#these roads

The second time she ran away, it was because she had regretted leaving the camp instead of signing up to stay the whole year. She was nine, and she was absolutely sure that it would take her father at least a month and a half to realize she didn't come back home — but in her childish fantasy, and the wanting to just see if things would magically change, she went back to their house, and ran away back to camp within the first twenty-eight days.

Chiron wasn't one to bend the rules, but he did let her add her name to the year-rounders list, and asked her to not comment on anything. If she didn't mention it, the other campers wouldn't even question, and it would be better than explaining why she had come back or the reason why Chiron let her stay so easily.

The third time happened when she was thirteen, and she didn't think it would happen at all. But her father and stepmother had decided to make an impromptu trip to God-knows-where — she hoped it was the depths of hell — and forgot to remember that she was spending the day out with Grover and Percy. So, when she came back to an empty house, without a note and without a message and without anything at all, she already knew what had happened.

She was left behind, and it was the first time the sadness turned into full-blown anger.

She took everything she remembered ever bringing to the house, and took one of her father's suitcases to fit it all in, and then decided she would ask anyone to have her, at least for a while. She didn't want to bother anyone with having to house a pre-teenager, especially when she did have a perfectly good house to stay in regardless of its other inhabitants, but the hate she felt was something she needed to deal with away from Helen's crystal things and her father's old, historical stuff.

She found herself back on camp, and Chiron didn't ask, that time. Deep down, she knew he wondered why she still went back instead of staying there all year long, and she also knew that he only didn't make the offer out loud because he knew the answer. She wanted things to change, she wanted a chance for them to be better, and her logic didn't quite reach that part of her heart yet.

The last one, she was fourteen, and they were all in the most magical place on Earth, or so they sold it as. It had been a surprise when Helen and Frederick told her to pack her things and join them, but she understood that it had come from Matt and Bobby, who asked her, innocently, which car seat she wanted. Her father and step-mother seemed a bit taken aback, apparently remembering that there was someone else in the house, and Annabeth simply said she didn't mind which one she'd take.

She travelled by the window to the airport, and tried to sink to the seat whenever Helen stuttered before mentioning her name in the middle of the conversations. She was also by the window in the airplane, beside a stranger and her father on the aisle seat.

Annabeth didn't really care about princesses and princes and all, but there was something about being somewhere so colourful and with so much coming straight out of 2D movies that made her skin itch in excitement and her head run overdrive with the want to explore everything. She was young, after all, and there was still a world she didn’t know, and so much she could explore.

Her younger brothers were just as excited, and she tried not to think too hard about it when Helen and Frederick never questioned where they wanted to go, but made Annabeth wonder why she needed so desperately to meet Belle and her yellow dress. She tried not to think too hard about how they had their lunch at the Pirates of the Caribbean's themed restaurant when everyone knew she didn't like eating fish. She completely ignored how they didn't mind stopping when her feet started hurting and still it was fundamental they got to the line to meet Gaston before stopping.

She tried not to think too hard about how the boys got a dozen gifts and characters and action figures and she couldn't get the tiara that shone so pretty over the mannequin's head on the store Helen bought a necklace.

It's a useless thing to have, Annabeth, her stepmother had told her.

You should be smarter. Do you really want something that will be good for nothing, dear?, her father had questioned when she had asked him, instead.

They weren't looking when she wandered far in the airport, or when she started sprinting the hell away from where they were busy trying to fit everything in the cart. They didn't realize she wasn't there, and neither was her luggage, as a kind lady helped her put it all in the trunk of her taxi and she gave the only other address she knew by heart.

Sally Jackson took her in, and let her stay in the spare room for as long as she needed. The writer never asked questions, never raised an eyebrow, never raised her voice. She never made her feel any less than welcome, any less than wanted, any less than loved.

Annabeth only didn't come back to their house when they were both on camp, and her father didn't even bat an eye when she lied about staying at camp the whole year round.

When Percy asked if she wanted to start running with him when Annabeth was sixteen, just to kill time and do more than just lie around and freak out over school and families, she didn't even think twice before accepting.

Because it was something she was good at, apparently; running.

She ran.

She ran.

She runs.

✉

"To whom I left behind.

I'm still not sure what I should have said, or if I should say anything at all. I don't know if you'd be willing to listen, or even if you should. I'm not sure I can see you again without it being too awkward or forced. I think that's weird enough.

I still have your number, but I've deleted the whole conversation. There wasn't much. It pains me, still, that there wasn't much to say. There never was. Just my attempts to be good, to talk to you, to share a bit of who I became without your help. I don't know if you remember or care, but that's okay. Honestly, I thought it would hurt. Maybe it makes me insensitive to say that I didn't feel anything, because everyone says that deleting text conversations hurts. Maybe they're too sensitive.

I don't know why I still keep your number. I don't know if I expect anything to happen, because if sincerity is what I've been working on, I can't visualize a situation in which we'll speak again. Honestly, I wonder what it will be like if we bump into each other in the street eventually. Maybe I should stop thinking about it and change my route. Maybe I should keep walking. Maybe I should hide my face, just as I've been hiding my truths. It's more likely you wouldn't see me.

Maybe you took me the wrong way, but you understood when I explained my whys and wherefores. I know I said I hoped we'd meet again at some point when everything would be a little less suffocating, but I don't know if, now that I've learnt to breathe deeply, I can go back to that same glass dome that gave me a beautiful view, but took away a lot of my oxygen. I don't know if I can; I know I don't want to. I don't know about you.

Maybe I never did.

You have my gratitude, and I hope you know that. I still have you in memory boxes in my old room, and I want you to stay there. Because I've redesigned some things, messed up others and furnished new rooms — and I've slowly been emptying yours. You have my gratitude just as you had my most sincere love, my most honest friendship; and you had all my oxygen in yourself, and I just can't breathe for any other set of lungs.

And, yes. That may sound selfish, I know it may sound ungrateful; forgive me for that, at least this time. This time, which is the only time I won't be the one giving in. I don't know how to deal with things like this, the sincere ones — but I keep trying, and I'm getting better. Ed Sheeran once wrote "and after all I've done, I think I love you better now", and I'm happy to finally be able to sing that line truthfully: I love you better now, because I love you in the past.

And since we've always been about sincerity, maybe I understand now.

Being selfish with you was the most selfless decision I could have made.

Lately,

Minerva."

✉

When Percy took the blaring earphones off her ears, Annabeth could hear the chaos all around them.

It didn't take her nine seconds to understand where they were, for they had gotten to France a few days before and Percy had shoved her inside of a train from Lille that morning without saying a word and incapable of keeping his leg still as she observed the views and the skies from her seat across from him. He looked a lot like a child about to get their favorite toy for their birthday, and it was a look that she knew how to recognize.

On the way to their planned destination, Percy had told her to close her eyes as if she could guess the place for the roads they were taking and wasn't a tourist in a country she had never been to before. Still, she obeyed, and he put on large earphones over her ears — apparently, listening would be too much of a giveaway, but Percy seemed so sure about it that she didn't have the heart to argue.

Now, standing there, she knew exactly why the sound would have been a giveaway.

The sight before her eyes was nothing short of magical, as it was intended to be — a whimsical landscape of towering castles and colourful attractions, all set against a backdrop of lush greenery and vibrant flowers. Everywhere she looked, there were people bustling about, their faces alight with joy and wonder as they eagerly explored the fairy-tale town around them. Her eyes darted all over the place, trying to map everything she saw, and she tilted her head to the side.

Children darted past them, their eyes wide with excitement as they tugged at their parents' hands, eager to experience all the thrills and delights that awaited them, that the whole place promised. Groups of friends and families wandered the streets, their voices mingling with the cheerful cries of street performers and the whirring of carousel rides. Happy tunes played in the speakers around them, and there wasn't a single thing that seemed to be wrong in their surroundings.

"Disneyland?" she asked, surprising her own self at the absolute disbelief in her voice. The smile on her face was something she couldn't quite avoid, and she turned to face him with wide eyes. Percy was smiling, and seemed quite unsure — he knew why she lived with them for a while, and he was waiting to see the full reaction she would have once she absorbed the world around them.

"Disneyland Paris," he emphasized. "With me. The same magical kingdom, but another, and with, if you allow me, mademoiselle — your prince," he bowed with a flourish, and Annabeth didn't know what to say. Her stomach seemed to mirror Percy's movements inside her body, and her breath caught in her throat. "It's your princess day, my lady. I am but your wallet, this day. A rich company that will bend to your will and graces," he said, the pageantry making it all the funnier.

Annabeth blinked. It took her a minute to come to terms and understand everything he'd just dropped on her, and everything the colours and sounds around them said.

"It's your father's money," she said, a bit desperate about the offer. A good offer, indeed, but an insane one anyway. "Won't he think bad of it?" Annabeth wondered, her brows furrowing with worry. That was the very last thing she needed, to have Percy's dad thinking lowly of her.

And, sure; they had been using his money in about ten countries. But a whole day spending it on overpriced Disney things at Disney Paris might perhaps just be the thing that makes him regret his choices and take back the otherworldly offer to live another life while they were away from theirs.

Percy smiled, a bit crazy. Mischievous, at least.

"Not only he knows, but he also suggested it as soon as we got to Paris," Percy explained, laughing. "The perks of a rich man's credit card in one's power, you see. And the perks of him being as widely insane about those he loves, just like his son," and Annabeth did try not to think much of that sentence.

Instead, she chose for the classic ironic comment.

"Oh, well. The apple never falls far from the tree, does it?" she rolled her eyes, laughing lightly as she tried to disguise the absolute whirlwind of feelings happening inside her chest.

"I'm sure Isaac Newton is the one to answer such a question, my lady," Percy joked, winking quickly and so ridiculously that Annabeth couldn't keep her laughter in. What a pathetic joke. What a lovely, lovely man in front of her.

What a lovable, lovable human.

"You're ridiculous," she said back, despite her laughter. Percy's eyes lit up as if her reaction was what he'd planned to get the whole time.

"You love me," he said, and Annabeth wondered if he ever asked himself just how right, and to what extent, he was correct. "Shall we, Your Highness, explore this magic kingdom before our eyes?"

He offered his hand again.

There wasn't a single reality in which she wouldn't take it.

"We shall, my good lord," she bowed her head, and Percy laughed. He laced her arm in his, and couldn't keep the serious façade for longer than two minutes into their walk — he then turned into the lovely, almost childish person she loved to witness, and thanked God she had the honor and chance to know. He pointed everywhere, and laughed alone, and told her the most random stories he could remember about himself, his mother, Estelle or his cousins.

Annabeth didn't think that what made her feel most like a princess in her life was to walk around in the heat, sweating, and with more trinkets in paper bags and inside her backpack and an absolutely manic grin on her face. Her feet were already hurting, and she would often take Percy by the hand to the nearest store so she could stand with her back to the air-conditioning, but Annabeth couldn't care less about capitalistic strategies and marketing plans as her heart felt so, so lightweight in her chest.

