Chapter Text
lonely hearts club;
So he has eyes like shattered glass, hair like a raven's feathers and words like broken windows, all piercing, all dark, all sad. And he has sad smiles, the ones which look as though he is going to cry once you look away, and his lips are often stained, with red from which may be blood or wine, all screaming, all dark, all sad.
Jason watches him, out of the corner of his eyes, when he moves, his movements fluid and graceful in a way that reminds him of a dancer (but he knows if he tells him that he will be glared at, so he stays silent), and the sad little way the corners of his mouth droop when he thinks no one is watching, eyes of broken glass, broken smiles.
So then when he smiles (which is rare, Jason must admit with a ache in his chest, but smiles nonetheless), he watches him as the sad little droops of his lips are pulled upwards and the glass in his eyes pieces together for a second, and when he smiles his face lights up but Jason wants to ask why he always looks like he wants to cry when he does- wants to ask, probably never will.
Instead, he watches, and he lives for those sad smiles that light up his face of shattered glass, lives for the words less biting, less cold, that'll sometimes grace Jason with their presence if he's lucky. So his eyes are like shattered glass, hair like raven's feather and words like broken windows, but then he'll smile and Jason thinks maybe the world becomes a brighter place for a second, dampening the shadows that engulf him in his sadness; and he promises himself that he will make the boy with shattered eyes and broken words feel a little less shattered after all.
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when the party's over
and i'll call you when the party's over.
and i could lie say i like you like that
The music is loud in his head and the air hot on his skin. He weaves through the bodies, slick with sweat, intoxicated, his blond hair plastered to his forehead and arms folded over his chest. Music pulses, resonates through his ground, his feet, head throbbing and movements slurred, though sober and clean and everything a Roman Praetor should be.
The world is loud but seems so quiet underneath his fingertips.
Shouting- his name, a chorus of ‘Jason’, thudding through his chest like a heartbeat, only stronger, morals blurred with alcohol, as he slips through the crowd to where he can see light leaking through the cracks in the door, a welcoming contrast to the neon lights painting his skin. Jason nods to a few people in passing, though he figures they must be too distracted by the red cups in their hands to notice him. The heartbeat of the party pulses beneath his skin.
(He waits, for second, for someone to call him back, call his name, with sense acute, but as the pulse thudds thudds thudds on like a constant, unbreakable mantra, he breathes in through his mouth, out from his nose, lifts his chin and redirects his mind).
As he slips through the doors, the cool air rushes over him like a tsunami, a torrent of the clipped, fresh atmosphere he hadn't realised how much he missed. Here, there are less people, them mostly clinging to the shadows and leaning against the walls of the Hall, skin hidden by long sleeves and jeans so different to the shirtless chests and tight little dresses inside. Jason offhandedly wonders what Reyna is going to say when she finds out someone spiked the punch (he doubts she will be surprised, honestly, probably already knows).
He doesn't spare a glance to the lurking strays, anyway, and walks with his chin tilted upwards and strides long to where he figures Reyna will be residing, waiting, for him to return. His leather boots glow silver in the moonlight, dust swirling around them as he disturbs it. The heartbeat of the party becomes almost forgotten, dead, except for the muffled thumping of music and the singing of drunken teenagers leaking from the walls. (He supposes he can't blame them, for wanting a change, a sense of freedom from the set rules that arrives with being in the Legion. He wonders if he would join them if he was only a soldier, not a leader).
The silver pull of the moon drags him from his thoughts like it does to the tides, a pulsing like the heartbeat of the party, and his blue blue eyes he both hates and loves flit to the endless expanse of darkness, resting for a second on the full moon with a strange ache in his chest he can't place (almost as though he should know something he doesn't, an aching pull like the moon to the tides). The feeling isn't unfamiliar, but nor is it familiar, either, and Jason catches his breath before he can dwell on it too much, swallows it down like a pill and raises his chin again; like he was taught to, like he is supposed to. He, Jason Grace, Son of Jupiter and Praetor and leader of New Rome, can not show weakness, will not show weakness.
The streets are cobbled, the buildings either side of him made for the same grey stone that he grapples onto for a feeling of consistency, grounding, almost silvery in the moonlight and dusted with the fingerprints of thousands that will never walk down this street again. Deep, like what he can imagine an endless abyss to be, the purple of his t-shirt almost blends into the shadows, whilst the tan of his skin almost glows in the orange light cast by the swinging lanterns, a comforting thing he likes to appreciate even though he's not really sure why.
The pulse under his wrist is steady, though the heartbeat of the world is far from it.
He walks for a while, through the streets, the near-silence comforting his headache from the thud thud thud of the music, a bitter taste in his mouth when he thinks of it, the sweaty bodies, intoxicated minds. The calluses on his hands catch his focus, the little scars, the memories he doesn't know whether to love or hate but the memories he knows he will never forget.
There is a quiet in the city and a metronome under his feet.
Jason spots him through the darkness, legs dangling from the gem-studded roof of Pluto's shrine, back turned and almost faded into the darkness. The mess of dark hair hides beneath his hood, his pale fingers tapping on the gemstones in a strange kind of satisfying sound. Something silver glints on his hand but Jason doesn't look long enough to see past the silver moonlight dancing on his skin.
