June pours a glass of wine and waits on the couch, flipping through social media. A few hours ago, her brother posted a picture from the Valentine’s gala he and Henry threw for the London queer youth center. Alex, Henry, Bea, Catherine, and even Philip and Martha hold champagne flutes with cheeky smiles on their faces. The POTUS account has a sweet yet posed picture of her mother and Leo. She likes everything she sees, from the various celebrities she follows to the photos she’s tagged in by fans. The time on her phone reminds her Nora’s now over an hour late.

She texts her, Home soon?

Ten minutes later her phone dings. Need more time. Almost done!

You are aware it’s Valentine’s, yes? And that we had plans?

Yes!!!! But flexible plans, right? Not like we can’t eat noodles and make out later. Will leave soon though. Promise.

I got food covered. Just get home please.

June sighs. She thought she made it clear this morning that they deserved a night with no distractions. God, they need to talk; she’s afraid to, but nothing will get better if she doesn’t say anything and if they don’t try.

The charcuterie board spread she copied off of Pinterest has been sitting out for a while so she moves it from the floor to the fridge. “Soon” for Nora could mean an hour. Empty coffee mugs line the sink. An open pack of weed gummies sits on the counter, hardening. Binders of paperwork and schoolwork collect on the kitchen table. There’s so much Nora in here. June redecorated the living room and kitchen when she moved in, but Nora’s managed to touch everything.

She smiles. If this were Alex, she’d be pissed at the mess, but it’s Nora. The beautiful, erratic mess that is Nora. The girl who can have four different shows on at once and can still get shit done. The girl who always burns pancakes when she tries to cook breakfast for June. The girl who never fails to kiss her first.

June won’t lose her. So she sits down on the floor, runs her fingers over the fleece, and waits. And drinks more wine.

Sometime later, when a key turns in the lock, she downs the last sip in her glass and sets it down. Some old love songs play from her phone, the ones she and Nora love to make fun of. She hears her girlfriend curse when her key gets stuck, and then she bursts through the door and catches herself before she could slip on the hardwood.

“I know you said you got food covered, but I got noodles any—Whoa! You did all of this?” Nora walks into the living room with takeout bags in her hands and stares, mesmerized, at the ceiling. Her contacts must’ve been bothering her because she has on her back-up glasses.

“Hi. Happy Valentine’s Day,” June says and reaches for Nora’s hand to pull her down.

“I’m sorry, June. I had no idea. I thought we both hated this holiday, so tonight wasn’t that big of a deal. But this—this is beautiful,” Nora says, having a hard time meeting June’s eyes.

“Thanks.” June rubs Nora’s hand with her thumb. “And this isn’t really about the holiday. I just wanted to give something nice to you—to us—just us. With no distractions.”

The strings from “At Last” by Etta James play from the phone. The curtains billow from the air blowing out the vent. As much as she hates to ruin the moment, June has to start the conversation.

But Nora takes a deep breath and talks first. “I know I’m a bit all over the place but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I just have a lot going on.”

“I know, but sometimes it feels like you don’t care about us as much as I do. It feels like an afterthought to you,” June says.

“That’s not true, June! Come on! You know me.” She grabs June’s other hand and squeezes.

She squeezes back. “You don’t act with feelings in mind, but I know you have them. And I know it’s hard for you, but I need you to share them with me more. I need a reminder that you care every once in a while.”

Nora’s quiet. She uses her arm to wipe her eyes, knocking her glasses off.  “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

June’s chest collapses. She wraps Nora up in her arms. “I’m sorry, Nor. I don’t mean you’re not enough for me. I love you so much. I—”

“No, I understand. I just—I need help with that. I need you to tell me when you need more—maybe not after the fact like now but—”

June laughs and pulls away. “You’re right. I have a stewing problem. I just assume you’ll eventually get it.”

“Yeah, don’t assume that.” Nora laughs too—the big kind that shows all of her teeth. “Reign me in when I’ve been off for too long. And know it’s not on purpose. I’m seriously spiraling in my own head the majority of the time.”

“Ha! And a hot head it is too.”