They didn't have a plan, as they had decided, from the moment they stepped out of the Jackson-Blofis' apartment, that they would go wherever their minds and Mr. Stormer's very exclusive, very unlimited card could take them. She'd felt bad in the beginning, not wanting to give Percy's father the wrong impression about who she was, but, right then, she'd grown very terribly accustomed to letting Percy buy her anything he thought she might've liked the tiniest bit.

They were in Disneyland — Paris, Percy made sure to highlight —, and she would do herself a favor and allow the very mature adult her very restrained child had grown into to feel (and act, of course) like the prettiest, the dreamiest, the very richest of princesses.

Which, compared to Percy, was a tough thing to do.

His restless behaviour seemed to tenfold as they walked down the streets and followed the screams and laughter to random attractions. With a — very expensive — VIP card of some sort, they never spent a long time waiting in lines, and never stopped searching for the wildest rides they could ever manage to find. For someone so terrified of planes, Percy was the one to convince Annabeth to the most ridiculously tall attractions.

And after screaming their lungs out and losing their breaths on every rollercoaster they could find, the both of them had found it in them that there wasn't a single problem in also enjoying the kids' attractions that could also fit adults. The spinning cups, the very not scary house of horrors that made them jump regardless, the long lines to meet the characters and take pictures with them.

She was sure her cheeks would hurt for days after her muscles worked the extra hours. And she was more than sure that she couldn’t care less.

And, then, when they gave into the power of having his father's credit card in hand, they decided to stroll along the main street, filled with stores and laughter and very pretty, very magical showcases and shopfronts. Everything was extremely glittery and very worked in the 'magical' and 'utopic' aspect of things, and she couldn't like any more than she already did. It felt like walking inside the movies she watched repeatedly as a child, always trying to draw the characters and imagine how the castles and houses would be in real life.

Some of those drafts were hanging on the walls of her office, the lines sure and the dimensions erratic, but something she was proud of drawing when she didn’t even know how to spell “architect” correctly.

And, then, as she was saying something about the historical and mythological atrocity that Hercules was — focus on the entertainment, Annabeth! The romance! — her eyes wandered to a store that made her words die halfway through her lips.

She stopped walking, and Percy faltered a step when he noticed, their arms still intertwined.

She fell in love with him in Autumn, when he'd asked her for pictures with a scarf that resembled a song Juniper and Grover loved to sing along to, despite its full ten minutes of extension.

She fell in love with him when it was warm, and the cabin on Montauk had been cleaned three times so she wouldn't fear getting mugged by a spider.

She fell in love with him when it was cold, and he had done his best to fight his fever-induced sleepiness so they could watch Sandra Bullock falling in love with Ryan Reynolds because Annabeth just had felt the need to believe in love again.

She fell in love with him when it was rainy and the flowers she'd gotten him were a bit crumpled by the water's aggressive falling from the sky, but he cradled them with such care it made her wonder why she'd never gotten him any flowers before.

She fell in love with him when his smile was bright enough to light up the whole town the moment he'd spotted her with his swim-team cap and a huge hand-made sign over her head with a really abstract drawing (made mostly by Estelle) of him with a fish-tail.

She fell in love with him in the silence after she'd run from home again, and found herself cradled in his and Sally's arms.

She fell in love with him in August, when his eyes would always tear up at the sight of another home-baked blue cake she got progressively better at.

She fell in love with him in the loudness of the book-launch party they'd thrown in Sally's honor for her first book.

She fell in love with him in April, when he showed up at her house with a highly unreliable blue ice-cream and a batch of brownies in his backpack, smiling blindly just because.

She fell in love with him on Sunday when the next morning already haunted her and he decided that there was no right or wrong time for ice cream.

She fell in love with him in May, when he hugged her over and over because of the surprise trip to the newest aquarium in the area.

She fell in love with him on Thursday when they picked a new place to visit and made written reviews to trade at the end of the night, and the company spot was always five stars (and a heart, when she got his paper).

She fell in love with him in September, when he shared with her his jelly after a nasty fall on a skateboard had landed him in the ER with a mild concussion.

She fell in love with him on Wednesday when he trusted her with the keys of his blue jeep and asked her to just drive as far as she could with the windows down and a random playlist blaring in their ears.

She fell in love with him in March, when, at two in the morning, he decided he had enough information on sharks to write a whole paper by her side, as she finished another project.

She fell in love with him in November, when his eyes lit up at the most hideous, terribly knit sweater she had made him just because she wanted to.

She fell in love with him in January, when she lost, over and over, the snowball war they'd waged in Paul's mother's backyard.

She fell in love with him on Friday when the week caught up to their shoulders and still there was always disposition for a batch of blue cookies.

She fell in love with him in June, when the twelfth was a reason for chocolate because somewhere in the south-hemisphere was celebrating Valentine’s Day.

She fell in love with him at ten in the morning, when he had spent the entire night playing something online with Jason and forgotten to sleep, and woken up with crumpled hair when she tossed a pillow at his head.

She fell in love with him in December, when there was no one in New York happier about Christmas lights and trees and terrible-looking hoodies.

She fell in love with him on Tuesday, when nothing really happened but she remembered, randomly around the clock, that he existed and was a real person walking around the surface of the Earth.

She fell in love with him at nine in the night, when there wasn’t a bad time to take a dive in the sea.

She fell in love with him in July when her birthday was a quiet matter with the brightest smiles and the most thoughtful gifts.

She fell in love with him in October and February when his eyes were kind and his touch was sweet as she cried her eyes out over stupid, stupid romantic movies.

She fell in love with him, and suddenly she wasn't afraid of heights.

She fell in love with him, and the ocean didn't seem such a big thing to compare anything to.

She fell in love with him, and wished she believed in an afterlife so she could see him again.

She fell in love with him, and suddenly rationality wasn't the answer to anything, anymore.

She fell in love with him.

And so it happened.

She fell in love with him.

She fell.

She fell.

She falls.

✉

"Where do you want to go from here?" Percy asked from the bedroom, and she could hear the way he — very violently, it's safe to note — dried his hair with a towel. A part of her wanted desperately to admonish his actions, because that was the last thing someone with such pretty curls for a hair should ever do, but Annabeth found that she was stuck.

Frozen in place and unable to make a coherent thought.

They had gotten to Venice two days before, and walked around the same parts of the city for as long as their feet could manage to bear their weight. Her phone, she was sure, would soon start overheating if they kept taking the amount of pictures they did — but she couldn’t help the need to register every single detail of every place and town and city their eyes scanned around them.

 It was an hour into being settled in the hotel before they had gotten on gondolas and just floated around the channels, chatting happily with the lovely man with the rows and silently thanking Nico for the forced Italian lessons he decided to give their group after Leo had forced them to learn Spanish. All throughout the day, Annabeth’s smile didn’t falter, unlike her heart, with Percy by her side, looking a lot like a child who'd gotten the best remote-control car ever for Christmas, absolutely thriving while being in a roadless, floating town.

His smile was blinding all throughout the day, and Annabeth's expression mirrored his — she couldn't help it. Percy's excitement left no other option but to join him in silly smiles and unrestrained laughter, none of them caring much when they laughed too loud and attracted confused pairs of eyes in their direction. The people were used, probably, to tourists at that point in living there.

And now, as the sun began to set on the third day they were on Italian soil, they had retired earlier just to share one lazy night together. The day had been warm, and they'd walked their fair share while touring shops and cafés and restaurants (because Percy had a mission while in Italy, and it was to leave with more pounds in weight than he had arrived with), and their sore legs were almost nothing compared to their sore cheeks at so many sights and sighs and pictures.

They were having lunch in a Google-recommended restaurant — that deserved the praise and recommendation, that was for sure — when Annabeth decided that she would do something about the butterflies in her stomach and the fluttering of her heart. Percy was laughing, and she was smiling, and she didn't know if she wanted to snap a picture of his face just to have it stored somewhere, the sight, or go on and take one of the beautiful arrangements of the plate because it was what they usually did.

She wanted to kiss him, too, when the dessert came and his eyes lit up at the mere sight of the waiter carrying the plate. She wanted to kiss him when he smiled, when he laughed, when his face got dirty because he had no manners when sweets were involved — she wanted to kiss him when he asked for another desert to take home, and when they got up and he tangled their arms together.

She wanted to kiss him and hug him and wrap her arms around him a little bit possessively when a gorgeous european lady was clearly hitting on him, and Percy didn't have a clue, because he had always been that way. She wanted to hold his hand and know it meant more to the both of them — she wanted it to mean more on purpose.

She wanted to have it, the freedom to touch him and smother him and kiss him absolutely senseless. She wanted to know what it was like to be kissed by him, to be hugged as it meant something more, to bask in the feeling of waking up beside him knowing they belonged to each other.

Annabeth wanted to belong to him. Desperately. Vocally. On purpose.

With purpose. Of spending her life loving him openly — clearly, in a way that Percy could see it, too, and know that it meant something.

She wanted to have that, to have him, anywhere they wandered to. Venice, Lille, Paris, Athens, Rome, Zurique, Lucerna, Lisbon, London, Lima, Rio, Brussels, Vienna, San Francisco, New York.

She wanted to belong, but she didn't care about where in the world.

And so, when they got back to the small apartment they were staying in, Annabeth had let him take a shower first, and headed straight to the folder that she kept safe and far on her backpack, taking out the last letter she had tucked in there. It was a bit more crumpled than the others, the amount of times she'd read it before and throughout their trip making it a little worse for wear — it wasn't a recent letter, though it had been one of the last ones she'd written.

She'd known who the letter was for from the beginning. But it took a while (a really long one) for her to admit it, to make it real on paper as well.

And as she walked back to the cozy living room, she could hear Percy's less than tuned sing-along to The Little Mermaid's live action's 'Wild Uncharted Waters'. Annabeth couldn't help but chuckle, smiling widely and shaking her head. 

Terrible for the neighbors. 

A blessing for her very, very unsteady heart.

A sudden wave of fear hit her, then, and Annabeth stopped moving, frozen on spot as if lightning had hit her and petrified her muscles. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips against each other as she swallowed dryly.

Those small blessings, those little moments they shared in the secrecy of their friendship, were far too precious for her to risk. Weren't they? To have him like that, carefree and comfortable and just so damn sweet, was worth risking?

Was it worth it, a heartbreak over the skipping beats she had lived with for so long?

And so, when Percy had gotten out of the shower and talked to her, Annabeth couldn't move.

She couldn't move, couldn't change the way she was sitting on the couch, cross-legged as her hands held carefully to the last piece of paper she had found among the things she didn't think she had kept. Her eyes darted carefully through all the nearly non-existent details over the folded sheet, the same she'd been staring at for a quite worrisome amount of time.

