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Percy Jackson hates people.
Okay, maybe that isn’t completely true. He doesn’t hate people. It’s just—
*
The first time Percy meets Rachel, she throws up over the only pair of shoes he owns.
It’s a cold day. Not the coldest, not like knee-deep snow and frozen limbs, but the icy wind makes every breath harsher, every street lonelier, every edge sharper. Percy isn’t bothered, or so he tells himself.
It’s not like his jeans are two inches too short to protect his skin from the freezing air. It’s not like he’s grown out of his coat a year ago and never had the chance to replace it. (Though the smile of the little boy he gave it to almost makes painful trembling worth it.) It’s not like he might freeze to death or suffer from hypothermia — or worse, get picked up by the cops.
Percy is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s not even that cold, really.
“Gosh, it’s f-fucking freezing!” A voice spits from straight ahead of him, causing Percy to jump in surprise.
Before he has the chance to run away, to flee, to panic — because oh my god, what if someone recognises him, what if someone asks questions he doesn’t know the answer of, whatifhehastogoback — a girl stomps around the corner.
She’s small and has wild, curly hair that makes Percy think of determined and quirky and stubborn. He relaxes a little — because she’s smaller than he is and Percy knows that doesn’t mean anything, but it makes him feel better, safer, anyways — and who knows, maybe, for once in his life, the gods are on his side.
They aren’t.
Of course not. Because the moment Percy dares to think something like that, something positive, something hopeful, the girl stumbles.
It’s not even a big deal, she catches herself a moment later and keeps on ranting about the insane drop in temperatures over the last three days — and Percy has to agree with her, although he pretends he doesn’t — but.
It forces Percy to realise that, no, the girl isn’t stomping, not at all. She’s staggering, weaving from side to side like the mast of a ship on the stormy sea, and damn it, Percy should have seen the signs.
He should have noticed the way her foot steps are too heavy for a girl her size, uncoordinated and out of practice, how she drawls out the vowels in every word with a breathless giggle, how she tips her head too far to the left and almost falls again.
Percy knows these signs, has seen them all before. But he’s been distracted by how warm and thick her long winter coat is, by the leather boots that look like they’ve never touched the ground. And when she trips again, over those shiny, new boots, he doesn’t think, only acts.
He barely manages to catch the girl by her shoulders before she topples over, sagging heavily into his grip.
“Cold,” she whines like a small child, clinging to her mother’s leg.
Percy feels something strange, something akin to worry for this stranger, who doesn’t seem to notice his presence, even though he’s the only thing keeping her upright and their faces are so close that he can make out the bright green colour of her eyes.
Their faces are so close that the heavy stench of alcohol hits him like a fist into the stomach, presses the air out of his longs and leaves him helplessly gasping for the air his body apparently has forgotten it needs.
The girl’s breathing sounds ragged, painful. Not like she’s chocking, more like the air is so cold her throat instinctively fights it, and then her head tips forward, lolling weakly, as though she’s lost all control over her body.
He doesn’t ask where she’s coming from, what her name is and why she mumbles ‘that fucktard Connor’ almost as often as she complains about the freezing cold. He doesn’t wonder how a girl that doesn’t look a day over fourteen got alcohol — cheep, smelly, disgusting alcohol — in the first place. He doesn’t even remember to get the hell out of this place, wherever he currently is, because interacting with other people never ends well for him.
(And contrary to what most people believe it’s not just other guys he has to watch out for. Nancy Bobofit in sixth grade was proof of that.)
Because Percy is too busy not remembering the way glass sounds when its thrown against a wall. He’s desperately trying not to see the flash of dark liquid, coloured in a shade that’s almost like velvet paint, as bitter as red wine. His hands twitch, unconsciously trying to shield his ears from a sound only he can hear—a foul laugh that haunts him, metal crashing, skin ripping, pain, disorientation, crash Don’tleavemepleasewakeupagain—
The girl retches.
A sharp, disgusting sound that breaks through Percy’s daze, thankfully. She’s sick all over his worn-down sneakers, which is frankly disgusting, and he has no idea why he still doesn’t push her away. Instead she hangs limply in his arms like a discarded rag doll, her face pale and sweaty, her body trembling.
