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Cabin Ten smells of perfume and chocolate, a mixture of scents that’s probably overwhelming to anyone not entirely used to it. But Francis Bonnefoy, the counselor of Aphrodite’s cabin, has been living year for almost ten years, and barely notices anymore. (He may even be the source of the problem, to look at the small and carefully-arranged shelf of colognes and perfumes displayed over his bunk.) At the moment, he’s standing in front of the floor-length mirror that hangs next to his bed, carefully adjusting his appearance. His blond hair hangs just over his shoulders, sections of it braided back by a dryad earlier that day. His lips are shell-pink, standing out against his creamy complexion. And while no one is sure what color Aphrodite’s eyes are on any given day, there’s something of her allure in Francis’ blue gaze.
Like the rest of the demigods at Camp Half-Blood, Francis wears jeans and an orange camp t-shirt. But he never settles for typical—his jeans are designer, dark-washed and well-fit; his shirt is self-tailored, taken in at the sides and cut into a steep V at the neck. Finally, Francis reaches up to grab his camp necklace off a shelf—nine tiny beads in various colors mark his years spent at camp—and pulls it over his head. He glances in the mirror one more time, smirks at his appearance, and then grabs his rapier from where it leans against the wall. Belting the scabbard on, he heads back through the cabin and out onto the grounds of Camp Half-Blood.
It’s the second-to-last day of summer, and the grounds are a muted flurry of activity as campers try and get themselves in order before heading back to the outside world for the year. There’s a part of Francis that’s always low at this time of year; he’s a year-rounder, and will be left with a more than half-empty camp in two days’ time. But this year, he’s got new reasons to feel melancholy.
It’s a short walk to Cabin Three, the low-built but imposing building meant to house Poseidon’s children. Francis has never really cared for the briny smell or coral-speckled walls, but he’s been spending more time here, lately. So he feels no shame at all walking through the front doors and calling out, “Arthur!”
But his voice echoes off the empty walls, and the lone Son of Poseidon doesn’t answer him. Glancing around the cabin, Francis finds it utterly empty. Even the bunk furthest from the door—Arthur’s bed—is carefully made, the faded photographs and half-abandoned knitting projects on the shelf the only evidence that the other demigod was ever there at all.
“Didn’t I tell him to wait for me,” Francis grumbles under his breath, heading back out onto the camp grounds. He glances around the small cluster of cabins, wondering where he might try next. Arthur, by his own admission, doesn’t have many friends. And the ones he does have aren’t that he’d sit around and gossip with. (In that way, Arthur and Francis are entirely opposite, as Francis can often be found in either Ares or Hephaestus’ cabins, wiling away the time with Gilbert and Antonio.)
Huffing in frustration, Francis goes through a quick mental checklist to decide where to search next. But before he comes to such a decision, he hears a low whistle in the air.
“Oh, no,” Francis hisses, one hand raised protectively over his hair, “Don’t you dare—”
But it’s too late. The whistling grows louder until something passes over Francis’ head at incredible speed, bringing along with it an incredible gust of wind. A moment later, it circles back around and lands a few feet away, revealed to be yet another demigod—Alfred Jones, the Son of Zeus, dusting himself off and laughing uproariously.
“I told you to stop doing that!” Francis is already pulling his fingers through his hair, trying to set it to rights. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he steps closer to Alfred only to use the younger boy’s glasses as a mirror.
Alfred finally manages to stop laughing. “Dude, I totally would, if you didn’t freak out every time.”
Finished with his hair, Francis crosses his arms over his chest and gives Alfred a flat and unimpressed look. “I liked you better when the worst you could accomplish was a little lightning.”
It’s not as if Francis and Alfred don’t get along—their godly parentage alone makes them natural allies, and in the years they’ve known each other Francis has come to see Alfred, all of fifteen years old, as something of a little brother. The fact that his little brother can fly and summon lighting and happens to be the son of the most powerful god isn’t lost on Francis, but he prefers not to dwell on it. If nothing else, Alfred makes for a good ally on more intense quests.