She knew, to some extent, and was confident that things would be perfectly fine after she'd given him the letter for his curious eyes to discover. Annabeth was perfectly sure, just as she was about most things she knew and learned and taught, that the outcome wasn't dangerous, whatever it was — they'd still be the two of them, and things would work out completely well. Not for her heart, perhaps, but she knew her soul wouldn't be torn apart, in the end.

Because, while the consequence of knowing Percy was to love him, the opposite also proved itself to be true. To love him is to know him — know all the smallest details of his face and expressions, of his gestures and the tone of his voice. She knew what to expect of his reactions, and what to never expect of his words and actions; she knew him. And had for a really long time.

Which made her overthinking and the hammering of her heart to be incredibly irrational, as well.

But, Annabeth supposed, it was inevitable when dealing with matters of the heart; the only few things she could never learn thoroughly despite her very best efforts, despite all her dedication. She could try to convince herself all she wanted, and Annabeth knew it would never worked as she'd planned it — she'd still get breathless upon the sight of him, still get heartbroken at his absence, and still fall over and over in love with the man she'd met so many times, in so many ways.

She hoped, secretly as she carried her feelings and truths, that she'd get the chance to meet him again — she hoped, and prayed, that she'd meet him in the middle.

"Like, I know we're not making plans and such, but do you have anywhere in mind?" he continued, his voice getting closer to where she was. His feet were bare against the flooring, and he had put the towel back in the bathroom at some point of her mind-turmoil. "South, or west, or staying here for longer?"

She didn't move or reply, and Annabeth could almost see with the back of her head as he stopped moving. She could picture the crease in between his eyebrows, and how he squinted his eyes in worry. She wanted to laugh. But she couldn't quite breathe as her lungs should.

It's Percy, she reminded herself. Your Percy. He deserves to know.

And she deserved to tell him, as well, and take this one leap of faith.

Because in her very core, she knew that she couldn't fall without him jumping and falling right after her.

"Annabeth?" Percy called. "Are you alright?" he asked, now rounding the couch and flopping by her side, his eyes concerned as he took in the scene — Annabeth, unmoving as stone, holding a piece of folded paper and eyes glued to it. She wasn't sure she was even blinking. "Wise Girl?" he called again, his voice low and even more concerned.

She inhaled sharply. As she exhaled, she closed her eyes.

"There's one more letter," she said, sober and only high enough that he could hear it. Percy's eyes, so bright while looking at her, had this worried expression not as well hidden as he thought it was. She turned his head to look at him, again. It made her as breathless as it always did. "That I've been keeping and carrying around, too."

Percy's smile was kind, his features softening.

"Oh?" he expressed, adjusting his position beside her so he could face her more easily. "Well, that's just perfect. One more thrill to look for. One more remittee to figure out," he smiled, and Annabeth felt her heart swelling in her chest.

Her smile, she was sure, was completely love drunk as she spoke again.

"Yeah," she agreed, and stretched out her arm to offer him the folded letter. "This one's a little more personal, though. Not that the others weren't, but—" she shrugged. "This one's a bit more," she settled with it. Her arm was still stretched out, and her hand was shaking a little. The uncertain rhythm of her heart might've been the cause, or just the anticipation for his reaction. Percy, forever careful and thoughtful as he was, sent her a look that asked her if she was sure she wanted him to read it.

She nodded.

It was high time she stopped running away from him. From them.

She didn't have the energy, the need, and much less the desire to keep pulling away.

Percy took the folded paper, and carefully opened it up, still looking at her face. Annabeth tried to smile in encouragement, but her mind was working overdrive, and it was hard to try to settle his feelings when hers were all over the place, over the letter, over them both. With one of his hands, Percy reached for her leg and squeezed it, assuring.

"Are you sure you want me to read it? We can figure out a receiver some other way," he asked, concerned at how private it was, and she shook her head.

"Not this one, we can't," she assured him. "I really want you to read it," Annabeth replied, trying to sound as honest and sure as she felt. Percy nodded, smiling again, and she really thought her heart would fly out of her chest through her ribs the moment his blue eyes looked down at the paper.

She watched his pupils and irises move as he took in the first line. The vocative. The one she'd changed, with a blue pen over the black ink, so many moons ago. The same blue she'd signed the letter with, contrary to all the others.

He stopped.

"Annabeth—" he tried, looking up at her with alarmed, wide blue eyes, and she didn't let him finish.

"Read it," she asked, and it sounded a lot like a plea. "Please."

She could see how he held his breath when he nodded. The tension over his shoulders when he looked back down at the paper. How he didn't dare to breathe as his eyes moved again.

Annabeth knew him too well not to notice, and her leg started to move in her anxiety as he took in each word written there. She knew them all, back to front. She'd read it, and reread it, and read it again just to be sure she had conveyed what she meant — she didn't, she couldn't, not really. There weren't enough words around the globe that could precisely make him make sense. The two of them, though? Even less.

She knew each word, and knew which parts took him longer to take in. The text was as familiar as the freckles over his nose and the feeling of her own hand in his. The words were as well-known as the whirlwind of his curls and the way his smile was so kind to her. Everything on that sheet was just as common, as familiar, as recognizable as the heartbeats inside her chest.

And as she waited, Annabeth couldn't help but go through the letter one more time, just to be sure. Just to be her — the overthinker she'd always been.

"To the love of my life, Percy Jackson,

"I was thinking about the letters," Percy said, to Annabeth's surprise. "And I was wondering: maybe we could make this trip about finding remittees. Or, at the very least, make them not needed anymore. We're already here, far from everything we know," he shrugged.

Annabeth blinked.

"And what does an escape room have to do with the letters?" she asked.

Percy shrugged again.

"Poetic liberty?" he suggested, and Annabeth scoffed.

"Poetic liberty?" she repeated. "Alright, then," she continued, shaking her head softly with a smile. "What time do we have to be here?"

Percy took a look at the time on his phone, and smiled up to her.

"In a minute," he said. "Should we?" he offered a hand, and Annabeth rolled her eyes, accepting it.

The sign above the entrance of the escape room flickered to life as she and Percy stepped into the dimly lit lobby. The air was charged with excitement, the walls adorned with cryptic symbols and enigmatic patterns that she was sure could be found in one of those very insane fantasy books. Their surroundings were clear enough not to feel creepy, but she could tell that it was all built to make the nervousness bubble under one's skin — and if Annabeth hadn't been anxious from the moment her and Percy had stepped out of their hotel, she'd definitely be as soon as the woman started to give them instructions and offered them bracelets with a call button.

"If you want to give up and leave, just tap the bracelet twice," the woman said as they both tightened the thing on their wrists. "If you want to skip one riddle and get the answer to go to the next, tap it three times. The clues have an additional cost if it's beyond three, and they take away some of the time you have," she explained, and Annabeth turned her head to look at Percy.

Her best friend was already staring at her, with the shit-eating grin that would often take her breath away. A challenge glistened in his eyes, and Annabeth rolled hers affectionately — they wouldn't ask for clues, she knew, because her pride was now at stake as well. Percy's face was smug and his steps were lightweight; out of the two of them, he was definitely the one having the time of his life.

Deep down, she suspected it was related to how much she would feel in her element while solving riddles. And something told her that the memories of their first official encounter after their chaotic meeting were also bubbling behind his eyes — the video game they had played, the afternoon spent in warmth and laughter and the promise of so many things to come.

"Get over yourself," she mumbled under her breath, and was met with the very mature act of Percy sticking his tongue out. She pressed her lips together to keep down a laughter as the woman gave them some more instructions and rolled her eyes again.

As they were led into the first room, the woman smiled tiredly at them and wished them luck, giving a quick reminder of all the rules. Both thanked her, stepping through the door and looking around the darkened place — the lights were off to keep the element of surprise, and Annabeth tried to see through the darkness as the door clicked shut behind them.

Suddenly, much like everything had been in those past few days, Annabeth felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. The realization that they were locked in, surrounded by countless doors and unknown puzzles, sent a shiver down her spine despite her being unable to see everything right then. Her breath had probably itched, and Percy's attentive presence and trained ears caught her brief distress as soon as it began, his hand managing to find her fingers despite the complete nothingness that spread before her eyes.

"Hey, it's okay," Percy said, lowly, his voice a steady anchor in the turmoil of her head. "We've got this," he added frankly, squeezing her hand.

Annabeth nodded, forcing herself to take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand. She trusted Percy implicitly — she knew that he wouldn't lead her into anything she couldn't handle, and the logical part of her head, the one that still hadn't been eaten by her anxiety and anxiety-induced life changes, tried to remind her that it was a controlled ambient, and that the lights would turn on as soon as the woman finished her countdown through the speakers around the walls. And yet, the claustrophobic confines of the room seemed to close in on her, threatening to suffocate her lungs and breaths.

But then, just as suddenly, the lights were on and her eyes were adjusting to their surroundings. The room was bigger than she had expected, but she didn't give herself the time to analyze it; instead, she looked at Percy — really looked at him — and something inside her shifted again, as it often did. His presence was a reassuring constant, a beacon of hope in the, now, metaphorical darkness she had found herself in. With him by her side, she knew she could face anything — especially the labyrinthine maze of the escape room.

"You're my Wise Girl, aren't you?" Percy added, the kindest of grins on his face, and Annabeth felt breathless for a whole other reason.

It was sweet, really, how his brain had worked to lead them there. While Annabeth tried her best not to dwell on it, for she had too many feeling to deal with all at once, it couldn't escape her the similarities of their first adventure together — when the world had been finally at peach for the three of them, they had laughed and played and found their way around the puzzles and the riddles in the video game. Now, as just the two of them after her world had been in chaos, there they were — another chance to find the way out, another shot at finding themselves together.

"Yeah," she said, the words so familiar on her lips. "I guess I am."

And together, therefore, they began to explore the room, scouring every nook and cranny for clues. Annabeth's mind suddenly buzzed with adrenaline as Percy made it his goal to be completely insufferable, taking completely senseless things and trying to make them make sense, just like it had been when they were twelve. Annabeth laughed and made it her personal goal to find the right clues — a friendly competition that Percy knew the place around her would wake — and take them through the doors, her mind working as if their survival depended on getting the hell out of there.

Percy's laughter was delighted, and Annabeth knew he wasn't trying in the slightest to find any clues. Often, whenever she was too deep into certain subject and needed to just let all her knowledge about it out in the open, he'd look at her with that same gaze; something wondrous, caring, as if there was nothing he'd rather do than to watch her being comfortable in her own skin and the place that surrounded them.

It was overwhelming, sometimes, to have such pure affection so blatant over herself. Something she had learned to get rather used to in those last years, Grover and Percy and Sally and so many new friends never afraid to demonstrate people's importance for them, but it was something different when it came from those crystalline blue eyes. Percy was raw, and so, so true to himself and to others that it was easy to know that there wasn't a single cell in him prone to be a liar to those who he cared about the most.

And Annabeth knew she wasn't far from the top of the list. She sometimes doubted there was even any distance between her name and the top.

"You won't help me, Seaweed Brain?" she asked, already knowing the answer, just because.