They both pause and look into each other’s eyes. And bust out into laughing fits. June makes a fart sound with her mouth, and Nora tackles her. They rumble around on the blanket for about forty seconds before June’s wine glass tips over and surprisingly bounces instead of shattering.

The girls take that as an opportunity to stop and pour some more glasses of wine. Nora preps the takeout while June brings the charcuterie board back to the indoor picnic. Nora changes the music to some weird techno shit, but June snatches the phone. They compromise with One Direction, which makes no sense since 1. June only knows their last album and 2. Nora definitely remembers the story of June turning down the advances of one Niall Horan when she did the daytime talk show circuit after her book deal was announced.

Either way, they stuff their faces and end up cuddled on the floor.

Nora interrupts the moment. “Before we get to sexy time—"

“Jesus Christ.”

“I just wanted to give you something. I would’ve saved it for your birthday, but I can get you something else.” She pops up from the floor and jogs to her bedroom. When she reemerges, she’s carrying a bunched-up blanket. “I didn’t have time to properly wrap it because—you know, you weren’t going to get it yet—although, it probably wouldn’t’ve been wrapped later either—but anyways, happy Valentine’s Day.”

She crouches down and hands over the present. She smiles and bops up and down in anticipation. June unwraps the blanket and sees a book.

It’s one of those photobooks you can get at Walgreens, and on the cover, it reads, “Catalina June Claremont-Diaz and Nora Elizabeth Holleran are NOT good friends…” June flips it over. “They’re fucking GIRLFRIENDS!” Inside is page after page of pictures as early as the day they first met and as recent as New Year’s Eve a month ago. A lot of candid pics they take of each other—Nora’s favorites. A lot of sleepy, cuddle pics—June’s favorites. It’s so perfect.

“Nora—this is—wow.” She feels the tears coming. No one has given her anything like this before.

“I’ll be better—”

“So will I.”

“No matter where my head’s at, I’m always thinking of you—just 50 million other things as well,” Nora says and cups her chin.

June leans in. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Nora kisses her, and everything wound up in June relaxes. Her body is so warm. “Best Song Ever” starts playing.

Cue sexy time.

check out the rest of my rwrb and the five love languages series: part one, part three, part four, and part five. (links to come as they’re released)

so this could be for quality time or gifts, but i decided to go with gifts since i had no other ideas for it! it’s definitely not my love language (quality time for the win!) but i had to write something lol. so i made it sapphic bc everything gay is better! <3

After an hour, everything is sorted. There’s no glass. The planner is getting stiches. Permanent Record has started their soundcheck and sound amazing. But even their chill indie tunes can’t calm the princess. She needs to get on stage, but her stylist specifically requested she have at least two hours to work his magic, which is not going to happen.

Bea tells her assistant to get her stylist and his team to the venue, because she won’t be able to leave, and warn him he’ll only have an hour at best. Henry and Alex have already taken off to get ready, and she has to remind herself to smack them later for abandoning her.

She tugs off her blazer, drapes it over a chair, and rolls up her sleeves. If she does get her hands on a guitar, she’ll explode. It’s all she can think of to stop her from raiding the bar at the back.

“Better late than never, eh, Princess?” Margot says as she huffs on stage.

One of the stagehands gives Bea her beautiful sleek, black Fender Stratocaster, and her anxiety reduces itself to a hum. Music can’t cure all, but it certainly keeps her from wrecking every good thing in her life.

“Let’s just play,” she says.

But it’s anything but perfect. Whatever chemistry she had with Permanent Record somehow jumped into the Thames between their last rehearsal and now because this is an absolute travesty and she’s only playing two songs with them tonight. She’s forgotten measures of one song and can’t find the chords fast enough in her solo of the other. Utter shit.

Why does she even fucking bother?

She always fucks everything up. Always. Why did she think she could put this on? Sure, she’s chaired these events before, but not ones she actually cares about, not ones she’s actually put her heart into. Christ, no wonder. She should’ve known it would turn out like this. She’s the anti-Midas; everything she touches turns to shit.

No kid will ever see her as a queer role model. She’s the girl they point to and say, “See Mum and Dad, what a waste.”

She needs a hit so fucking bad.