She’s beautiful, Percy thinks. And it’s such a silly thought to have when a stranger has just ruined the only shoes you own, when the tips of your fingers start to go numb in the icy breeze and you still don’t know how you’ll make it through the night, never mind the next week. He refuses to take it back though.
It’s not enough to keep him from searching her pockets for her wallet—the girl’s name is Rachel Elizabeth Dare and he thinks it’s the perfect name for a girl with cuss words on her tongue and the most stubborn hair he’s ever seen—but when they reach her address a couple of minutes later, he slips it back into her too small purse and makes her promise to drink three glasses of water before she goes to bed.
The next day Percy buys himself new shoes and a worn-down jacket.
(And if Rachel notices the missing fifty bucks in her wallet—knowing Rachel there is no way she hasn’t noticed — she never mentions it.)
*
The first time Percy meets Jason, he gets thrown into jail.
It doesn’t come as much as a surprise as it probably should have — the getting thrown into jail part at least. Maybe all those times people have told him that he’s a good for nothing waste of space have taken their toll on him after all. Or maybe he’s just been expecting this because Percy is a terrible pickpocket and he was bound to get caught eventually.
What Percy hasn’t expected is that he might actually like prison. Sure, the guards keep yelling at him in Italian — they could swear their undying loyalty to him and crown him the worldwide emperor of every blue candy for all he knows, although it’s not very probable — and the cell door is locked — Percy absolutely despises the feeling of being imprisoned —, but all in all it’s really not as bad as the movies always made it out to be.
He has a bed, for one. It’s small and the mattress is ridiculously thin, but he doesn’t give a shit because — because Percy can’t remember the last time he had a bed to call his own. The roof and the walls are also appreciated for the warmth and shelter they offer. And, of course, there’s the food.
They actually give him food.
Percy almost doesn’t care about the locked door.
(He almost forgives the asshole who’s gotten him into this mess in the first place.)
Because that’s the other thing Percy hasn’t seen coming: Not only does he have no clue how to get out of here again without being shipped back home or dropped into the system, he’s also completely innocent.
Well, for the most part.
Not that it’s Percy’s fault that some fucked-up bastard with an even more fucked-up inferiority complex had decided that forcing himself on a woman is a great coping mechanism. Clenching his hands in anger Percy can’t help but remember that, no, it wasn’t even a woman, it was a girl. A child.
And just because she had the tattoo of a crossed sword and a spear on her ankle she apparently counted as ‘available’.
To be honest, Percy desperately wishes he had been the one to beat that wannabe-rapist up. But no, the universe couldn’t even allow him that small sense of satisfaction. Instead another guy intervened before Percy had the chance to utter more than a furious ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?!’.
The young man had golden hair and eyes so bright, Percy could see lightening rage inside them. Next to the wannabe-rapist and his cheering cronies the stranger looked tall and broad, not so much through muscles or body weight but through an unshaken confidence that made his every movement appear all the more dangerous. Deadly.
And then one of the wannabe-rapist’s worthless friends had had the gall to pull out a knife.
Even now, looking back on it, Percy can’t remember what exactly it was about that guy that made him snap. Maybe it was the cowardice of pulling a weapon in a fist fight of one against four. Maybe it was the smug, malicious grin the guy had been wearing, like he was proud of himself, like he was looking forward to hurting the blonde.
(Maybe it was because he looked so much like a fat, smelly man Percy once used to know.)
Suffice to say that Percy snapped and that taking some kid’s skateboard doesn’t feel half as bad when you use it to bash a violent disgrace to humanity over the head. Multiple times.
He doesn’t regret it either. Didn’t regret it when another one of the wannabe-rapist’s cronies had a go at him and the kid who’s skateboard he stole kicked that fucker in the shin either. For having no one but a scrawny, eleven year old kid as back-up, the two of them made an awesome team. Until the police showed up at least, but if Percy ever gets out of this place again he’ll go looking for that boy.
And the blonde fighter — otherwise known as a male version of Malibu Barbie. Because that guy’s the only reason Percy got caught in the first place.
The jackass better gets me out of here, Percy thinks and takes a bite from the mars bar one of the Italian cop people gave him. (His puppy eyes are awesome like that.)
After breakfast.
The police lets him go the following day, no mentions of social services or parents or missing identification papers. Percy decides not to think too much about it after they give him his clothes, knife and golden necklace back as well.