Percy shrugged.

"And crash your train of thought?" he asked. "I know better than to do that, Wise Girl," Percy laughed, and she rolled her eyes again.

Soon enough, the first door was unlocked, and then the next, the next, and yet another door. Whenever a door clicked open, Percy would cheer and pull her to a hug or press a kiss to the crown of her head, and Annabeth would feel her chest swell with pride over such a silly thing, and her heart burst with affection over an even sillier one. Her smile was wide and her cheeks were already hurting, and Percy's laugh was clear, and sweet, and refreshing.

It felt like the world had a solution, like the Earth was something easy to figure out. Life was soft and smooth, as they walked side by side to the next room, and there was nothing outside those walls that could possibly reach her.

It clouded most of her unwanted feelings, to be in such an adrenaline-high, and Annabeth felt like there wasn't a thing she couldn't handle. As they delved deeper into the labyrinth, though, Annabeth couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness and picked at the sides of her logic. The maze of doors seemed to stretch on endlessly, each one a potential trap waiting to ensnare them — and she knew, she knew it was controlled, and calculated, and hundreds of other people had already walked those floors and solved those riddles, but her mind had always been the toughest one to face.

Percy's hand was in hers, suddenly, as his eyes asked a question as she turned to face him. Her smile, that she hoped would be reassuring, faltered, and she knew he would notice. A squeeze to her hand — do you want to give this up? — and a shake of her head — no, I don't.

He didn't question, and nodded in acknowledgement to her choice. Annabeth knew Percy enough to know that, if she wanted to get out and give it up, he wouldn't hold it against her — instead, he'd pretend it never happened and they'd move on with their lives. But she didn't want that, not now that they had gone so far. Her fears were silly, and she knew that much; there was no reason to be afraid, and sooner or later she would have to deal with the screeching voices inside her head.

She took a deep breath before opening the next door, and reminded her uneasy mind that Percy was there — a steady presence at her side, guiding her with unwavering confidence. His belief in her never dithered, even when doubt threatened to consume her whole in such stupid circumstances; he'd let her guide him through hell while blinded if it meant they were together, and there was no reason to doubt that a stupid escape room would be the thing to make her give up.

Naturally, the last room was the hardest one. Percy had joined her at some point, tapping the walls and getting distracted by something (exactly like she did when one particular clue was very, very well crafted), and she hadn't laughed so hard in a while. Percy was an idiot, that much was something she had known for years, but it was the most endearing thing when he acted completely silly and didn't even notice why she was laughing so much. His brows would crease and his smile would be adorably confused, and Annabeth would wish that she could frame the moment and keep it close to her chest forever.

They laughed even more when the last key was a literal one — a very, very extravagant and ornate golden key hanging beside the exit door — and they had spent the best part of an hour doing what they could to find something else that could be the answer. Percy was the one to point at the trinket, and Annabeth just dropped whatever it was that she was holding to stare at him with utter disbelief.

A pair of idiots. How lovely.

After laughing enough that their stomachs hurt and they ran out of breath, Percy handed the key to her with a flourish and a bow. Annabeth slapped his arm softly, but took the key with a soft shake of her head, placing it on the keyhole and turning so it would click in place. As the door swung open, bathing them in the soft glow of the venue's hallway, Annabeth felt a surge of elation wash over her. Stepping out of the — now very colorful — room, with Percy's arm swung over her shoulders, something inside her chest eased out. Some of the pressure and tightness was gone, and Annabeth fought the urge to cry.

It was inane, to say the least, but it felt a lot like finding some true escape — not just from the confines of the escape room, but from the shackles of her own fears and insecurities that swirled around her head and were carved into the letter's paper. The doors didn't seem so excessively terrifying, and the wait was something she could bear — there were timers in all those rooms they had gone through, but she doesn't remember paying attention to a single one of them.

"See, Wise Girl?" Percy called, hugging her closer and laughing still as one member of the staff greeted them with a smile and politely asked for the bracelets. "The doors aren't so scary, now, are they?" he asked, as if he knew what she was thinking.

Sometimes, she had the frightening impression that he did. That he could read her eyes, her face, her thoughts — that he knew her more than he'd let on, and yet he chose to stay. And yet he had gotten on a plane, and yet he had found an escape-room so they could play together.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

And yet, she discovered each day more, she could fall in love with the same pair of eyes over and over and — yet — over again.

Annabeth smiled and elbowed his ribs softly to get a huff and a chuckle out of his lips. With Percy by her side, she felt invincible, like in those stupid romantic movies when the lead character could never feel stronger than when the romantic interest was cheering them on — ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, and not try to spy through every agape door that would lead to her future. For in his steadfast presence, she was absolutely sure that he would be waiting for her on the other side of whatever door she opened, standing by the edge of the cliff and more than willing to jump if she ever felt like flying.

Like falling, Annabeth knew, she would always feel around him.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his eyes studying her face. A lazy smile graced her lips, and she turned to him with a carefree expression — one that, she wouldn't know, made his stomach leap inside his body.

'Home', one of them had said, and Annabeth had swallowed the pitiful cry that lodged on her throat at the thought. She didn't want to go back, and desperately thought that she would much rather live behind the dumpster where she was hiding than go back to her father's place and realize they wouldn't have noticed she was even gone.

It was the night she first got to camp, arm-in-arm with Luke and Thalia and listening to a new person, Grover, who had found them half-way there and introduced himself, playfully, as their bodyguard. At the time, she didn't think much about the interaction — looking back, though, she realized he had, somehow, sensed her distress and tried to make sure she knew that she was somewhat safe, then, with them, at camp.

A place she had never been to, but the safest she had ever felt in her life.

They were greeted by a tall, black man with white hair and beard and a kind, knowing smile. Chiron, Thalia introduced, was the headmaster at camp Half-Blood, and he looked at her with curiosity, if not empathy glistening in his eyes. He didn't ask more than her name, and didn't question the reasons she was there, where she had come from, or whether or not she was planning to stay. Instead, he greeted Thalia, and Luke, and Grover — and Annabeth, I hope you feel welcome here — and told them to meet at the dining hall in half an hour.

"And you may choose a cabin for the night, Ms. Chase," he told Annabeth, his manners and voice and tone so oddly familiar and eerie old-fashioned that it showed some resemblance of comfort to her nerves and racing thoughts.

Grover and Luke walked to the main house, and left Annabeth and Thalia behind. Probably because Grover had sensed the sudden overwhelming of her mind and Luke wouldn't debate Thalia's pointed look, but she was thankful that suddenly there was only a pair of blue eyes watching her intently.

She was seven, and Thalia was the first friend she had ever truly had in her life.

The girl showed Annabeth around camp, walking slowly, and talking slowly and gesturing softly as to not spook her as she showed all the places and parts of the large, large territory of Camp Half-Blood. The strawberry fields, the Big House, the climbing walls, the beach, the training grounds — what for they trained was still a mystery in Annabeth's head — and all twelve cabins that imposed themselves with grace and force.

It was a bit strange, the scene, to say the least. The cabins were nothing like she had expected, the common camping ones, made out of wood and of quite simple architecture, no; instead, they were grand and imponent and each their own way — all twelve ones had a huge symbol in front, and they all oddly reminded her of Greek stories and tales and myths.

As Thalia introduced each name, the similarity was funny enough that Annabeth smiled. The first smile that dreadful day.

"Are they— uh. Related to Greek gods?" Annabeth asked, and Thalia chuckled softly.

"They are," she told her. "Each cabin represents one. They're named after their animal symbol," Thalia explained. "Cabin One, Zeus; the Eagle Cabin. Cabin Two, Hera; the Cow Cabin. Cabin Three, Poseidon; the Hippocampus Cabin. Cabin—"

"Hippocampus?" Annabeth asked. "Doesn't it sound... A bit off with the others?"

Thalia shrugged.

"Chiron said they couldn't decide between a horse and a dolphin. Hence, the fish-tailed horse is the solution," she told Annabeth, who could only nod. It did make sense. "Cabin Four is Demeter, Serpent. Cabin Five is Ares, Boar. Cabin Six, Athena. The Owl Cabin," Thalia carried on, and Annabeth's eyes snapped to her as soon as the sixth cabin was spoken.

And it was idiotic, at most, how her gut flared at the name, at the mention of the goddess. Ridiculous, at best, because there was nothing there to remind her of anything outside the camp — except, she figured, her mother's namesake in one of the cabins she could choose to stay in for the night.

And she shouldn't. The prideful part of her being didn't want to play that part, the needy child who can't seem to get her priorities straight and keeps begging for a grain of attention, the smallest hint of closeness or recognition — but then, that was all she was. A child. And a child she would act like, even if it was simply to sleep somewhere that gave her the slight impression that could be something her mother would approve of.

So, there she spent the night — and every other summer that would come. Thalia didn't ask about her eagerness to stay in the sixth cabin, even if Annabeth had an impression that the girl had noticed something about her behavior. She didn't ask, she didn't question; instead, she merely offered her a smile, took her by the hand and led her to the cabin with an Owl above the door.

Annabeth tried not to cry when she went back home the following afternoon, and tried not to cry out loud when her father and stepmother didn't seem to have noticed her absence at all. She tried not to cry when she believed she would never see Thalia and Luke and Grover and Malcom — a friend from the sixth cabin — again, and tried not to smile too hard when, the moment she mentioned a camp she could stay at to her father, he immediately offered to take her there.

She tried not to think much about that. About the easiness in his voice when she said she could stay there the whole summer, and that they had year-long programs with schooling involved. About the smile on his face with the prospect of not having to deal with her all summer or all year long. About how easy it was for him to agree with her suggestion of going away.

She tried not to think about it, and tried to enjoy the following summers she spent in camp half-blood with everything she had. Thalia was there and greeted her with a fierce hug and wide smile. Luke was there, too, and offered a much calmer embrace. Grover cried, overjoyed to have her back, and Annabeth used everything in her core not to start crying with him. Her father didn't stay long enough to see her reaching the top of the hill before turning the car around.

Annabeth tried to ignore it and chose not to deal with it when Chiron asked if she wanted to stay the whole year with them. And so, over the span of the following summers, her days unfolded like a storybook within the confines of the hilltop camp, forever the freedom she had never felt before surrounding her days and the borders of the camp.

Every morning, before she had become the head of the cabin, she would wake up before the sun and venture out into the Half-Blood Hill's sprawling grounds, exploring the camp and the silence and meandering through the strawberry fields, their lush greenery punctuated by bursts of vibrant red fruit. With nimble fingers, she would pluck the ripest berries, savoring their sweetness as she watched the world awaken around her, the cabins' head-campers ring the morning bells and the sound begin to fill the whole place around her.

As a year-rounder, Annabeth would take her lessons by morning, and tutor other kids whenever they needed help — oh, my God, you definitely fit in the Owl Cabin — and spend the rest of the day helping around camp or engaging in the different activities. Or, rather, pretending to go canoeing and hiding in the library they had hidden in Cabin Six.

