Chapter Text
Loving him is like falling—unprecedented, unexpected, unstoppable.
Their past may be forged out of magic and mistakes, but it doesn't define them, because they're here now and the present is all they have. It's all they need.
She doesn't know who caves first—she, coming out of her denial, it's real it's real it's real, or him, coming to terms with his circumstances, it's fine it's fine it's fine – but they both do, and maybe, that is the start of their end. Jason Grace is a mystery—the stripes, the melancholic gaze and the Latin are foreign to her, but he grows ever closer and ever more elusive through their quest, and she's falling before she knows it. She does love an enigma.
"Are we for real?" She whispers one night as they build the Argo II. The ship, like their future, is beginning to take shape. Leo worries incessantly and spends his days trying to perfect the vessel for their journey, but she can't help think that some things are unpredictable, no matter how many shields you put up.
Things, like the way Jason stops and gazes at her, the way his eyes darken to an alluring shade of blue, and the way their hands fit perfectly together.
"Yeah," he says in the same hushed tone, even though the only one around is Leo and he's too engrossed with repairing Festus to notice them. "I'm for it if you are."
A word hammers against her chest, echoes in her mind—love love love I love you. But it's too early for that, so she simply steps closer and lets her lips reply his.
It's enchanting, it's perfect, and maybe, that itself should've been a warning. Nothing lasts forever.
-
Loving him is like standing in a storm—dangerous, thrilling, vulnerable.
She never feels more alive than when she’s with him.
As exciting as it is, the novelty wears off. There are lapses in conversation they don't know how to fill; they can share a bed like lovers and wake up like strangers. And maybe, Piper thinks, looking at Percy and Annabeth, it's because they fell too hard, too fast.
There's no telling where they'll go on from here. Long nights in the cabin lead to silent mornings on the deck. Every kiss is another bullet in a gun—tucked away for safekeeping, but liable to backfire. He begs for lost memories to return and they do, in bits and pieces; she wishes for made up memories to disappear but they stick all the more, impossible to forget.
Teasingly, she recounts an incident involving him, a bunch of light bulbs and the fire department. His smile fades into a hesitant one. The words crumble into ash on her tongue. Do you remember?
The very next week, a similar incident occurs with Jason, flashlights, and Percy. He looks thoroughly abashed, smiling sheepishly when he catches her eye. It's funny, but she can't quell the rising doubt inside her.
If they can't discern their past from their present, where does that leave them?
He says he's never loved another like this, but she sees it in Reyna's eyes: they have history, even if it's one sided. She watches in morbid fascination at the praetor's expressions when Jason kisses her—realization, hurt, anger, indifference. She knows if it came down to a fight she could win—should she?—but Reyna backs down, the only battle she would retreat from. There's no satisfaction in this victory, though; they're similar in more ways than Piper would've expected and somehow, she knows heartache will eventually be one on the list.
"Jason?"
He hums sleepily in response.
I think I love you. "I'm glad you're here."
There's silence, then rustling as he reaches for her. "I'm glad I met you," he says, and she knows he's smiling. Her lips curve in response, but there's still an uneasy weight in her chest, impossible to shake off.
They stand under a flashing sky, and it's only a matter of time before they get hurt.
-
Loving him is like chasing the wind—exhausting, difficult, consuming.
There are things he's hiding from her, and it's so incredibly infuriating—tell me, she says, and he dodges and dances around her questions. Every time she pushes, he pulls back, afraid to hurt her, but he forgets that she's the daughter of love—more deadly than any weapon, more powerful than any spell.
Trust me, he says, and she'd do it in a heartbeat—but it's not reciprocated. She feels like she's stumbling in the dark, anticipating a cliff drop.
Don't you know me, she thinks, as he avoids her gaze and changes the subject. Doesn't he know she's in love with him, doesn't he know she can face anything, do anything, as long as he's by her side?
These days, it's harder to tell what he's thinking, or even feeling. And as the quest goes on and two of their members disappear, tensions run high; a fraying rope that never quite snaps, but it comes dangerously close.
"I love you," he says. Piper finds that the words are stuck in her throat, refusing to spill out.
-
Loving him is like getting struck by lightning—painful, heart-stopping, paralyzing.
Do I love you, Jase?
She's the daughter of Aphrodite, she should know the answer. And yet, her parentage just casts another shadow on the matter. It runs in her blood or it's hardwired in her mind. It's her choice, made out of free will or it's her fate, ordained by her mother and all her siblings before her. It's a classic love story or it's a relationship with too many expectations.
Jason seems to sense her drifting—all attempts to bring her back are futile, for once they stop she's gone again. She's grown immune to his sparks; this numbness, this murkiness isn't love.
Do I love you, Jase?
"Your relationship was born out of crisis," Apollo says. It perfectly encapsulates everything Piper thinks of them.
They'd never really needed to hash out their problems—there was always another threat looming, another quest, another fight—but then the war ended, and everything they'd avoided came crashing back with startling clarity.
They're both conflict averse, but they learn how to fight—they wield their words clumsily at first, but practice makes perfect, and soon they're more than experienced. At least, they aim to hurt instead of kill.
Do I love you, Jase?
Loving him used to be as easy as breathing. Now, watching him from across the camp, laughing and smiling, she only feels a spark ignite her, instead of the fire that engulfed her. Was it love at all?
She's still deep in thought when he wanders over. "Hey, you," he says, his bright smile fading to a tentative one. It's been mere days since their last fight, and the wounds and rash words are still fresh in their minds. "Is everything alright?"
I think I'm falling out of love. "Of course."
He sits beside her, both ignoring how strange it feels—the innate urge to draw closer, and the resistance that comes after. Push and pull. Attraction and repulsion.