(Because Percy knows he never owned a necklace. Especially not one with a golden charm of a crossed sword and a spear — and yes, he’s definitely not thinking about it.
At least it’s kind of cool.)
*
The first time Percy meets Annabeth, she cries all over his favourite sweatshirt.
Her hair is golden like the sun and her eyes have the same shade of blue as the sky after a long, rainy night, yet all Percy thinks when he first sees the slender girl with the drawn face is that she looks like forget-me-nots.
They meet on a graveyard.
Percy likes graveyards. He likes spending time here, wandering between the graves, deep in thought. He likes it because the gardens are always pretty and taken care of and it’s always quiet, peaceful.
He likes it because it’s the only place where people don’t look down on him, where they aren’t bothered by his torn clothes and dirty face. They don’t look at him like he has no right to be there, and for a child that’s always running, the calm acceptance is intoxicating.
Graveyards are not his favourite places in the world though, because graveyards are also sad. They toe a line between remembrance and regret — and it’s a thin line.
Maybe that’s what makes Percy notice the girl first. The bittersweet expression on her face, the one that comes with knowing that some things can not be undone. The acceptance of being stuck somewhere between letting go and holding on.
“She’s my mother,” the girls says, startling Percy, who has come to a stop besides her without even realising it. “She is my mother and I couldn’t even cry at the funeral.”
Her voice is harsh, punishing, but Percy notices that she says ‘is’ instead of ‘was’ and he swallows the pointless apologies that reflexively come to mind. ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ won’t change anything, won’t make anything better. He knows that, has been in that place before, and he never wants anyone to feel like that again.
“Tears are no measure for love or loss.”
It’s the only thing he can think of saying and Percy winces at his own words because, somehow, they still don’t seem good enough.
The girl turns to face him at that and there’s a smile on her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes. “My name’s Annabeth.”
She doesn’t offer her hand.
“Percy.”
The girl — Annabeth — smiles again, wider and a bit more fake, and Percy isn’t surprised when the tears come.
She hugs him and cries and he lets her. It’s how they start. (How they will always be.)
*
The first time Percy meets Hazel, they both almost drown.
It happens in the fall, on one of these days that clings to the last remains of summer and warmth with all its might. Percy likes to enjoy them. The in between times, as he calls it. He likes to draw them out until the fabric begins to tear at its weakest points, if only to pretend a little while longer that winter isn’t just around the corner.
He spends the night on a small bridge overseeing the canal, listening to the splashing sound of the waves and watching as the odd boat passes by. It’s too dark by now to watch people the way Percy likes most, but on the other hand it’s also too dark for people to see him watching them, and that Percy likes very much.
There’s a calmness to the city at this late hour and Percy finds it difficult to not be lulled away, into a false sense of security that won’t last in the face of the unforgiving morning light.
It’s another boat — a small, black one, that would be impossible to make out in the darkness if not for the purring sound of the engine — that keeps Percy anchored to the present, and he smiles before he even sees the moving shadows on the deck.
Percy squints in the weak light, trying to to figure out what they’re doing. It’s a bit like playing pretence, to think of a stranger’s story. There’s noise too, sharp like breaking glass, but he’s still too far away to differentiate between scream and laugh, fear and happiness.
He watches though, because that’s what Percy does. That’s what he’s good at. And because he watches, he sees the shape of what looks scarily like a small person tumble over the ship’s rail. Sees the way something — a white dress perhaps, or a shirt — stands out sharply against the darkness of the night for a moment, before—
Watching the fall is like discovering a shooting star on the night sky, beautiful and sad and mesmerising.
Then there’s a splash, harsher than waves against stone, and Percy is on his feet and running before his brain has a chance to tell him how stupid this is.
(He already knows that, but it doesn’t even slow him down.)
The water is colder than he expected and his clothes are heavy and pulling him down, but Percy doesn’t allow himself to pause. Can’t, really, because whoever it was, whatever it was, it hasn’t resurfaced and what if he is too slow?
He takes a deep breath and then he’s underwater, his eyes barely able to see a couple of feet far, his motions fast and desperate. His lungs start to burn from the lack of air far too soon as he dives deeper and farther and his eyes hurt, but he can’t close them, has to go on. Has to go further. When Percy finds something — finally —, he wants to scream in shock or surprise, only to end up coughing, which hurts somewhere deep inside his chest.