They'd play Catch the Flag, something Thalia had taught her, and Luke had challenged her in when they were all against the Boar campers. Essentially, the game was what the name claimed it to be — each of the two teams had a flag, and the goal was to steal it safely back into your own territory without being caught. She joined the Hermes' Cabin (Luke's cabin) and Thalia joined them, as well (the Eagle, Zeus), and her pride couldn't be more inflated when her strategy worked, and they had finally defeated the other team for the first time in a few summers.

As evening descended, the camp took on a new magic. The grove of trees whispered secrets to her as she wandered their leafy paths, the scent of earth and greenery a balm to her senses, her heart and everything she didn't want to feel or acknowledge. And when night fell, the sky above became a tapestry of stars, their twinkling lights something that brought her eyes delight, and her very mind the peace she couldn't find under the sun.

Yet perhaps the most precious treasure the camp offered, as cliché as it would be and as ridiculous as it was to think about it, was the friendships she cultivated there, slowly, not always gracefully, but always so sure. Surrounded by kindred spirits, Annabeth couldn't quite believe she had found herself welcomed with open arms, each day filled with laughter and a new name she didn't even know she could attach to memory anymore. People talked to her, and saw her, and it was more than she could have ever expected when she was first brought to the hilltop.

Because as much as she wouldn't like to admit, it was a refuge from the chaos of the world, a sanctuary of peace and belonging unlike any other. As much was she would like to believe that she wasn't running away again, she might as well have been, and she couldn't find herself to berate her actions as she felt so much peace while wandering around.

She should have known better than to trust such peace, though, because it never lasted. Not for her, not at all — not even at a place she thought she could rely on.

It was an early afternoon when things started going south, when her picture-perfect scenario was shattered to the floor just once again. A year before, Luke had taken his leave and never looked back, and Annabeth sincerely didn't think she had ever known hurt like that. He left, saying nothing to anyone, and was nowhere to be seen, to be found, to be known.

She didn't think she would lose Thalia, too, when she held on to her sister with all her might and all her fear, and the girl had held on to her ever tighter. But when, by the lake and under the blue sky, they were talking about something she couldn't quite remember, the beat of silence didn't hint the words that would come out of Thalia's mouth the moment after.

"I'm not coming back to camp next year," Thalia told her, voice oddly blank and her eyes averting Annabeth's like they never did. Her tone didn't falter, though, and neither did her words; not a single word was stuttered, and she wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

But she must have, for Annabeth felt the world slow down, and she was pretty sure she could hear her own heartbeats.

"What?" Annabeth asked, and her voice was as small as she felt.

"My father is moving to another country. He asked me to go with him," Thalia supplied, still never daring to lift her head up. "We're leaving as soon as the summer is over."

It took Annabeth a second, a few minutes, for the words to sink in. Her heart seemed to be doing the same inside her chest.

"What?" it sounded more like a yelled whisper, like nails on a chalkboard — and the chalkboard in question was her soul, and it was shattering apart right in front of her eyes.

Thalia shrugged.

"He reached out to me a few days ago, saying he wanted to give it a chance for us to get along," she told Annabeth. And, damn it; she still couldn't look her in the eyes. "And I accepted it. But we're moving. So..." she shrugged again.

"But you love it here!" Annabeth argued.

"Yeah, but it's too far from where he’s moving to. Maybe there are camps there, too," she reasoned.

"But it's not here."

"No, it's not," Thalia said. "It'll be a new thing. A new beginning."

"And do you want one?"

"I might need one," she said. Annabeth swore that, if Thalia shrugged one more time, she would throw her friend inside the lake.

"But Thalia—" she tried, her voice trembling more and more since she began to speak and her tone a little more high-pitched.

Thalia was angry when she spoke again.

"I know how you feel, Annabeth, but I want my chance at a real family," she snapped, her eyes suddenly cold in a way they hadn't been since the morning they realized Luke was gone and wouldn't come back.

Annabeth stepped back, and Thalia didn't seem to notice. Her heart physically hurt inside her chest, and she repeatedly reminded herself that they were both kids — Thalia was growing up for the first time, too — and that her friend wasn't exactly wrong.

She had a chance at a real family, at something that wasn't merely circumstantial and make-believe and circled by a property's limit.

Annabeth didn't protest anymore. She didn't ask. She thanked the gods — and the Aphrodite cabin — for the Catch the Flag match, and pretended that the water on her face was from when Clarisse, from the Boar Cabin, pushed her into the ocean, and not from the conversation that played in repeat inside her head.

She went back to her father's house that summer. For the first time after two years of not seeing any of them — and Frederick tried to convince her that staying at camp was a good idea, that she loved it there, but there wasn't a real reason for her to really want to stay. Luke was gone, and now so was Thalia, and Grover didn't stay the whole year anymore. Her cabin mates would most stay, but she wasn't that close to them. Not to mention, the no technology rule would get in the way of talking to Thalia, of knowing how she was.

She did feel safe at camp, but not much in peace as she did before she wasn't alone.

And so, when she was back at the land of the living and being with internet access, she tried to make sure she could pick up Thalia's calls whenever she called, and her friend would do the same. It wasn't as easy, to be so far and so out of reach, connected by only literal connection that involved wires and phones and laptops and whatnots, but they would have to make do.

"How are things?" Annabeth asked when Thalia picked up on a Saturday evening, a few weeks after she had moved, and Thalia shrugged. It made something inside her itch, but Annabeth pretended it wasn't happening.

"The city is nice. We live in a mansion," she said. "Father is trying, I think. He's been asking things, and we have meals together. He even takes pictures of us," she told Annabeth, and the crease between her brows was something that would have gone unnoticed by probably anyone else in the world.

But Annabeth knew her, regardless. And she was perceptive, more than she wanted to.

"What aren't you telling me?" Annabeth asked, her voice soft as she knew it was a delicate topic she was getting into.

Her friend sighed.

"I think it's a competition for him," she told her, and Annabeth frowned. When asked what she meant, Thalia averted Annabeth's eyes. It was becoming a rather annoying habit of hers, to say the least. "My father has this thing— he wants to be the best in everything, especially compared to my uncles. And my uncle P has a child, a boy a bit younger than me. Your age, I think," she explained.

"And what does that have to do with anything?" Annabeth questioned, tilting her head. Thalia sighed, bothered at whatever thoughts were in her head.

"Well, my uncle lived in Greece most of the year, and came to the US a few times. My father lived in God knows where and was never here. Now, he came to get us," Thalia said. "And uncle P moved back a couple of years ago. My father didn't know his brother had a son," she told her, scoffing. "Which shows just how much he cares, because uncle can, would and will talk about his boy to whoever has ears. It's not a secret. At all. And father didn't know."

Annabeth nodded along, somehow already understanding what she meant and where the story was going.

"Well, uncle P is a rather present father. Overbearing, even, but it's sweet. The boy's mom doesn't mind, and surely my cousin doesn't seem to, either. Even my uncle's wife — who isn't my cousin's mom; are you following?" she asked, and Annabeth nodded. "And my older cousin are all over the kid. He endeared everyone."

"But not you?" Annabeth asked, and Thalia shrugged. Really. Annabeth could physically feel something bubbling in her chest at the gesture.

"I haven't met him. Didn't get the chance, and then father decided he wanted to be a father," she sighed. "But only after seeing my uncle and cousin, you know? He can't accept that he isn't a better father than both his brothers. Especially uncle P," she explained.

And Annabeth probably focused on the wrong part of her story.

"You have other cousins?"

Thalia blinked, as if the question got her off guard. Like she wasn’t expecting to have to answer that, as if it was something that Annabeth should know. Something she should’ve been told. Then, she nodded.

"Uhum," she said. "They're younger, though. Uncle H children, my eldest uncle," she explained. "Father also didn't know about them. He lost his shit entirely when he found out. Both his brothers told him to go fuck himself along with his little outburst and said that it's not their fault he is such a failure of a father that not even his children remember what is like to have a dad," Thalia told her. "Which, not a lie. But it set off the competitiveness to never stay behind. It freaks me out."

Again. Annabeth focused on the wrong thing, again.

"You have siblings?" she asked, and her voice had a tone she couldn't quite decipher herself. She hoped Thalia wouldn't catch up on it.

"A younger brother," she said simply. "Jason. He lived in California. Dad went after him, too," Thalia sighed. "And here we are."

Annabeth held her breath, trying to take in the information she believed she should have already known about someone she considered a sister. Trying to take in the feeling that creeped through her soul, her heart, her blood. And it wasn't uncommon, it wasn't a stranger in the room, after all — in the quiet moments of life, when the world outside seemed to hush to a whisper, Annabeth found herself wrestling with an all too familiar companion, something she wasn't proud to know so well. The fear of being left behind, in the end, was a shadow that trailed her footsteps, lurking in the corners of her mind, threatening to unravel the fragile tapestry of the family she thought she still had.

For Annabeth, the concept of family had always been a tangled web of broken promises and shattered dreams. Raised in a world where love was conditional and loyalty fleeting, she had learned to shield her heart from the pain of rejection. But, then, at camp, there was something different — Luke, and Thalia, and Grover, and so many other familiar and kind faces were something she believed to be a constant, to be something she would carry with her forever.

Instead, the fear seemed to be the one to follow that pattern.

It was a fear born of past wounds, of scars that refused to heal. As listening to Thalia reveal that she did have people, she did have a whole family outside of camp — which she should've been prepared to, after all, because she was smarter than she was naïve — she wasn't proud of the selfish, gnawing doubt that clawed at her heart. What if, she wondered, what if she was just a temporary guest in her life, easily replaced by someone with stronger, real, blood ties?

The thought haunted her, casting a shadow over even the brightest of days. She found herself withdrawing, retreating into the safety of her own solitude, afraid to voice the fears that chewed at her from within, refusing to let Thalia even suspect the ugly thoughts swirling inside her head. Or worse, letting Grover ever dream about the terrible things that crossed her mind as the pieces of news settled in her brain and were carefully placed to make sense.

As were her words, carefully placed not to raise any suspicions.

"I didn't know that," Annabeth said, her voice devoid of feelings in a way she didn't even know it could be. "You never told me."

Thalia shrugged. Annabeth didn't know why the nonchalance of the whole thing, in her demeanor and voice and eyes, hurt so much at the time.

"Didn't think it mattered," Thalia said. "Anyway, we're here now. And Father seems to be trying, so," she shrugged again.

Annabeth was tired. Tired of the nonchalance, of the distance, and of everything else that was taken from her — because none of it was choiceless on their part, and all the hearts that broke hers were still beating. Far, far away from hers.

She didn't ask anymore. She didn't try to know. She didn't want to. Instead, she smiled. And asked about school, about Jason, about the friend she had made in her new school. She tried not to cry, not to think about it, not to turn off the call.

Annabeth met Thalia the same night she met Luke. Her young heart couldn't help but feel like she started losing her the same night he left.