“You don’t like static much, either,” Alfred says, holding up a hand a letting small currents of electricity bounce between his fingers.
Francis takes a few steps back, shooting Alfred a warning look. “Alfred, darling, you know I love you. But if frizz my hair today of all days, I will destroy you.”
Alfred drops the lightning and looks just a little scared of Francis’ tone, which is gratifying. At least the brat hasn’t forgotten who’d taught him how to use a sword, and been his chief advocate when he’d first arrived at camp two years ago. Laughing again, Alfred asks, “Today of all days…?”
Perhaps his mother would be ashamed of him, but Francis starts to blush. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, as casually as he can. “I’m just looking for Arthur.”
The Son of Zeus, who is apparently entirely without dignity, bats his lashes and blows a kiss—mocking Francis as obviously as he can. “Oh, just looking for Arthur! Why didn’t you say so? Are you two finally going to go for it?”
Arthur, Francis and Alfred have experienced more together, as a team, than most demigods have seen in their lifetimes. And as a son of the goddess of love, Francis is nothing close to shy about his romantic endeavors. But he still feels uncertain about airing his plans publicly, even just to Alfred. It seems like a breach of Arthur’s trust, even though Arthur doesn’t know about them yet.
So Francis just lifts his head and brushes his hair back, waving one hand dismissively. “I suppose you’ll have to wait for the gossip mill to churn something out, the same as everyone else.”
Alfred pouts. “That’s not fair! I’m the one who had to catch you guys making out during a quest! I should get some benefits for that!”
Francis just shakes his head and reaches out to pat Alfred’s cheek rather patronizingly. “You’d better be careful about who you mention that to. Or are you trying to goad Arthur into another fight?”
“Like he could beat me,” Alfred mutters. A moment later, however, he perks up again. “If you are going to do something, you’d better hurry up! Arthur’s going home, tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know. What did you think I was doing, hanging around here for fun?” Francis gestures impatiently at Cabin Three.
“Well, did you check the Arena? He was trying to beat Erzsébet, last I saw.”
“You couldn’t have told me that five minutes ago?” Francis grouses, turning on his heel to head for the other side of camp. Alfred’s laughter follows him as he goes.
“You’re welcome!”
The Arena isn’t foreign territory to Aphrodite’s children, no matter what people might assume. Francis spots one of his younger half-brothers, Yong Soo, sparring with Kiku, a son of Athena, as soon as he gets to the Arena. Yong Soo looks up and catches Francis’ eye, winking just before he turns to parry a thrust from Kiku’s thin sword. The two dance around one another with well-practiced movements. Francis grins and carries on, craning his neck to see if he spots a familiar head of shaggy blond hair.
He’s unsuccessful, though he does see Erzsébet in the far corner, teeth gritted as she defends against an attack from Gilbert. The counselor of Athena’s cabin, Erzsébet has a known and lengthy rivalry with Francis’ best friend, the head of Ares’ cabin. Even their fighting styles seem diametrically opposed—Gilbert is alight with furious energy, moving forward with rapid but strategic attacks as often as he can. Erzsébet is light on her feet, guarding with her broadsword and waiting for the right moment to counterattack. (Rumor has it that Erzsébet’s sword looks like a frying pan, to mortal eyes, but Francis has never been able to test that.)
Francis watches as Erzsébet gets in a particularly good swing and sends Gilbert flying. He lands against the sand with a thud, groaning. Francis, who isn’t inclined to be overly charitable, laughs as he heads over to where Erzsébet is standing, still braced for a counterattack.
“Nicely done,” Francis comments, while Erzsébet smirks and offers a mock-curtsey. “Was a certain Son of Poseidon here with you, not too long ago?”
“That depends on who wants to know,” Erzsébet says, brushing her thick brown hair back from her face. Gilbert isn’t showing signs of life, so she adjusts from her defensive position and rolls her shoulders. “Don’t tell me you want to get in one last argument before summer ends.”
Francis can feel his face heating up again—why does that keep happening?—but manages to laugh it off. “Something like that,” he responds dryly. “Alfred mentioned the two of you’d been sparring.”
