes flash, and you feel sick to your stomach. “have you ever wondered why so many of the other cabins hate us?”

his previously pained expression morphed into a look of confusion. you continued, “in aphrodite cabin, our rite of passage is to break your first love’s heart. silena—” your voice breaks. “—silena tried to put an end to it, and then both she and beckendorf—” you choke up again, and percy’s expression becomes solemn, “died tragically. we didn’t know the consequences of not doing it were real until then, and we realized it was a curse.”

you watch percy seemingly wrestle with his thoughts, taking a step toward you. 

“why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” there is no judgment in his voice, yet you still feel embarrassment pooling in your stomach.

“can you honestly tell me that you’re okay with this? with the gods dictating another aspect of your life?” (somewhere in the back of your mind, you can hear luke’s voice repeating the same sentence.)

“you didn’t ask for this either.”

“it’s not our job to question them,” you say, trying not to let a tear slip.

“maybe we should,” percy says, still looking straight at you. 

“careful,” you say, as thunder rumbled distantly overhead, “this is what luke was saying.”

“i don’t care,” percy says, “if you or i die a tragic death, we’ll just have to go through tartarus.”

he said it so simply, so matter-of-factly that your breath catches in your throat.

“so, you’re okay with this?” you ask, trying to suppress the tinge of hopefulness in your voice.

percy looked at you in disbelief, his face was so earnest, “why wouldn’t i be?”

you laughed, more out of shock than anything else. percy continued, “i think your mother would think we’d make a cute couple, so maybe she won’t curse us with a tragic end.”

you’re grinning now, tears forgotten, “more like she’ll give us a tragic end because she likes us.”

percy shrugged, “i think we’ll be fine as long as we’re together.”

he kissed you, finally, which was long over-due, and you felt like everything was finally falling into place. 

“took you guys long enough.” 

you turned around to find the source of the interruption, making eye-contact with clarisse, her arms folded and a smug expression on her face. beside her stands most of your friends, all adorning matching wicked expressions. your heart stops beating for a second before your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“how much of that did you guys hear?” percy asked, suddenly looking bashful.

“most of it,” drew replied with a smirk.

percy looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement on his face as your friends surrounded the both of you, hoisting you on their shoulders.

“maybe the two of you need to cool off,” annabeth said with a laugh.

connor grinned at her, before calling out, “dump them in the lake!”

you groaned, begging, “annabeth, please.”

“this is payback for all the pining i had to witness over the years,” she said with another bright laugh.

percy shrugged at you, a grin on his face as if saying accept your fate. you gave in, shaking your head as you laughed at their antics.