Which is why she has to get out of here ASAP. Before she does anything she’ll regret. She won’t slip again, and she won’t be the reason this gala fails. Henry can handle it without her.

So when Margot calls for a five-minute break, Bea excuses herself and hands off her guitar. On her way out the door, she tells the stagehand to find her assistant and tell her to have Henry take over. The hard part is over thanks to the planner actually being brilliant at her job, even if she and Bea would never get along.

No doubt, cameras are already lined up outside, so she hides in one of the green rooms and locks the door behind her. If she just takes a deep breath and calms down, she can bring herself back from the edge.

Five things she can see: The 1975, Arctic Monkeys, Oasis, Solange, and Fiona Apple’s signatures on the artist wall.

Four things she can feel: the worn leather on a crusty couch, the chipped-paint walls, her toes in her shoes, and her fingers through her light brown hair.

Three things she can hear: the ticking from the clock, the click of her heels as she paces, and a knock at the door.

Two things she can smell: decades-old musk from artists past—no doubt coming from the couch—and her light perfume on her wrist.

One thing she can taste: a hint of coffee from earlier.

She breathes in and out, and the knock on the door continues.

“Bea, are you in there? Could you let me in?” Margot. Essentially a stranger. She supposes it’s better than facing a disappointed Henry, so she opens the door and promptly relocks it as soon as they’re inside.

“Christ, this place is legendary, isn’t it? Everyone’s played here—is that Bob Dylan? Fucking nuts,” Margot says, pointing to the wall.

“I’ve seen loads of people here. Always wanted to play here myself,” Bea tells them. She traces Lizzo’s signature. That was a fun night; Nora and June flew out for a girls’ night, which was ultimately crashed by Pez.

“Me too, and the rest of band as well, I suppose.” Margot looks at Bea and smiles. They’re brown eyes crinkle in the corner, and it reminds her of Alex. “And now we get to, eh, Princess? Couldn’t’ve gotten here without you. The whole world knows Permanent Record now.”

“You could’ve done it without me,” she says. “You will tonight anyway.”

“Hey.” They reach for Bea’s hand. “Everyone has some hiccups before a big gig. It’ll be grand, but only if you’re there. This is your night as much as it is ours or the youth center’s. You have no idea how important it is for your lot to shine a light on causes people shy away from.”

That makes Bea smile. For so long she wanted to hide from her position. She wanted freedom to do whatever she pleased, but now she understands the power she has, even if people still see her as “The Powder Princess.” No matter what she wears, millions of fashion influencers share links to her clothes. If she walks into a restaurant, their yearly profits skyrocket. When she told the world she was ace, thousands of people messaged her and said the same. One of them was Margot, telling her about their undiscovered band from South London.

She tells Margot how that was one of the first times she really felt like herself. Completely at peace with who she is. How that peace got away from her and turned this gala into a near-panic-attack-inducing event, she doesn’t know.

“Have you let on how stressed you’ve been to anyone?” Margot asks. The two sit together on the couch after Margot bravely plopped themself down on the dirty, old thing.

“Hadn’t the time,” she says. Truthfully, Bea doesn’t think she’s had a genuine conversation with anyone since the gala’s conception.

Margot throws their hands in the air. “Well, there you go then! You’ve got to take the time! To take care of yourself. To hang out with your mates. Just to have some goddamn fun, Bea! Come on! You think I’d be a functioning human if I didn’t let loose with my mates every now and then? This—” They gesture to their body, covered in tattoos and tattered black clothing. “Doesn’t happen on its own.”

Bea laughs. It’s been so long since she’s laughed from anything other than stress. “Right, so how does this all happen then?” She swirls her hand in Margot’s direction.

As they chat, Bea relaxes. They talk about their families and uni and music and coming out. Bea tells Margot about the time she and the gang went to the karaoke bar where Henry got wasted and sang Queen horrifically. Margot tells her about the time in year twelve when they got dared to try out for the school play and ended up playing an old man in the most unbelievable bald cap.

Eventually, the two of them pull out their phones and play a few games of Among Us until Bea’s desperate assistant finds her and pleads for her to get ready though the door. They only have an hour before guests arrive.

