— *✰ ۫ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ɴ ʀᴏʟʟ ʙᴀʙʏ

CLOSED STARTER ! late morning in the dining pavilion, with @xanderlennox.

—  QUESTS  ALWAYS  HAVE  ALICIA'S  EVERY  LAST  NERVE  standing  on  end,  buzzing  in  a  way  that  only  the  promise  of  danger  and  possible  failure  could.  some  would  perhaps  enjoy  the  adrenaline,  thrive  in  the  potential  for  glory  ( or  chaos ).  she  much  preferred  her  quiet  camp  life,  not  exactly  free  of  monsters  and  danger,  but  more  controlled  —  more  their  speed.  the  concern  for  the  others  going,  more  than  herself,  bleeds  through  their  morning,  like  a  fresh  coffee  stain,  spreading  the  more  time  they  had  to  think. 

the  group  in  search  of  lachesis  in  particular  sparked  her  concern.  not  one,  but two  children  of  dionysus  —  alicia  felt  the  worry  was  validated  by  that  alone,  though  they  had  more  faith  in  bunny  than  most.  

"i'm  a  little  surprised  they're  sending you  to  miami,"  their  cadence  is  light,  teasing,  an  attempt  to  paint  over  the  trepidation  she  felt  for  that  particular  group.  "has  chiron  lost  his  mind  or  did  you  bribe  them?"

and he is no grecian hero, he knows, with his worn leather jackets and shit-eating grins. unlike alexander, he'd never be able to command an army or conquer faraway lands. but, unlike alexander, for whom he was named by his careless mother, he hopes that destiny will allow him to live past 33. no, he has no eagerness to be a hero. it's just responsibility, misery, and death.

so he envisions his quest to go much the opposite ( irresponsibility, happiness, and life ! ). "hey, no chiron disrespect here please. we don't stand for that." it seems his ever-present disregard for authority has conveniently been rescinded. "he's in charge for a reason. he must know what he's doing. i mean, i don't know what he's doing, either — i'm as surprised as you are, but i'm sure he does." he regards them for a moment, before asking : "how do you feel?"

A NOISE OF AFFRONT escapes her. she's no board, but she's no ancient bust of aphrodite either: all curves and softness. still, his words don't wound. he hadn't thought she was flat when he was whispering sweet nothings into her ear. there are plenty of places where they're both lacking: she refrains from making a jab that maybe he's overcompensating with this argument. it would only serve to make him laugh — they both can tell when the other is lying. " and you wrote it wrong, " she informs him with all of the civility that she can muster. since she hasn't yet pictured kicking him off the deck, that number remains steady: almost high. with her pen, she changes the note in the arrangement, satisfied that he'd given in but not willing to let it go yet. " how's susan ? " she knows jealousy well. an old friend, especially where xander was concerned. she was still miffed from the last woman driven mad by him. temporary insanity was the only reason to hang around xander lennox. yet here she remained. she looks away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. " the ending's shit too. aren't we meant to be singing this together ? feels like i'm getting the short end of the stick. " and just to be an ass, her gaze wanders down, pointed.

  as  he  watches  her  scratch  a  sharp  onto the score  from  where  he's  sat  on  the  floor,  legs  outstretched,  guitar  resting  on  his  thigh,  xander  feels  his  heart  dive.  this  feels  undoubtedly,  grossly,  earthshatteringly  wrong.  he  holds  a  hand  out  in  front  of  her  as  if  to  block  her  —  “no,  wait.  i  like  the  c.  i  feel  spiritually  connected  to  it.”  —  but  it's  too  late.  "you're  crushing  my  soul,  here,  wei."

  “who,  sloppy  susan? you remember her?”  he  asks.  “she's so  good.”  he's  searching  for  a  reaction,  almost  hungrily,  and  then,  "a  little  crazy, but  the  best  ones  are."  her  blatant  look  at him only  serves  to  make  xander  laugh.  "are  you  kidding?  your  part  is  my  favourite."  in  every  song  he's  ever  written,  her  part  is  always his  favourite. 

His toes wiggled in the net of threading he had wrapping them in for the sake of trying not to leave footprints. It was a good idea when he was high, but proved to be aimless when the weight of his presence was still buried into the soft dirt.

"You've got to be tripping, man," Homer said, peeling his body off the side of the cabin using every focus and every thought of his being. In Homer's defense, he was wearing more clothes than usual when he was notorious for his silk kimono and tattered jeans. "And it sounds like a bad one if you're just seeing dicks all around."

  “i  am.  i’m  tripping  balls  right  now,”  he  admitted  with  a  grin.  “would  that  be  bad?  i  don’t  know.  seeing  dicks  everywhere  sounds  like  a  good  trip  to  me.”  a  lie  that  fell  from  his  lips  as  truth,  and  he  knew  from  experience  ;  the  son  of  a  god  of  fertility,  xander  had  invariably  come  across  more  than  his  fair  share  of  giant  assorted  genitalia  speaking  to  him  through  dreams.  he  gave  them  good  advice. 