He doubts he would have noticed him if he hadn't been singing, or humming, whatever, but it sounded beautiful and nice to listen to so he decided it didn't really matter. He spots him, and pauses, for a second, almost not wanting to disrupt the music but realising that standing there like an idiot is probably kinda creepy, so says, “you probably shouldn't be sat on there,” and watches the boy almost tumble from the roof and catch himself before he does (he thinks it would almost be comicable if not for the fear that flashes across his face).
There is a second where Jason thinks he won't move, but then his hands dart into his pockets, and spins around and crosses his legs, inclines his head to meet Jason with an expression he can't read through the darkness. “I apologize, Praetor.” He studies Jason for a moment, before removing a hand from his pocket and extending it above where his legs cross. In and instant, shadows curl around his skin, dark tornadoes, weaving like a needle and thread, then he melts away into the darkness, reappearing again at the foot of the shrine, expression unreadable, lit in the orange embers.
Meanwhile, Jason, maybe a little shocked to finally see the boy move through the shadows after hearing the rumours that he could, regains his composure, tilts up his chin and lengthens his stride, regarding the other with the air of undeniable authority unthinkable to refuse (because he is Jason Grace, Praetor of the Twelfth Legion and Leader of New Rome, and, like his father, powerful and undeniably dangerous).
He hadn't seen him- Nico di Angelo, Ambassador of Pluto- much, after he arrived with his sister to demand her a place within their legion, and even now, weeks onward, surprised by the haunted look in his dark dark eyes, the same look he'll see everytime he looks in the mirror, the haze of melancholy clouding the usual sharpness. (He'll look at those eyes and have to remind himself that this boy is only thirteen years old, far too young for the darkness, that sadness, of the world he- they- have been thrown into to. He wonders what Lupa would think of him now, wonders if anyone has climbed from the dark abyss in which they have been trapped).
“Should I be surprised to not see you at the party, Ambassador?” Jason remarks, his tone light but still holding the authority, the power, the younger boy seems oblivious too. Nico scuffs his boots on the ground, clouds of dusts rising like ghosts from under his soles, a fitting simile, he supposes, for a son of Pluto, a child of the Underworld. He scoffs, shakes his head, but doesn't look up.
“Not exactly my thing,” he offers, shoulders hunched, guarded, as though he expects Jason to attack him, and he's left with a bitter taste in his mouth he can't place. “Too loud.”
When Jason hums in agreement, Nico turns away and takes a few tentative steps in the opposite direction to him, shadows coiled around his feet, his hands, waiting for his command, waiting to engulf him. The thought makes Jason want to reach out and pull the son of Hades into the light, though he isn't sure why, but settles for watching him fade away in the narrow streets. He doesn't call back, doesn't dismiss him either, he supposes, but, even with the younger boy's short stay, Nico has somehow become accustomed to their body language, the tone, the ones they have been taught to Hide Conceal Forget.
“I'll see you around, Ambassador,” he says, quietly, perhaps weaklybut he would never admit that, unsure to why when he knows Nico won't hear him, won't answer his words. The cobbles stretch onwards, his blue blue eyes watch them fade.
(He wouldn't have guessed that would be the last time he saw Nico without a messed up memory, wouldn't have guessed he had ever seen him before with that fucked up memory).
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The moon reminds him Thalia and Thalia reminds him of his disfigured childhood. (He loves Thalia but decides he doesn't love the moon so much).
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He's too thin when Jason sees him next. Too pale, to bony, too sad. Too haunted by his past that his future is unspeakable, unimaginable, him not wanting to peek through his fingers and trying to fight the reality that is prising them away from his face, small fists clinging onto his last shred of innocence that Jason doubts still remains. He's too thin and too haunted and too sad. And the he tumbles from that bronze jar and Jason wants to scream.
Sure he's seen a lot of broken eyes but nothing like this.
He can hear Nico's mutter, his heart-wrenching whisper of Tartarus before he curls up on himself once again and flinches away from even Hazel's touch, and he can see his worry and sympathy reflected in her face, her golden eyes, her dark skin, pretty pretty features that he sees Frank look at with that mixture of adoration and love that makes him wonder if anyone will ever look at him that way (sure, Piper says she loves him but there's something strange about her stares that makes his skin itch, something different in those kaleidoscope eyes).
Nico glances at him with those dark, distrustful eyes full of something he can't read, something so fractured it has become intelligible, his small fists curled in his hoodie and lips cracked and bleeding and stained in red. (Something startles inside Jason, something he wants to remember but can't, and the thought makes him want to cry but now is Not The Time For Weakness, so he looks away before the feeling can grow. It does anyway).
Then Percy and Annabeth fall- they fall, dead to the world but not to themselves, fall with limbs twisted and throats raw from screaming, messes of fear and sadness and wounds and-
(the image of Nico's haunted eyes burns behind Jason's eyelids, watching them fall- they fall, and he can't help but think maybe a little bit of them all fell with them, too)
-and imperfections that mark them.