“You all right?” Margot asks. “Want to go out there and try again?”

Funny how it doesn’t seem so scary anymore. How it only took a short break, a nice chat, and a little pink astronaut to put Bea at ease. She smiles. The notes come back to her fingertips.

check out the rest of my rwrb and the five love languages series: part one, part two, part three, and part five. (links to come as they’re released)

listen, my permanent headcanon is aroace bea and you will never convince me otherwise and i will never write her as anything else bc i love her so much!! (that being said, if you ship her with anyone, i totally understand). also, i reference a fic of mine i wrote for winterfest so if you want to check out my version of bea’s coming out, you can do that here! and finally, i know this wasn’t a romantic fic for romance week but like i said in part one, valentine’s day is different for everyone. <3

But they’re not. She’s still filling coffee cups and handing out “yes, ma’ams” and “yes, sirs” like they’re pocket change. And he’s still going back to California to join an immigration law firm.

“Claremont,” he starts, “I don’t know what to say. These past few months—”

“I know,” she says. Lord, do not let her bawl in front of this man—not like she hasn’t before when the anniversary of her mother’s death came around. But still, she’s got to leave him with the image of the take-no-shit, strawberry-blond fireball she is.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. God, she’ll never forget this man even if she tries. His curly black hair swoops over his eyebrows and behind his ears. His sleeves seem permanently rolled up, his tie loosened. Oscar somehow carries the lackadaisical Cali-boy in his smile and the strength against generational oppression in his eyes. The sorrow of goodbye shows in his drooping shoulders. Ellen knows she can set them straight with one kiss on the lips and a hand somewhere else.

Instead, she drops his hands and looks away.

“Ask me to stay,” Oscar says, reaching for her waist.

Ellen can’t bear to look into his warm, brown eyes and tell him to go. She puts her hands on his chest and feels his heart beating under them. His beautiful, fighting heart. “I won’t do that, Diaz. If the situation were reversed, I’d slap you for suggesting it.”

He pulls her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “The situation’s not reversed, Ellen. Ask me to stay.”

Lord, every time her first name rolls off his tongue electricity shoots down her back, and now it meets the lightning rod that is his hand on her tattoo. It takes everything in her not to jump him in this parking lot. Damn the cars driving past them. Damn the diner patrons watching through the windows. Damn the Bible-thumper preaching from the street corner. The world should stop for her goodbye to the man that shocks her too her very core with one touch.

“Oscar.”

“Ellen.”

His forehead presses into hers, and his hand meets the other on the small of her back. She can’t help but wrap her arms around his neck, like they’re about to sway to an overrated pop song at a high school dance. He smells like he always does: cheap cologne and sweat, and holding him—being held by him—feels like taking a wrong turn on the drive home just so you can finish your favorite song.

“You don’t want me to leave, right?” Oscar asks.

“No, but this is crazy. You can’t stay here. What would you do? What would we do?”

Favorite song—favorite person be damned, too. Hasn’t it crossed his mind that his life can’t just transfer to Texas? The campaign is over, and his family and career are back in California. He’s being stupid, and she’s letting him.

Touching him makes her irrational, so Ellen lets go and steps back. “I mean, Lord help us, Diaz! Have you even thought about this?”

“What’s there more to think about? I love you and you love me! We’ll figure out the rest.”

“Oh, do not give me that ‘love conquers all’ bullshit! You’re smarter than that!” she says.

Her fifteen has got to be over by now, but fuck it. Her manager can wait. She’ll stand her and scream at Oscar; she’s developed quite an affinity for it. God bless him.

“Maybe it does—”

“Bull-fucking-sh—”

“No!” He grabs her hands, and she doesn’t fight it. “With all the shit we’ve been through, can’t you see it’s brought us here? Right now, Claremont. You and me. We’ve got something; we want the same things. Let’s do it. Come on, Ellen, let’s just fucking do it!”

And he kisses her. It’s not desperate, but gentle and resolute. Her hands find the nape of his neck again, and she tangles her fingers in his soft curls. Sunflowers bloom in her belly. Oscar squeezes her hips in his hands. Sweet baby Jesus. She can’t let him go. She’ll have to kill him first.