But she tried. To shorten the distance, to keep things the same, to show her just how much their friendship — their sisterhood — still, and forever, meant in her life.

She tried. To make regular calls, to ask her about her days, to show her just how much she cared about the sister the world gave her and pushed away.

She tried. To keep her feelings in check, to never let her anger show, to show her just the opposite of the very ugly feelings some topics would bubble in her heart.

She tried.

She tried.

She tries.

✉

"To those who went so far away,

There isn't much I could possibly say to ease the tightness of my chest whenever I think of you. There isn't enough I could write to make sure you know just how much it costs me to write anything at all, because talking to you isn't the easiest thing in the world anymore — as much as it pains me to confess, distance does take a toll on the brightest of relationships, and there is no denying, no avoiding, no pretending it doesn't.

You were never one too keen to sentiment, and I thought I was never one to eager about it, either. But I feel a lot — too much — and it breaks my reasons, my logics, my equation-like reality that is teared down inch by inch by the poetry that sneaked through my pores into my bloodstream. It pains me, it aches, it hurts; it's hellish, and the devilish thing about feeling is that the pain urges me to feel so much more about it.

I had always thought that my feelings for you wouldn't change, but they did; they do. Because one isn't made only of logic, and one isn't built only of feelings, and I never belied that I would be composed, too, of sentimentalism. It terrifies me, because the logical part of me sinks in the definition and my heart breaks as it sinks in.

I know you would ask, and I know that I would explain — sentimentalism is the empty expression of a pseudo-feeling. It's a way of filling the void caused by the absence of true feelings, and so as we gain the ability to experience feelings, we automatically become devoid of sentimentality — and so far, it has gone backwards. Like jumping and flying instead of falling and being so completely scared because it is not what was supposed to happen. Like sinking and breathing instead of drowning. Like loving you and not having you here to receive it.

It's a type of grief, I tend to believe. To have someone so out of reach, regardless of their still beating heart. To be so far from what was familiar, and constant, and there; I am mourning, and you are still alive. I am grieving, but you still know of my love. I am mourning, and the funeral I hold is for what we used to be.

It changed, and it hurts that I promised it wouldn't, but it did anyway. Because people — mostly — aren't problems, and feelings aren't equations I can find the right answer to. There isn't a right answer. There isn't anything I can do other than getting used to how things are now, because the depths of my soul believe their truthfulness and reality, but they aren't the same.

They are pseudo-feelings caused by the absence of you.

To those who went so far away, there isn't much I can possibly put in words. Missing you has no translations, it turns out.

But I'll wear my best clothes to the event of meeting you, and I promise to bring your favorite flowers. Maybe then I will bury a friend and learn to make another. I'm pretty sure I'll love every version of you, anyway.

Distantly,

Minerva."

✉

The first bad day Annabeth had on a trip came with silence.

They were in Geneva — Annabeth spent the train ride trying to convince Percy's playful conviction that no, Mia Thermopolis wasn't the princess and Julie Andrews wasn't the queen — and things were going as smoothly as they had been from the moment they had taken the first train out of Brussels. Peaceful, lightweight, and good.

But bad days seemed to care not about geography, and much, much less about her wishes.

It came with longing, with missing something. A vacant space in her chest that was so familiar, but was particularly shaped in the size of her best friend — because she could never stop considering her a sister, and the first and very best friend she had ever had in her life, and was so scared about losing. And Annabeth didn't really know what it was that brought the pain of losing someone again — maybe the Instagram stories of Jason with Thalia, perhaps the interactions in their group chat with every single person but her — but the non-speaking terms she was currently in with Thalia was taking a toll on her.

And the trip, which was the worst part.

Percy noticed, because of course he would, and Annabeth didn't have the strength to pretend that it wasn't affecting her, the distancing and the cold shoulder, especially when distance had always been between them and having it growing wider and larger even in the means they had found to shorten the space was something to tear apart an aching heart.

And so, because the ache was debilitating at best, that bad day, Annabeth hadn't gone out of their hotel room in Geneva and rather had stayed cocooned in the couch, mindlessly scrolling through every single social media app she had in her phone. Her fingers were desperate at some point, and there was an itching under her skin to absorb as much information as she could for the sole reason of not thinking about anything else.

It made her head pound, and she couldn’t find it in her to care much about it.

Percy had gone out to take a walk, something he would do everywhere, and she had, for the first time, refused to join him. Annabeth imagined that he had sensed that his presence was a bit overwhelming, the need of acting like normal around other people acting up on the edges of her lips as she tried, in vain, to pretend she was a little less terrible than what she actually felt. So, with a kiss to her forehead and a squeeze to her hand, he left her alone with her thoughts and silence, never daring to push more than she could take — never being anything less than the best person she could ever have by her side.

When the door closed, the emptiness rang in her ears.

It wasn't the best scenario, and far from the best thing she could do with her day when those feelings came to surface. Still, there was an immobility that came with it that left her without a choice, in the end; she could've wanted to walk you Percy as much as possible, and still she wouldn't have had the strength to follow him past the doorframe of the hotel room.

So, on the couch she sank, unaware of time and just how useless she was being even to her traveling purposes. Annabeth didn't absorb a single thing that passed through her screen, and didn't dare to produce the smallest of sounds in her solitude; she was fine with the echoing of her thoughts and the sounds from her phone, and there wasn't strength in her vocal chords, either, apparently.

She couldn't know how long it was since Percy left when something rang in her room, her laptop probably receiving a call. Annabeth frowned, and just sank deeper to the cushions, definitely not in the mood to get up and plaster a smile on her face for whoever it was that decided to call.

And she would happily have ignored it the whole day and never thought back to the missed call, really, she would.

If the caller wasn't insanely insistent.

Once, twice, three times. Four, five, and the sixth was the one that made her discomfort overflow enough to make her jump from her duvet cocoon and step heavily in the direction of the room, curses spilling from her mouth until the moment she took the laptop from the desk and turned it so she could see who was calling.

Then, she froze.

And her fingers worked alone to accept the call, which left her still motionless while staring at the face that grew impatient until the call connected completely, and the image wasn't just a terrible bunch of unrendered pixels.

She exhaled long, and blinked.

"Hi," Annabeth muttered.

Thalia stared at her, her face probably a mirror of her friend's.

"Hi," Thalia said. She cleared her throat. "Are you busy?"

The thing she most remembered about that day was the sharks, and the soft disliking of Athena to anything sea-related, apparently. It didn't stop Annabeth from walking around, always pulling her mother along, and asking questions and pointing fingers and laughing and smiling. She should've noticed that her mother didn't once berate her for her childish behavior. She should've noticed that Athena's eyes were cloudy and distant, and that the smile on her face whenever Annabeth squealed in delight was relieved.

Over what, Annabeth would only realize years down the line. That day, though, her mother took her to eat popcorn and bought her cheeseburgers without much of a question, though with a little frown. They walked together along the pier outside the aquarium, and Athena let Annabeth snap a picture with a woman dressed as a princess. She didn't stop the girl's rambling, and didn't try to correct her faulty English when the words were too complicated for her tongue to get it right.

That day, Annabeth's happiest so far, and by a mile, the girl had really thought that, somehow, her mother had come around and they would now be like the girls she saw on TV, those who had a best friend that also happened to be the person who called them 'daughter'.

She should've known better, because that was what her mother always told her whenever she was mistaken. She should've known better, because that smile on her mother's lips was never directed to Annabeth. She should've known better, because she knew her way around town, and she could recognize the streets that led to her father's house.

Athena had said that something important came up, and so Annabeth would have to stay with her father for now because the event didn't allow children. The woman placed the way-too-filled backpack beside Annabeth's confused frame — she should've known better because there were too many things inside that bag for only a while —, patted the top of Annabeth's head — she should've know because her mother's smile had never been that wide —, and rushed to the car, driving off before Helen could open the door and stare at the child that still stared at the street where her mother's car had been a second before.

She stayed in place until Helen's voice was too annoying, inquiring why she was there, where her mother was, and claiming that it wasn't the weekend for her to be there yet, reminding Earth and Skies that Frederick only had to take her in on the last weekend of the month.

She stayed in place until Helen all but led her inside the house, still complaining and yelling for Frederick to come down and see what that was about.

Then, she found the windowsill that would charm the hell of a dreamy child, and found out that she could stare at where her mother's car had vanished from there, as well.

She stayed by the windowsill as the summer breeze blew softly.

She stayed by the windowsill as the air cooled down and it was more comfortable to sit there and watch life happen outside.

She stayed as the green of the leaves swiftly turned orange, brown and yellow.

She stayed as the first snowflakes fell down from the heavy clouds.

She stayed as the mailman waved at her every morning, and as they built a genuine friendship through waves and smiles.

She stayed as her father forgot she was at the house, and her step-mother never asked a question about what she was doing and they left for a family trip.

She stayed as the nights fell, the days rose, the afternoons made the skies the most beautiful miscellaneous of purple, orange, pink and yellows.

She stayed as the clocks went by and her brain created the most absurd excuses as to why her mother hadn't come back yet.

She stayed as her step-mother looked at her as if she wanted her to be anywhere, probably gone with her mother, and not waiting by their windowsill.

She stayed as she realized that she'd wait forever for someone who said they weren't going anywhere.

She stayed.

She stayed.

She stays.

✉

"To those who said they would stay,

I know it's more complicated than I think, because it's about relationships. Even so, I still think it's too simple to have been left behind without any kind of resolution. Maybe it's your fault, maybe it's not; maybe it's not my fault. But I wish it was. It seems easier to resolve when it's like this.

Maybe I stopped in time, because I'm not sure I saw you pass me by. Maybe I lost you in time, and that's why you're no longer here. Maybe I got lost, and that's why I'm alone.

Maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Maybe it was, and we just weren't.

I confess that I'm still waiting for a message. I'm still waiting for things to go back to the way they were before, when I was blindly certain that the time we had would be longer. I'm still here because I'm afraid you'll turn up and I'll be gone.

Maybe that's my mistake.

Maybe turning up was going to be your mistake, but it's not. Because you never came back.

You were afraid I would leave and search. I stayed and hoped. And you left so easily in search of something that I didn't even have time to realize it would never be me.

Immutable,

Minerva."

✉

Athens was impeccable.

When her mother talked about her birthplace and namesake so many years ago, Annabeth would dream and daydream about summers spent learning more about buildings and architecture and trying to understand and memorize every myth from the stories she'd hear and read about. She'd ask enough questions to make her mother have a proud glint in her eyes for her kid's curiosity, and then take a notebook and try her best to draw whatever her mind would picture as the temples, the city, the legends.

Now, with much more knowledge about the subjects and the myths and the heroes, Annabeth saw the city with brand new eyes. Hers, this time, and with much more time to make her questions and find her answers — and, oddly enough, it didn't sting as much as she thought it would, to be there.

When they'd gotten out of the train a few moons before, Annabeth had hesitated.

