"I didn't even know you have a sister." Percy's voice is sharp - biting. It hurts, after all.
This was the man he'd left behind everything for. He'd lied and betrayed Lupa, let Annabeth lay broken on the wet ground, and forgiven him what he thought was their daughter's death.
Apollo's face is a cold mirage, not befitting the adoration that was displayed mere seconds ago. "You wish to know, do you, Perseus?"
He doesn't wait for a response, turning sharply and walking out of the room.
Percy feels a dull ache spread through his chest as he collapses onto their bed, covering his face with a muffled sob.
Artemis snarls at him the next time she sees him. He ignores her.
It's cold, in the dining room.
Percy doesn't really get it. If there's one thing about Apollo, it's that he hates the cold. He'd rather burn his own skin off, than feel the biting chill of a winter's day. Yet, for some reason, not even the flickering candles on the table can permeate through the freeze in the air.
His Python is smiling at him politely, though his eyes are an empty shell. The fucking person suit.
"Apollo... Hey, listen. This morning - I -" "Do not worry, Perseus."
Apollo's polite, polite, ever so polite, smile widens.
It doesn't look that polite anymore. It's... Predatory. Sharp. And, hidden deep within?
"Allow me to serve you dinner." With those words, his partner has disappeared into the kitchen.
The sludge in front of him is, quite frankly, disgusting.
It's brownish grey, clumpy and burning hot. It looks like a weird mix of oatmeal and soup, and yet -
When Apollo places the single dish on the table with a flourish, Percy feels his gut sink.
He silently pulls it closer, and waits for the other to take a seat before forcefully swallowing the thing.
It's horrifying. Bland, tasteless, and hot enough to burn through his tongue - but he doesn't mind. Because something tells him just how important this is, to Apollo.
Gods, he'd do anything for him. To swallow the soup past the bile collecting in his throat is hardly anything.
(He'd swallowed Meg's ear, hadn't he? Felt the loving caress at the base of his Adam's apple, as the pipe shoved it down his throat.)
"Do you like it?" The other's voice is deceptively light, and in a parody of the dinners they've spent together, his hand inches forward to curl around Percy's wrist.
"It's... telling." That's the only honest descriptor he can use.
(It is. It really is. The cold in the room, the conspicuously absent Artemis, and now, this dreadful thing that's reminiscent of war rations, so unlike the killer's usual, extravagant creations. How there's only one serving. How his partner looks only at his face, avoiding the food completely.
Percy feels a pendulum gain momentum in the back of his mind.)
"It's disgusting," Apollo corrects lightly, "And yet - that winter night in Greece, it was the most delicious thing I'd ever had."
Percy's gut sinks further.
He knows his Python's general background, of course - all that research into Il Mostro hadn't been for nothing.
Count Apollo Olympia, the third. Orphaned at a young age by bandits, found by relatives too late to be saved from the horrible foster system.
The bodies of his parents had never been found - presumably, rotted in their castle surrounded by the woods before the younger Apollo found help.
(The pendulum swings faster. There's a background hint of a synth, and Percy feels numb.)
"They had tied me up." Apollo continues to speak, voice as unbothered as ever. The person suit is stitched up tight, to ensure the monster's wounds don't show. "For days, I starved. I had seen my father's corpse, of course. They'd killed him in front of me. But my mother, and my sister? They were saving them. And regardless of what they intended to do, all I felt was relief. Hope, that the moment I was untied, I would return to my mother's embrace - perhaps cradle Artemis' head."
He smiles, then. Bland. Tasteless.
"They starved me for days, and when a seemingly compassionate captor offered me this soup? I glutted myself on it. It was warm as I had forgotten how to feel - it was sensation that my stomach had long lost hope for. It was, as I told you, the most delicious thing I'd ever had. And once I finished..."
(The pendulum in the back of his mind snaps off its string, careening through air to punch a hole in his heart.)
"They asked me, then, how my mother tasted."
Percy collapses in the chair, a visceral sound escaping him as he gags against the cold wood. In a second, Apollo is behind him - pulling him upright, hand clenched around his neck. If he tilts his head back, his eyes would meet the glittering gold of Apollo's.
"You will not throw up, Percy." The person suit is gone. His voice is taut with a grim satisfaction, and shuttered emotions - an everpresent grief, rising to flood his carefully constructed self.
"You will not throw up, no matter how you wish to. Because I didn't throw up, no matter how I wished to. You wanted to understand me, didn't you? You wished to know. Well, now you do. First hand, you know."
The hand leaves his throat, and instinctually, his body leans towards the threat that has become his comfort. Apollo doesn't relent - walking out of the room with a purposeful gait, hiding the tattered shreds of the man inside.
Percy finishes the soup. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to stand food again, but for Apollo?
To know Apollo? To know every part of him, broken and fixed and sharp and sweet?
Oh, he'd do so much more.
In some strange way, now, the soup has become delicious. The best thing he's ever had.
Oh, how he's Seen his Python. How he's Become.
By the time Artemis returns, he's thrown away the vessel.
He doesn't look her in the eyes as he passes her.
He does, however, curl into their bed and pull Apollo close to him, letting every part of their body touch in a desperate reminder.
Percy's here. He's never leaving. Never.
And Apollo - despite his flimsy pretence at being asleep - leans into the embrace.