He pulls away—only a centimeter or two—and says again, “Ask me to stay.”

Eight months of this shit. Eight months of diner banter and canvassing and takeout movie nights and fucking in his motel room or her tiny-ass apartment or one of their cars. Eight months of law school papers and screaming matches and tequila and talking for hours until one of them crashes and the other cuddles up to fall asleep. Eight months of hands—his and hers—intertwined like they’re holding the Earth together.

“Stay,” she whispers. A car blares its horn, so she barely hears herself say it. But she does.

“Stay with me, and we’ll change the fucking world.”

As stubborn as she is, so is he. They match in some weird way, and Ellen can’t remember the last time she found a person like that. Fucking Oscar Fucking Diaz. She’ll get on her knees for him or step on his neck if he asks nicely enough. She’ll spend hours critiquing his debate strategies or peering over his shoulder while he proofs one of her assignments. She’ll bake him peach cobbler or devour his mole and anything it touches. Oscar’ll play the guitar, and she’ll sing along.

“Good because I already accepted a job with Representative Acosta. He’s from 54.”

“Fuck you!” Frustrated, angry, and smiling, Ellen shoves his shoulders. “I know where he’s goddamn from! But what the hell were you pulling my leg that far for?”

He puts on that Diaz smirk and trails a finger down her hip. “Pretty legs though.”

“I’ll fry you up and serve you for dinner if you ain’t careful,” she deadpans.

“Promise?” Oh, good Lord.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Ellen grabs his jaw, rubs a finger over that fucking dimple, and pulls him to her lips.

“I do,” she says.

check out the rest of my rwrb and the five love languages series: part one, part two, part four, and part five. (links to come as they’re released)

so yeah it’s fairly obvious that i have a hard time keeping to a schedule BUT i think this turned out very cute (even if it’s not actually set during valentine’s) and even if i go past v-day, which will probably happen, i’m determined to finish romance week! anyways, thanks for all of your support! <3

•••

The last thing Alex—the wise-ass son of Themis—wants to do in the middle of the night is go to a counsel meeting at the Big House. He wipes the sleep from his eyes as he walks up the creaky steps. Inside, Chiron and the other counsellors gather around a table. It’s times like this he wishes it was a year ago when the children of minor gods were left out of meetings and decision-making. But as soon as he slaps himself awake, he regains his undying need to get involved and raise hell—fair and just hell, of course.

He sits down next to Nora, the temporary head counsellor of the Athena cabin. She’s bouncing in her seat—no doubt high on caffeine and nectar and ready to get back to developing war strategy. She gives him a wink and taps her fingers like she’s back home typing on a computer. Chiron clears his throat and tells the demigods of a Roman scout team that was spotted an hour ago. Unfortunately, most of the soldiers got away, but they did manage to capture one. He’s being held in one of the Big House’s guest rooms.

Now it’s Alex’s turn to bounce. He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this. A prisoner of war means they’ll need to get information. There will need to be a lawyer present—or a lawyer in training that is. He can preside over the questioning, be the voice of justice, and maybe even get the Roman to see the right side is his. He can picture it now: Camp Half-Blood safe from the Romans and that dude reformed in his ways, joining them to stop Gaia. Yes, this is his chance to step out of his sister’s shadow.

He volunteers to mediate for whoever is charged with the interview. Alex ignores Chiron’s obvious hesitation; just because he can get a little heated—thank gods Leo isn’t here cracking a dumb pun joke at that, which would inevitably leave them both laughing on the floor—doesn’t mean he can’t be objective. So he hates the Romans’ guts and thinks they should go back to their stuck-up little camp, so what? Once he’s in the real world, going to college, running for congress like his father, he’ll have to deal with a shit-ton of people he doesn’t like. Looking at you, Bitch McConnell.

Just as Chiron decides he, Nora, Will Solace, and reluctantly Alex will talk to the Roman boy, a camper from the Aphrodite cabin bursts through the door and tells him one of the Hephaestus girls accidentally blew up a boy from the Ares cabin. Apparently, armor strapped with projectile explosives wasn’t the best idea. So Chiron declares they will talk to their guest in the morning, and in the meantime, they’ll take shifts in pairs guarding him. Alex raises his hand to get the first watch, but Chiron appoints Drew Tanaka and Connor Stoll. They both roll their eyes at the idea of being stuck together for the next few hours. Alex’s chest deflates.