Her feet faltered when taking the next step on Greek grounds, more than terrified about the memories, the fond ones she bore with care and melancholy, turning bitter and making the scars, the ones she spent so long taking care of, open up and leave her pain raw and exposed.

She didn't need that. She didn't want it.

And it was a risk she knew she was taking when they first agreed upon their next destination, both of them knowing well how much that place and the memories attached to it were something she held close to her chest, cherishing the moments she'd shared with her mother before she was nothing more than a bother to the woman. For Percy, it was a happy place, had always been — whenever his father spent a season in Greece, he'd come visit and take a break from the everyday routine. He'd often make video calls, and send pictures, and come back with his shoulders relaxed and a warm look on his face.

Annabeth couldn't help the smallest pang of jealousy coursing through her whenever that happened; and, at the same time, there wasn't a soul in the world who deserved more love than Percy. She loathed feeling that way, especially towards someone she loved so deeply, and felt often like the worst person to ever walk the world. It is human, Annabeth; Sally had told her one day she had caught the girl crying over the feeling she didn't want to feel, to wish and want things for yourself. It doesn't make you love him less. It doesn't mean you don't think he deserves it.

With time, she had learned to cherish the moments she'd had there, anyway — and resent the reasons why she couldn't have them anymore. The reason, perhaps. But she didn't want to live with the resenting anymore. She didn't want that pain to be forever stone-solid, to be one of the neve changing things about herself.

Still, she hesitated.

And Percy noticed, of course, because he had always been more perceptive than people give him credit for. Because he knew her like the back of his hand, and because there wasn't much she could possibly hide from him, after all, after so long learning and figuring each other out.

He stopped in his tracks a few steps ahead of her, and turned around with confusion written all over his expression. Then, one look at her and his face turned into a kind thing, a sweet understanding she was so used to seeing on him. Percy walked back towards her, and his eyes asked the questions she'd learned to read on them so long before — are you alright?, his silence asked.

Annabeth didn't know whether she nodded or shook her head. Maybe something in between.

"It’s just..." Annabeth started, and took a deep breath. "What if I ruin the good memories of this city?"

Percy took her hand, his fingers warm over hers.

"We won't be destroying any memories, Wise Girl," he said, and took her fingers close to his face, pressing a kiss over them. "We'll just be making more. Okay?" he asked, and Annabeth thought she'd nodded. She couldn't be sure. "And if you want to get the hell out of here, we'll just take the next bus, train, even next plane out. Promise," he squeezed her fingers, and Annabeth didn't take her eyes off of his.

She thought she could walk through the deepest depths of hell and survive as long as he kept looking at her like that. As if the stars were meant to shine just for her eyes. As if the clouds could never dim the light she had. As if there was nothing more important than the two of them, and the moment they were sharing right then, so far from everything they knew and so close to all they had memorized about each other.

She didn't falter another step after that.

While in Athens, they were staying in Percy's father's house — a beautiful, beautiful mansion that overlooked the ocean and definitely cost more than Annabeth's five years of college, considering transportation and food —, because Percy was already familiar with the place, the neighbourhood, and Annabeth was definitely a fan of exploring beautiful houses and beautiful sights. They'd taken a taxi there, because Mr. Stormer had also allowed them to use one of his cars, even though the two of them had plans of walking for the most part.

For the first night, both Percy and Annabeth were too exhausted to do anything other than choosing a bedroom and falling to the heavily soft mattress of their respective beds. It felt a lot like being in a palace and lying in a cloud, and she wasn't afraid to admit that it was a perfect way to go back to a place that she'd feared going back to for so long, for so many different reasons. Staying in a mansion, sleeping over clouds and sharing the experience with a nearly ethereal human being under her eyes.

And when they woke up, Percy was rubbing his eyes while sitting at the — huge, because, of course, a rich man would have staff to take care of his house — breakfast table. His smile was lazy and tired, as it always was on mornings, and bright while greeting her with a yawn and a question on how she had slept. She laughed at his face, completely sure that Percy had only left the cloud-like mattress because his moral compass told him to, and not because he wanted. They hadn't slept late, but she had also had her doubts about leaving the bed that morning.

Then, as she tried to choose between all the options over the table — there were far too many and she was far too bad at making choices, those days — and tried to think about what to do with the time they had there, Percy had given her a small envelope, a boyish grin dancing on his face and a shy glint to his eyes and rosy glow to his cheeks. He looked adorable, and Annabeth held back her tongue before she could say anything that her mind thought about it. She tilted her head, arching her brows, and Percy had merely shrugged and moved his chin to tell her to open it.

A ticket, she saw.

For a tour around Athens. A historical, architectural tour.

How, on God's good Earth, did he manage to find that?

"Only one?" she asked instead, taking the piece of paper in her hand and searching for a second one. Obviously, it wasn't there. She looked up at him.

Percy scratched the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Since I'm here, my dad asked me to do a few things for him. It'll take the greater part of the day, but it was the only date I could find a seat on this particular tour. I'm really sorry," he repeated, the worry in his eyes evident. She knew why, and could understand his reasons — but it was absurd, really, that he'd apologize as if she'd blame or be mad at him.

"That's a terrible habit, you know?" she said, now joking. The lightness in her tone made him visibly relax. "Apologizing for completely nonsensical things. Percy, this is amazing," she breathed, looking at the paper in her hand. "Thank you so much."

Percy's eyes were soft.

"Anything for you," he said, as if it was the simplest truth in the world.

Annabeth didn't give herself the chance to overthink his words and the look in his eyes as she got ready and he dropped her (with his father's very fancy car) where the bus — she loved being a tourist — would take them for the tour around the city. Afterwards, she was just too caught up in the history and the buildings and the feeling of being back, of being there, of feeling happy.

They'd visited the old city, the monuments and the statues and the plazas. Annabeth knew the history and the myths behind it all, for it had been a fixation of hers for long, long years — and one that would come back every so often —, but it was nice to listen to someone else telling the stories, explaining the facts, teaching her again. It didn't bother her, to hear once more what she already knows, and it made her feel a little more like it was a new thing to discover.

She was young, the last time she'd been there, and she'd seen and heard the town through her mother's voice, her eyes and opinions. Annabeth was thrilled to be back with her own mind, her own sight, her own perspectives; she was more than glad to be capable of feeling new things, and connecting new moments to the melancholic, nostalgic places in her head.

By the end of the day-long tour, splitted among visiting monuments, lunch, browsing commercial streets and taking breaks so they could wander around, Annabeth's phone was nearly crashing with the amount of pictures and videos. Percy's and Grover's chats were filled with excited audios from all three of them and badly framed videos of her at the Parthenon, Zeus' temple, Poseidon's ruins, as well as stupid pictures of random things she'd seen on the streets, stores and around.

Her muscles were sore as she took a taxi back to Mr. Stormer's mansion, and Annabeth couldn't take the smile off her face. She was exhausted, desperately needed a shower and to just crash on the bed, but she hadn't felt so light in a long, long time when thinking about the place she was.

"Percy!" she called, stepping inside the huge house, and closing the door behind her, a smile from ear to ear. "You won't believe how amazing this place can be! And the history, oh, my God!" she laughed, dropping her backpack by the door, side by side with his shoes and the ones she'd just taken off. "I didn't remember just how much I loved this city, I swear," she laughed.

She walked inside, unused to the massiveness of the mansion, and looked around, searching for her best friend. As the night fell, the staff had probably already gone home, and the place was eerily quiet, only the sound of the waves far below and the trees in the garden.

"Percy?" she called again, her eyes roaming the details on the ceiling. It was easy to get distracted in such a huge place, especially if the building had intricate details and seemed to want to morph into the historical part of the town — it was modern just until some point, and then everything led back to those old times of temples and marble and greatness.

"Dining room!" she heard him screaming back, and chuckled to herself.

Making her way to where his voice had come from, Annabeth braced herself to be marvelled again by the salon where they had had breakfast in the morning. It was wide, impossibly so, with broad windows and glass panels so carefully put and designed it made her break her beliefs that rich people loved to live in aquarium-resembling places. The floors were made of wood, and Greek columns corroborated to the greatness of the room, the sight of the unending ocean out the window making it the closest place she'd ever been to a palace.

And as she came in, Annabeth could've expected anything.

But not what she found.

The curtains were open, and the sea was calm and silver under the moonlight. The table, large and long, was arranged with flowers and fairy lights and candles. The whole place was dim-lit, and Percy stood close to the double doors she'd just walked through.

She swept her eyes over the room again, and then looked at Percy, who stared at her. He had a mischievous grin on his face, that side smile that was so lovely and sincere. And usually meant trouble.

"So," was the first thing he said, taking a bouquet of blue flowers from where he hid it behind his back and handing it to her. Annabeth tilted her head, taking the flowers slowly. Before she could pronounce the question on her lips, Percy spoke again. "It's Valentine's Day," he explained, as if it made her confusion any better.

It didn't.

She needed to firm her stance in place not to fall backwards when he stepped out of his bedroom, and she really needed to remember to breathe whenever she stole a glance at him.

"You—" she tried, and her brain failed her mouth. "Holy shit."

"Yeah," he said, his face mirroring hers as he took her in. "Same."

Together, they made quite the pair — Annabeth's modern attire that she, honestly, could swear would work for a ball if she walked with enough confidence, complementing Percy's timeless sophistication was definitely a sight to behold. She knew that the image she saw in the mirror wasn't hard on the eyes, and Percy was simply stunning to look at anyway. As they entered the restaurant arm in arm, she pretended not to notice the glances in their direction, and even less the ones the receptionist was casting at Percy.

It wasn't the place, it wasn't her place, and she was more than happy to just step closer to him.

The restaurant itself was a symphony of luxury, from the gleaming crystal chandeliers that cast a soft, golden glow over the room to the sumptuous velvet drapes that adorned the walls. Soft music floated through the air, mingling with the gentle murmur of conversation as diners savored the anticipation of a gastronomic delight — or so the website said, she learned when Percy was reading it aloud in their way there, nearly tripping in his shoes and using her for support.

They were guided to their table by the impeccably dressed lady that couldn't keep her eyes off of Percy, the two of them took in the breathtaking view of Lake Geneva from their window-side seats. The shimmering waters stretched out before them, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, casting a spell of tranquility over the bustling city below.

Annabeth could definitely get more than comfortable with living like a millionaire.

As they settled into their chairs, she couldn't help but marvel at the exquisite table settings, each one a masterpiece of fine china and delicate silverware. A sense of anticipation hung in the air as they perused the menu, each dish a tantalizing work of art she couldn't wait to order, and Percy even less. He was giddy in his seat and his leg wouldn't stop bouncing, forever hungry and always anxious when it came to food.

Their waiter approached with practiced grace, presenting them with a selection of fine wines to complement their meal. None of them knew how the combinations worked, and Percy decided to completely believe in whatever it was that the waiter was recommending. With a nod of approval, they made their choices, the anticipation of the evening's events — and servings —building with each passing moment.