as campers pass by, intent on restoring camp half - blood to her great, magical glory, xander falls into the seat beside bunny and the dionysus cabin settles into an often - seen and expected bout of laziness. she produces the lighter, and after lighting her own, hands it to xander with a sigh. "oh, dad's grouchy? groundbreaking," she mutters with a ( more dramatic than necessary ) eye roll . "more at eleven." bunny's eyes drift over to xander, sending a sidelong glance at him. one cannot choose their siblings, particularly not their godly ones ( who are as varied and different as the strawberries growing in the fields or grapes on a vine, for example ), and frequently, bunny finds herself alongside xander — or any one of her other siblings, thandi who always arrives in a cloud of smoke, or simon who talks to the vines on the outside of their cabin, — and wonders if she would choose the people she has if she had the choice. the arguments are that, one. their aesthetics and life philosophies often don't line up, and two. their likenesses are too great to ignore ( and also, even if they're an odd, annoying bunch, there is this sense of loyalty that's, unfortunately, embedded into her bones ). bunny sways between yes and no ( and somehow, always lands on yes, she would choose them ). "but, okay," she starts, shifting in her seat to get comfortable. "what did he say? dad? did he just send you away?" bunny crosses her ankles and tilts her head back, closing her eyes. "or, was that mr. g? no, mr. a?"

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

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

  and  it  was  a  good  thing  he'd received  the  message,  too,  because  xander  happened  upon  a  distressed-looking  homer  lurking  under  cabin  12's  window.  "what  the  fuck  are  you  doing,  you  fuckin'  creep?  didn't  peg  you  for  a  peeping  tom.  are  you  high?"  there  was  no  need  for  the  question;  he  could  feel  that  he  was.  "must  be  some  drug  if  it's  made  you  think  i'd  be  okay  with  you  here  with  your  cock  out  looking  in  at  my  fucking  siblings.  i'll  fuck  you  up." 

location: the big house, porch .

she would liken him to the sun, if she were feeling poetic. from far away, he was radiant and dazzling. it was true that absence made the heart grow fonder. and in the precious space of piper's memories, it was easier to think of all the good: rays on skin, smiles on faces, songs scrawled on paper. most days and nights were the same until they drew together in proximity. when he was close, he was maddening and scorching and piper remembered everything that she disliked about the sun. in their travels, they intersected: a show in some dive bar here, a stage in front of crowds of screaming people somewhere there, and now once again, as they always did — in camp half blood. and as it often does when they're together: discord begins. annoyance flickers over her face; piper moves her foot from where it had been touching his out of sheer pettiness. " you're flat, " she informs him, her intonation much the same as her accusation. she gestures to the guitar in his hand... she'd thought he knew how to use it. " why don't we try pitching it up a key ? " they used to work so well together: what had changed ?

  there's  nothing  he  dislikes  about  wine.

  even  now,  as  he  senses  they're  about  to  descend  into  their  typical  brand  of  fruitless  argument,  he's  marvelling  at  the  way  the  light  pours  over  her.  he  is  aware,  of  course,  that  she's  insulting  him,  but  piper  hasn't  quite  gotten  into  his  veins  yet.

  when  she's  finished  complaining,  xander's  eyes  rove  pointedly  over  her  figure,  up  and  down.  "i'm  flat?"  he  says.  "i  literally  wrote  this  —  the  key  it's  in  is  fine.  it's  supposed  to  sound  a  little  off.  it's  about  jealousy,  and  you  know  when  you're...  or  maybe  you  don't  know.  in  the  moment,  it's  like  everything's  discordant.  that's  what  i'm  trying  to  do  with  the  whole  fuckin'  thing.  there's  gonna  be  a  key  change,  and ..."  he  pauses.  "yeah.  maybe  we  can  try  pitching  it  up." 

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏∗  the camp busies herself with the strenuous task of piecing her bits back together, and bunny does very little to help. a spare weapon tossed in the right direction, and a demigod turned around toward the forest ( because that's where they belong, but bunny does bite her tongue ), and only because they're on her path ( an early path, a trip to the big house and back, mostly empty handed ). everyone today seems to have questions, but nobody has answers —  not that bunny would bother asking any of the other campers for answers, but demigods talk at a certain volume, one that makes for good listening. her glasses hang on the front of her shirt, perpetually unworn, while she twiddles her thumbs, seated in a lounging deck chair on the dionysus cabin. it makes for a perfect view of camp, and all her moving parts. bunny says, to a passing demigod, reaching into her pocket for a silver lighter ( and a pack of cigarettes, to share, of course ), "say, have you seen mr. d? i figured he'd want to play some pinochle after that debacle." a lie, and not a very concrete one.

and  the  ailment  must  be  genetic,  because  dionysus  is  suffering  from  the  same  thing.  the  god  has  been  inside  for  much  of  the  morning;  his  son  sought  him  out  initially  to  help  dissect  a  particularly  intense  dream  he  had  last  night,  but  has  since  been  roped  into  getting  him  a  drink.  typical.  he's  presently  returning  to  cabin  12  to  carry  out  this  little  quest  that  he  conveniently  plans  on  forgetting.  "oh  yeah.  i've  seen  mr.  d,  mr.  g,  mr.  a,  mr.  f.  they're  all  here  today,"  he  says,  swiping  a  cigarette  from  the  box  that  bunny  has  yet  barely  retrieved,  falling  onto  the  chair  beside  her.  "thank  you.  i  need  one  of  these.  you  have  a  lighter?  he's  — "  he  waits  for  the  light,  the  cigarette  at  his  lips,  "— so  grouchy  right  now.  stay  away."