Ever since his sister left—he and June are some of the rare demigods that have the same mortal and immortal parentage without being twins—the responsibility of the Themis cabin has fallen on his shoulders. He wanted it, of course, but his siblings also elected him to the head counsellor position, thinking he’d follow in June’s footsteps: ruling with truth, justice, and wisdom. Just like their mother.

Back in his cabin, Alex stares at the marble statue of her that presides over her children. Her iconic image—blindfolded, holding a sword in one hand and balancing a scale in the other—reminds him he’s definitely no June.

She was a leader of quests; Alex has never been on one. June was the voice of reason at counsel meetings; he struggles just to sit still, let alone calm a room with one enlightening sentence. When the children of minor gods were finally given their own cabins, there was no question who should run theirs. Now, he hears his siblings whisper whether they should hold another election. Gods, you call out your conservative brothers one time—it was way more than once—and suddenly, you’re imposing your opinion on everyone.

That’s not it though. Alex has never been given a chance to step up. No matter how many times he tries to convince the counsel they should establish a court system at camp—nothing settles an argument like a nice, fair trial—he always gets shot down.

Not anymore. He’s not going to sit back this time. Not when the threat to camp is this great. He’ll get what he needs from that Roman. If June were here, she would’ve been trusted to go ahead without Chiron, so Alex will do the same.

•••

Henry wakes up to angry whispers outside of his door. The twelve Greeks overtook him easily, but he did put up a good fight. At least, he did until he was knocked unconscious. On the table beside his bed, a note sits atop a plate of food.

Eat well. Hydrate. Rest. We’ll speak with you soon. -Chiron

A glass of juice spiked with nectar sits next to the plate. Why would those imbecilic Greeks give him what’s essentially strengthening serum? He intakes his surroundings: a bed, a table, a dresser, and a chair. Window to the left. Only door out to the right. There’s a clean set of clothes at the end of the bed, but Henry would rather go to Tartarus and back than put on another camp’s shirt.

He jimmies the window, but it’s locked and to hard to break. He lightly tries the doorknob, but it’s locked as well. By the sounds of it, three maybe four people argue outside his door. Romans never had this much trouble changing guard shifts. Henry fiddles about the room, looking for anything to 1. unlock the door and 2. use as a weapon. He can handle four Greeks, and he’ll do everything in his power to get back to his cohort.

Henry hears the click of the door unlocking. Gods, they’re thick, aren’t they? He grabs the wooden chair, and as the door swings open, he thwacks the person walking in with it. Just as he suspected, the chair breaks, and he uses one piece to press against the throat of the careless demigod he’s pinned to the floor.

The boy beneath him groans. He’s got light brown skin and dark curly hair, and if Henry weren’t about to kill him, he’d think he was quite cute.

“Gods, can you Greeks do anything with finesse? Even your hero, Percy Jackson, as talented as he may be, flies by the seed of his trousers.” Henry grits his teeth.

“Ha!” the boy coughs out. “Jumping to conclusions, are we? I thought you guys were supposed to be strictly trained soldiers. You miscalculated.”

He points behind him, and when Henry looks up, a girl stands battle-ready with a sword in her hand. The distraction is enough for the boy below to wrap his legs around Henry and flip them. The Greek holds a dagger to his neck.

“Listen here, pretty boy, are we going to talk or am I going to go all American Revolution on your British-ass?” He presses the dagger, and Henry yelps.

The boy’s brown eyes peer into Henry’s, and some strange part of him likes it. The Greek looks about his age and, while clearly not as capable as he, definitely has some fight in him.

“I’d like to see you try, graecus. But be forewarned, if you send me to the Underworld, I’ll drag you and your camp down with me.” He keeps his face plain and uncaring, though he can feel the heat in his cheeks. Apollo help him.

The girl interrupts them to remind her partner what they’re here to do. She sheaths her sword and closes the door.

He’s called Alex. Henry swallows. And they need information.