As the first course arrived, Annabeth and Percy found themselves staring at the waiter in a less than polite manner. The man was kind enough to just smile at them, probably sensing their eagerness — and Percy's happiness, splattered all over his face — and cordially put the dishes in front of them.

Percy's face was comic when staring at the plate placed in front of him. Annabeth snorted, pressing her lips together, already knowing what was coming.

"Wise Girl?" he called.

"Yes?"

"Are we paying small fortunes for this?" he tilted his head slightly, his eyes glued to the plate, still, and he looked so desperately adorable that Annabeth felt like screaming. Damn baby seal eyes. Damned Percy Jackson.

"We are," she told him.

He blinked. Then, he looked up at her.

"We're being robbed," he said.

She snorted. Again. Like the lovesick fool she had accepted she was so many years before.

"Try it before you disregard it completely, Seaweed Brain," she told him, biting her tongue and trying not to smile too manically. "It won't bite you."

"Considering the price? I want it to come alive, actually," he murmured, taking his fork and touching the dish — to which Annabeth did not know the name, actually, and she purely trusted the waiter — with much less enthusiasm than he had just a minute before. "Really?"

Annabeth chuckled.

"Percy?" she called.

He hummed, still staring at his plate.

"Try it."

He pouted for just a second, and then dared to split the dish with his fork. He hesitated for a second, and Annabeth's stare challenged him to put it in his mouth. Percy closed his eyes, much like a kid would do, and accepted his fate — they would have to pay for it, anyway, so he might as well try it —, chewing slowly and changing his posture as the flavor caught up to him.

He hummed, then opened his eyes, then widened them as he looked back and forth from the plate to the woman in front of him.

"I can live with being robbed," Percy said, not swallowing his food before speaking, and Annabeth snorted at the sight. His voice was a mix of wonder and indignance — surely because he deemed it worth the price — and it was just a way-too-funny scene to keep a straight face. "Is it too unfancy to order the same thing again?"

"Don't you want to try something different?" she suggested. "We do have your father's card, you know. And a whole menu."

"But this is so good," he said, taking another portion towards his mouth. She pressed her lips together again and could completely understand both Poseidon's and Tristan's reasoning that he had mentioned before. "What if something else isn't this good?"

She smiled at him.

"But what if it's better?" she challenged, and Percy tilted his head, food still in his mouth, and smiled close-mouthed. The sparkle in his eyes meant something she couldn't translate, and Annabeth chose to completely ignore it for now. "You could just order it again, in that case. I know for a fact that it'll take far more than one portion for you to not leave hungry."

Percy swallowed.

"But is it unfancy?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Percy, we both know you won't hold up your fanciness for long unless it is a life-and-death situation. Besides, you're paying," she said. "That's plenty fancy."

"But won't that make you look unfancy?" he asked, and, at that point, it was clear he was only messing with her. She saw no problem with going along.

"Do I look like someone exceptionally fancy to you, Jackson?" she shot.

His eyes sparkled again. She wanted to bottle the sight and keep her in her t-shirt pocket, so it was forever close to her beating heart.

"I do fancy you a lot, Chase," he said, the teasing in his tone making her heart race and jump and leap and rush inside her chest as if it didn't need to keep a certain rhythm not to kill a human being. "And, yes, you're looking exceptionally fancy tonight."

She tried to keep her tone leveled and mirror the teasing in his.

"Exceptionally tonight? Why? Do I not look fancy enough for you to fancy me any other day, Seaweed Brain?"

He blinked, and she could almost swear his cheeks glowed pink. Almost, because the dim light made her denial thrive in silence.

"I'd love to carry this on, but I don't think the word 'fancy' makes any sense to me anymore," he told her. "But then it means that I can order more, and it would still be fancy?"

Annabeth rolled her eyes.

"As if I'd ever keep you from doing anything that makes you happy," she told him.

And Percy ordered it again. Along with at least four other dishes that seemed incredibly good — and of which Annabeth would always steal some to try. Percy was more than happy to pretend to be bothered, and she was more than thrilled to watch the scrunching of his nose and to have him, as the adult Sally swore to her that he was, showing his tongue like he did to Estelle.

The silence that fell was comfortable, Percy lost in the dishes and Annabeth a bit lost in thought and processing the events of the day. Usually, talking to Thalia would leave her carefree and unworried, and the talk earlier that day had left her collected and a bit pierced back together. It was better, she thought, because the awkwardness that would usually ring in her ears and make her rethink each of her sentences and stories wasn't there, that night.

It left her a bit reflexive, to have started to place everything back where it belonged between the two of them — even the places that collected dust because they didn't want to believe those were where the pieces were supposed to go —, and it left her with a thankfulness so light and so warm that she hoped the feeling would linger just a little longer.

"Percy?" she called, and Percy stopped his fork midair from his mouth, lifting his gaze to meet her face when she broke the silence. "Thank you for talking to Thalia."

He slowly placed the fork, still with the food, back down and nodded carefully. He was measuring his words, something he had gotten fairly better at from when they were kids, as if he was a bit scared of what he would learn from that conversation. He wasn't in the room when Thalia called, and he hadn't asked when she smiled, eyes a bit rimmed, as he came back and greeted her gently.

"I'm glad you two worked it out. And I knew she would come around eventually, anyway, but I also know how thick-headed she can be. The whole thing was eating you up inside, and I'm pretty sure it was doing the same thing to her," Percy justified, even if he didn't need to. "So, I'm not sorry for the meddling, but I apologize if I did step on your toes."

Annabeth shook her head.

"If I can't keep thanking you for everything, then you'll have to stop apologizing," she said. "I'm glad you meddled. None of us would have reached out and talked it out like the civilized people we are supposed to be, otherwise. We're both too stubborn for that."

"Glad I could help," he said, bowing his head slightly and smiling. "And how are the two of you, now?"

Annabeth sighed softly and smiled, her expression still a bit tight. Things were better, but they weren't exactly completely fixed. And that would take time, she knew, but it didn't mean she was exactly happy about that.

"It's different," she said. "It changed after she moved away. None of us wanted to admit that things would change, and maybe that's because it turned out to be so hard. We tried to keep things as they were, but the circumstances called for adaptation. One moment we were close as sisters, and the next time I looked, we were close as strangers," Annabeth admitted, and it sent a wave of pain to her heart. "It didn't help that we denied it all so vehemently."

And she wondered, so often, if things would have been different if they had accepted that they would change, had they wanted them to or not. She wondered if the silences would be more comfortable, or if the doubts would be as frequent as they were, had they not believed that they held more power over changes than life itself.

It haunted her nights, her dreams, to think about it. It left another vacant space in her heart, and Annabeth was far too smart to ever believe it wasn't a dangerous thing.

"I'm sure you've noticed we're both way too prideful. A fatal flaw, or something along those lines," she told him. "And we didn't want to believe that things were changing again. Changing too much. And that there would be someone else so out of our reach," she told him, sighing.

"Was it always like that after she moved?" Percy asked.

"It was like a snowball that slowly became an avalanche. I thought I was too smart to let distance win, and she was too strong to understand that feelings could be weakened and still be real. It was like a punch to the gut," she explained. "Especially because, at the time, I didn't have anyone else. Luke had already left, and Thalia was leaving too."

It had been something else to haunt her, when it happened, that she was being left alone, left behind for something bigger than what she thought they had. Luke was still a bleeding wound when Thalia left, and she didn't think the scar would be even something she could hide once she healed — because she needed to heal, and there wasn't a single other option out of it.

Percy hummed, acknowledging her words.

"Luke," Percy said slowly, as if he was scared that the name would make Annabeth recoil, bolt from their conversation and from the restaurant itself. "You never talk about him."

And that was one of the things she had never thought would come to the surface when she first found those letters, when she stepped on that plane.

There were a lot of times, in the years since they've met each other, that Annabeth knew Percy was curious about Luke. It was a name that, overall, meant nothing to him — only what Grover had probably told him, maybe one thing or two Thalia had mentioned off-handedly, definitely nothing that came from Annabeth's mouth or mind or past. It was just someone Percy knew once existed and played a part in his friends' and cousin's lives, just to be gone, permanently, later on and before he could have possibly gotten the chance to meet.

Percy not knowing Luke was something Annabeth was thankful for, to an extent.

Percy not knowing Luke was something Annabeth was pissed about, to another, because it meant that, if they were to talk about him, then the memories and the talking and the perception would always come from her point of view.

It made her stomach twist inside her. And not in the way Percy would make it happen every time he looked or smiled or directed his words at her.

"Thalia and Grover never told you about him?" she asked, and she knew that Percy wouldn't buy her less than subtle change of subject.

"Thalia may have spat his name once or twice throughout our lives," Percy told her. "And Grover was pretty vague about it. He only told me Luke was an old friend of yours," he gestured his hand towards her. "But his name definitely means more to you than to any of them."

Annabeth swallowed; a bit taken aback. Again, the perceptiveness Percy would often pretend not to have would come out when she wished the most it wouldn't. She averted his eyes, and bit her tongue inside her mouth.

Truth be told, she knew talking to Percy was safe, and it would most likely lift a weight off her shoulders. Annabeth was sure that there wasn't an ounce of judgment in his curiosity, and there was only genuine worry that came not only from his love for her, but also for Grover and Thalia, who had probably let on that whoever Luke was had scarred them deeply. She knew that he wanted to know Luke through her eyes to understand more about her past, her scars, the letters; she knew all of that.

And still, she hesitated.

Not because it lacked trust, but because it still hurt to talk about him. About the person she knew and loved and did her best to keep buried deep in her past so he wouldn't haunt her anymore — but he did come back, so very often, more than it should. More than she'd like to remember, more than she'd like to know, more than she'd like to live with; Luke was a permanent fixture in the person she became, and Annabeth couldn't run away from that, too.

And she didn't want to run away from Percy, not because of Luke, not because of the past, not because of anything at all. Because Percy was there, and she could believe that he would stay — after so long and so much they had gone through, there was no other thing she could possibly believe in.

So, she closed her eyes for a second, and took a deep breath. Percy waited patiently, his gaze soft as it caressed her face, and she turned her head back towards him, still never daring to meet the blue of his eyes.

"He was like a brother to me," she told him in a breath. "We met when I ran away from my father's house at seven. It was cold, and I was alone, and all I had was a dull knife and a backpack filled with everything I could shove inside," she said, despite knowing Percy already knew about the night she fled from where she lived. Not home, of course, because it had never felt like that. "He was kind. The first person in so, so long. He looked at me and saw me, and didn't seem to judge my situation, my fear, my choices."

And that's how it had been, that fatidic night she now dreaded to remember. She met a family when she ran from those who were supposed to play that part in her life, and now it ached to not have the certainty that said family was still something she could hold on to. Thalia was so far away; she had left Grover in the dark and Luke was dead to the world — and not only metaphorically.