There are tears in his eyes — even if they can’t be seen, Percy knows they’re there. He’s just not sure if it’s because of the pain, the need, the desperate airairairair or because the body is heavy, too heavy to get them both to the surface again, and he’s weak and he can’t save anyone and the body isn’t moving.
But Percy refuses to give up, refuses to believe that shooting stars die when you can’t see them on the sky anymore. And when he finally heaves the unmoving body of a girl out of the canal, he realises that she looks like moonlight and broken puppet and death.
The body jerks then, limbs shaky and weak, lips helplessly gasping for air and it’s the closest thing to victory he’s felt in years.
(It’s the closest thing to alive he’s felt in years.)
*
The first time Percy meets Nico, he’s held at gun point by a merciless killer.
In real life there most likely isn’t such a thing as an ideal moment to fall in love. There are however better and worse times for it to happen. Getting into a pointless Mythomagic-based argument at comic-on, for example, probably counts as one of the better case scenarios.
Of course ‘better’ in some cases also means ‘easier’ and, as everybody should know, Percy Jackson doesn’t do easy.
Percy would be the first to admit that he doesn’t understand much about love and the do’s and don’t’s that come along with it. But even he knows that being held in a strong grip that is too tight, too bruising to be comfortable, with a gun pressed so hard against the side of his head, he’s convinced it’s going to leave a permanent mark there, is so far up the unofficial worst case scale, nobody should be able to reach it.
Unless your name is Percy Jackson, of course.
Because standing there — frozen, motionless, waiting — there’s really nothing else he can do. Nothing but praying, not that any god ever answered his pleas, and glaring at the unfamiliar male on the other side of the room with all the heat he has left to give.
It’s too bad Percy isn’t blind. Because with his perfectly functional eyes there’s no way he doesn’t notice the tall, lean body that the layers of tight, black clothing can’t fully hide. There’s no way he misses how windswept the guy’s black hair is, like he’s spent the entire day on a stormy beach. And it’s not really his fault at all that those eyes — those eyes, two shades darker than a Christmas Eve spent all alone — capture his interest like few others ever have.
So, okay, maybe he’s developing a bit of a crush. And maybe the object of said feelings couldn’t be a worse choice if he tried.
But — when it comes down to it — the world is a simple place, and the truth is that those insane thoughts of his don’t change anything. That attraction won’t help him get out of this mess alive, Percy knows all too well. And it doesn’t take the terror away either, the wild fear clawing in his stomach like a rabid cat, only barely kept at bay by an iron will to stay calm.
The gun is still pressed against his head. The stranger is still staring at him.
Percy waits.
(He doesn’t have much of a choice, considering the circumstances.)
It’s worse than the cold in the far too long winter months, the waiting. Worse than the hunger he endures when his last reserves have been stolen by someone even less fortunate than himself. Worse even than seeing the telling bruises on little Tyson’s arms.
(There was a time when Percy would have sworn that nothing could possibly be worse than that tiny boy staring up at him with unshed tears in his eyes, trying so hard to be braver than he should have to be, but that was a long time ago. And for the the first time he wants to go back to that time, to the innocence, the ignorance.)
Percy blinks startled when the heavy silence is unexpectedly broken by the young man’s smooth voice. He shouldn’t drift off like that, he reprimands himself inwardly. Not that he pays any attention to the man’s words — he doesn’t understands the language anyway and he really doesn’t care how pretty it sounds — because there’s something about this stranger. Something heartbreakingly familiar.
Also, he’s hot.
If he could have, Percy would have face-palmed in exasperation.
This is hardly the time to appreciate the finer details of the other guy’s physique. He needs to stay focused. He needs to worry about this guy — about himself — and yet Percy can’t. Because this guy is all shadow and darkness and slippery slope and it might not save Percy, might even cost him his life, but it soothes him all the same.
He’s still going to slap that smug smirk off the moderately attractive guy’s face as soon as the bastard lowers the damn gun though.
(In the end Percy kicks him in the balls instead — he figures it makes them even.)
(Nico begs to differ.)
*
— So, you see, Percy isn’t particularly antisocial, nor is he a misanthrope for that matter. He doesn’t hate people. Everything just comes down to the fact that Percy really hates meeting new people.
And with his track record, who can blame him?