Alex releases him. The two get up off the ground. No one moves to sit or get more comfortable. The boys just stare at each other, long and cold.

Henry can tell this guy is a complete and total arse, and yet he can’t shake the swirling feeling in his stomach. A memory from a quest eighteen months ago flashes in his mind. In Vegas, a priest of Venus dressed like Elvis told him great tragedy would befall his love life, but with the goddess’s blessing, he’d find happiness again.

He already lost someone. The demigod who found him, Daniel, son of Ceres, his sponsor when he joined the camp, his Centurion. Everything was quiet between them—few words needed for mutual understanding. Daniel brought him fresh lavender; Henry played him a tune on the lute. But then the Titan war came. And Daniel disobeyed the Praetors’ orders to save the boy he loved. Henry barely had time to grieve before he took control of the 3rd cohort and lost four other demigods in the process. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of the five who died because of him. Because of love.

No. This feeling he has is the desire to beat the Greeks, nothing more. He doesn’t give a damn about happiness in love or this obnoxiously hot demigod before him. Like even as Alex breaks eye contact first, puts his sheathed dagger in his boot, ruffles his hair, puts his hands on his hips, and sighs, Henry feels nothing. Elvis can go fuck himself.

“So,” Alex says, “what do you have planned, and how can we convince you to stop? We’d really like to prevent another demigod civil war.”

Henry laughs, and even though nothing would make him happier than to stop fighting, to rest as Chiron suggested, he tells Alex, “You’re really a dickhead if you think I’m giving you anything.”

•••

“It was an accident!”

“You expect me to believe with our two camps in a centuries-long feud that the one time we let down our defenses, your lot just attacked us on accident? Right, and I suppose Pluto is actually a sweet guy once you get to know him, too?”

“My buddy Leo was being controlled by Gaia!”

“Your mate Leo should come up with a better lie.”

“You’re impossible!” Gods, Alex really hates this guy. “Nora, can’t we just—”

She shakes her head before he can finish. He’s not really sure what he was going to say. Have Drew come back and charmspeak him? Feed him to the harpies? Pin him down again? Wait—what?

“Listen, dude. We’re really on the same side here. Right now, both Greeks and Romans demigods—our friends—are fighting against a greater threat than the world has seen since the beginning of time. That’s got to count for something,” he says.

The Roman is quiet. Alex hates how he looks like a goddamn prince even after a fight. But maybe he got through to him. After all, it is true. For all the shit he talks about Romans, he knows they’re not bad, just different. They actually have more in common than they’d like to acknowledge. Jason Grace taught him that. If there was ever a Roman WASP he could get behind, it’s Jason.

So Alex tries a different approach. He gestures to the bed. “You want to?” The blond boy stiffens, and Alex clarifies, “Sit?”

“How about we start over?” He sits. Nora takes the opportunity to march to the other side and bellyflops onto the bed. “I’m Alex, son of Themis, the goddess of justice. And you are?”

He watches the Roman look from the undefended door to Alex and back again.

“You could run,” Alex says. “But then we’d have no chance to broker peace. Hera thought she could do it by trading heroes, but I think you and I both know it takes more than one person to heal two armies.”

Power swells in his chest. Alex can’t know for sure, but maybe his mother is looking out for him. This is how he can bring the demigods justice for Gaia’s destruction. June would be the better choice, but Alex is here and he has to try.

“Let’s work together. Or at least, get along long enough for the prophesized seven to come back home,” he says.

The Roman hesitates. Alex can see in his light blue eyes the number of strategies racing through his mind. But ultimately, he decides to sit. Nora snores next to them. Five a.m. and a caffeine/nectar crash will do that to you.

“So your name?” Alex asks. “It’s only fair.” Dumb pun but he winks.

The boy coughs, but then he looks into Alex’s eyes. “I’m—er—Henry, son of Apollo, Centurion of the 3rd cohort.”

so this is a little late but we’re just going to ignore that...

i just finished reading toa a couple of weeks ago, and i can’t stop thinking about it!! so when i saw the meet-cute prompt, i couldn’t resist a percy jackson-ish fic! i hope you enjoyed this little short piece. <3