Cupid. Next is Cupid, and Jason always knew the gods are cruel, seen them throw away lives like a burnt out cigarette, but nothing like this; the pain, the humiliation that shouldn't even be there but is, and Jason wants to scream and gods and he knows the rest of the seven want to, too, (doesn't know if Nico wants to because everything about him screams that he's given up anyways. Jason finds that much much sadder). He wants to scream his throat raw and lips red. Red like Cupid's eyes and red like his fury.
And Jason's seen people crumble, collapse, under pressure under grief under sadness, but nothing like this, crumble under a outdated humiliation that makes Jason want to scream again, at the world for being so cruel and the Fates for making it that way.
He can see the dark edges of Nico's brows fall, slip from a scowl to helplessness to a scowl again, see the little droops of his lips that are often the only colour on his figure, a dusting of pink, like the one that rides high on his cheeks, when he makes Jason promise, makes him promise not to tell anyone because he's so scared of their rejection, so blinded by his own shame that he can't see past it, won't dare, to peak past his fingers. And Jason does, he promises, and keeps that promise like an unbreakable oath bound by blood because he knows it isn't his place to say anything, so he won't (he'll just keep on wishing that Nico can accept himself, love himself enough to let other people in; wants to scream at the Fates for Nico's misfortune and scream at Nico that he has nothing to he ashamed of).
Jason wants to do a lot that he doubts he will ever do.
Then, the House of Hades rolls around, and he's not sure if he has seen anyone fight with such desperation as Nico does (but that doesn't mean much, he figures, because he can't remember much except for the last few months. Still, he's a little in awe about the way Nico slices that dark sword of his through the hoard of monsters, all calculated moves and curling darkness). He wonders if Nico knows how deadly he is, wonder what he himself looks like when he fights. Percy is a tsunami and Nico a nightmare and he wonders if he's anything like a tornado, anything like the air that chokes him, the father that controls him.
After that, Jason doesn't see him much, because he leaves with curt nods and sad smiles and then transports a fucking statue across the world with a soon-to-be dad and a fierce warrior. But still, Jason can imagine those eyes as if a photograph, dark, haunted, broken like fragments of light, and he can almost feel that ghostlike touch against his skin when the wind whips around it. The smell of strong coffee and a taste of bitterness- everything, everything he can't explain because he can't remember when he became so hype-aware of the son of Hades-
(can't remember much, really, but doesn't dwell on that too much)
-but doesn't dwell too much, either, takes to devoting his attention to Piper and saving the fucking world again.
Giants. He fights giants beside him own father, watches the world almost end from a fucking nosebleed and almost burns in a flaming ship. He fights, because that is what he does and that is what he knows, and once again he wonders if he fights anything like the storms that never seem to touch him.
When, weeks later, torn and tired and just so exhausted, he sees him again, he looks so hauntingly familiar to when he escaped from the bronze jar, fresh from Tartarus, fresh from Hell, but this time his hands are somehow made of shadow and his eyes burning with fire, an adrenaline coursing through his veins that Jason knows will leave him lost when it is gone, felt it too many times himself and see the aftermath too many times in glassy eyes. (He thinks there's a word for it, but isn't too sure and doesn't want to ask). And he looks more powerful, despite the declining health and smoky hands, but he catches a bitter laugh and looks around at the right moment and sees an almost mad glint in those dark dark irises, the burning darkness.
As if in a haze, like a dream far too sharp, the Battle starts and ends, and it's hard, fuck it's hard, and Jason can't remember when he last felt this much adrenaline pumping and tainting his blood, and again he watches Nico fight with that dark sword of his, almost just a blur of darkness, so young and yet fighting with the ease of a professional.
(But he's still too thin and too tired and Jason tries not to notice the way his hands flicker away or the way he can almost fall through a monster).
Then boom crash and the threat of Gaea is gone, but so is Leo and the empty feeling in his chest begins to burn again, back again with scorching flames and smoke that corrupts his weak weak lungs. The burning is back, but the fire in Nico's eyes is dwindling, and when he tells Jason he's staying he's not sure whether to laugh or cry.
(He chooses to laugh because he is Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, saviour of the world, and he Does Not Cry, Can Not Cry, Will Not Cry).
And so the days pass; he watches the sun rise and the sun fall, the sunrises and the sunsets, gold paint his skin and moonlight stain his lips. Piper is there, alongside him, a tan arm around her shoulder with hers around his waist, and they will sit in a silence that only he seems to find uncomfortable, the unspoken words of I love you hanging between them and watching the days slip away.
(Nico slips away, too, leaves more often, and by the end of the month he is spending days on end away in god-knows-where with god-knows-who, returning with his sad eyes dark and pink lips drooped in the corners).
So he has eyes like shattered glass, hair like a raven's feathers and words like broken windows, all piercing, all dark, all sad. And he has sad smiles, the ones which look as though he is going to cry once you look away, and his lips are often stained, with red from which may be blood or wine, all screaming, all dark, all sad
The days pass. The feelings don't.