"Piper," he says softly. She tenses. He hasn't used her real name since she woke up after the fall and he told her Leo was gone. "Are we for real?"
This time, there is no Argo II, no Leo, no war looming over their heads. It's just them, and the truth that they'd avoided for too long. "I don't know, Jason," she says just as quietly, and her next words are but air: hollow, empty. "I'm for it if you are."
Do I love you, Jase?
She suggests meeting at a little cafe in New Rome. He agrees.
It's a beautiful day when their world falls apart—the cafe is tranquil, demigods and legacies alike peacefully go about their lives, and all is unbelievably well.
She takes a sip from her drink as she waits, and wonders how she's never noticed the bitter undertone of matcha, especially since she's bought it a million times. She must've gotten desensitised to the sugar.
And to him. As he walks in, her heart doesn't beat in tandem with his footsteps; it stutters like her breaths in trepidation of what's to come.
And maybe deep down, he knows what she wants to say—he offers her a polite smile, a shadow of his usual blinding one, and they make painful small talk until the conversation dies.
Carefully—always careful, like she's a delicate masterpiece that he might ruin—he says, "is there something you wanted to tell me?"
"I think we should stop seeing each other." The words are halting, uncertain, even though Piper has rehearsed them in front of her mirror more times than she can count. She thinks she can hear Aphrodite laughing in approval.
He takes a sip of his coffee. "Okay."
"Okay?" She repeats in incredulity. "You're okay with it? Just like that?"
He freezes for a second too long. From an outsider's view, he's calm, poised, but she can see how his fingers tremble when he puts his cup down, and how his eyes flicker down, his eyelashes fanning his skin. She knows him too well.
"As long as–" his voice cracks, and usually they would laugh it off, but she pretends not to notice how his body betrays him and he continues. "–as you're happy."
Are you happy, Pipes?
He is infuriatingly selfless—so much, in fact, that it's a little spite that makes her reply, "one of us has to be."
It should hurt, like everything else they've said this week, but his smile just grows. "It should be you."
Silence settles over them, but this time, it's a comfortable warmth and not the stifling blanket that'd threatened to choke them. This isn't how a breakup should go; she should leave, or he should leave, because they’re over and that’s that. But he stays in his seat, patiently waiting for her to finish her drink, and they sit long after their cups have been cleared.
"We should go," he says. "It's capture the flag tonight."
She doesn't want to; here, she can hide from the outside world and pretend that they're two ordinary teenagers on a date. But they've done enough pretending.
With a sigh, she moves to get out of her seat. He stops her, biting his lip. "Wait."
The next few minutes are a blur—she tastes mint and caramel and him, and it's absolutely electrifying. Her senses come alive all at once, overloading her and yes, this is what it should've been like, what it could be like, and she's kissing it all goodbye. It's her, saying I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry and it's him, saying I know I know I know. He may not be all she ever needed but right now, he's all she ever wanted and she knows without a doubt that this boy will be her biggest regret.
When they break apart, she's breathless and he's dazed. Before the euphoria wears off, some part of her thinks: this could work. This is worth it. I changed my mind. Let's do this.
Instead, she says, "I should break up with you more often."
He laughs, but there's already grim sobriety in his eyes as he replies. "I wouldn't mind that."
Drew's voice echoes in her mind: we break hearts. It's what we're good at.
-
Loving him is like dying.
Please, please, please–
"Piper, we need to leave."
Please, please, please–
"He's gone."
Please, please, please–
"He's not, Apollo, let go of me-”
No, no, no–
"Piper. I'm sorry."
-
Loving him is like burying herself alive.
Sons of Jupiter are not meant to last. Tragedy has been their lover from birth. Don't you see how Hercules, after all his heroic deeds, lost his family and now guards the pillars for life, with only his immortal enemy for company? Don't you see how Apollo has been reduced to a stub of his former glory, forced through trials to fight for his very existence? It's a good thing Jason was mortal, Piper. It's a good thing.
As far as she's concerned, it would've been a good thing if they'd never met at all.
-
Loving him is like living—there are good times, and bad ones. There are days where she remembers him fondly and there are days where she can't stand the sight of anything that reminds her of him. Push and pull. Attraction and repulsion.
But that's the least of her worries, when everyone treats her like glass and she has had to look each person in the eye, and pretend she doesn't see the way they shatter when she says, "he's gone."
Ironically, the condolences just remind her of why they broke up. There are things she needs to figure out for herself, things she needs to do alone. She was wrong, letting him go is her best and worst decision. He is not her biggest regret, he is her biggest lesson, an integral part of her, and he may be dead but he's still here.
"Hey," Leo's voice cuts her train of thought. He manages a small smile, but his eyes drift from her to the horizon, like he's searching for someone beyond. "They're about to start the funeral.”
She feels like she’s in two places at once—back on the beach, seeing Jason’s body, and here at Camp Jupiter, looking at Leo’s outstretched hand. She takes it, and he pulls her up from her position beside the tree.
He doesn't quite look at her. Tension the size of the Sea of Monsters wedge between them. Jason's absence only exacerbates it.
"I'm glad you're here," she says. It doesn't sound as bitter as it did in her head, which is a win in her books.
He still knows her, though, and he tenses. "Piper…"
It's always Beauty Queen. Pipes. She ignores the wrongness of it all and squeezes his hand. "Really."
There's a pause, and too many things to say, all of them suddenly inconsequential in the face of loss.
Leo lets out a bitter laugh. “Remember when he said he’d take us around New Rome?”
“The muffins are to die for,” she says in a lower voice, a poor imitation of Jason. His phantom laughter fills the space he’d left.
“Yeah, well.” Leo shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to try them. Later.”
A gentle breeze weaves around them. The sun glints off the Little Tiber. Their friends approach from the distance. Maybe it would be alright. She smiles. “Later.”