“Alfred has a pretty screwy sense of time,” Erzsébet says. “Arthur left about an hour ago. It’s been just me and this one,” she jerks a thumb in Gilbert’s direction, “ever since.”
“My condolences,” Francis offers.
Erzsébet just laughs. In the meantime, Gilbert has managed to get to his feet and walks over to them, stepping gingerly to avoid aggravating what will likely be a wicked bruise.
“What’re you doing here, Fran? Shouldn’t you be on your date by now?”
“What date?” Erzsébet demands, at the same time Francis grumbles, “I told you not to talk about it!”
Gilbert just throws back his head and laughs heartily. “Oh, c’mon. You really think telling me and Toño is the best way to keep a secret?”
“You’re going on a date with Arthur!” Erzsébet exclaims, tone caught somewhere between question and accusation.
“Perhaps, if I can ever find him to ask him,” Francis says, running a hand down his face. He glares daggers at Gilbert. “And yes, I thought my best friends would know how to keep a secret! I don’t care who knows, but I haven’t even asked him yet and you know how shy he can be. If he thinks I’m carrying on around camp about it, he’ll never agree.”
“Arthur’s not shy,” Gilbert scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. His pale hair is covered in red-brown dust of the Arena’s sand floor, his red eyes gleaming.
“Well, not about everything,” Erzsébet corrects. “Put him in front of a minotaur and he’ll tear the thing down, no problem. But about anything else...”
“So you see my problem,” Francis sighs. “Just, don’t go gossiping about it.”
“Why’d you only look at me when you said that?” Gilbert demands.
“I think he said he was going to visit Peleus,” Erzsébet offers, hand against her chin as she considers.
“I said, why’d you only look at me when you said that!”
“Thanks, Erzsi,” Francis says, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Wish me luck, and au revoir!”
“Oh, come on!” Gilbert is still carrying on. “You know the Athena cabin has a chart, right? A chart of who they think is mostly likely to get together! They call it strategy but they’re even worse than you Aphrodite kids!”
Francis barely hears Gilbert’s last words, already rushing out of the Arena. Arthur has been spending a lot of time on his own, lately, even more so than usual. Francis has to wonder if that’s because of the last quest they’d gone on together. The manticore itself wasn’t the problem—between the two of them and Alfred, they’d been able to defeat it. Francis had used his powers of persuasion to pull the battle in their favor, but then the monster had lashed out at him and sent him sprawling, badly injured. Arthur had run to him, half-holding him up as he got Francis to cover while Alfred attacked the monster. But what really mattered is this: before Arthur had gone to assist Alfred he grabbed one of Francis’ hands and kissed it, lips barely touching Francis’ dirtied knuckles.
Even now, the memory brings a silly smile to Francis’ lips. He’s been kissed before, and probably has more experience in such matters than any other camper. But Arthur’s gesture hadn’t been just for the fun of it. It was more like… a declaration. And after the battle was over, and Arthur had come back to help Francis to his feet, Francis had taken the initiative and kissed Arthur’s lips. Astoundingly, the Son of Poseidon hadn’t pulled away from him, and that was how Alfred had found them a few minutes later, entirely tangled up in one another.
It had been the sort of moment that should be written into songs and legends. The start of a truly epic romance. And yet, since their return to camp, Arthur won’t even speak of it. And now it seems like he’s avoiding Francis entirely.
But Francis believes in love above all else, and so he won’t be defeated now. Squaring his shoulders, he circles around the Big House before coming up short. Peleus, the camp’s guard dragon, never tolerates visitors for very long, even if they happen to be Arthur. (Francis thinks that Peleus’ fondness for Arthur comes from their similar personalities: huffy, quick to temper, and generally malcontent.) But even so, Arthur couldn’t have spent the last hour with the dragon. He has to be somewhere else, by now. Paused, Francis wracks his brain for a solution.
The lake seems obvious, but it’s always too crowded for Arthur to be very comfortable there. Arthur enjoys hanging out with the pegasi, but usually goes to the stables first thing in the morning. It’s too late for lunch, so he won’t be in the mess hall. Francis gnashes his teeth, frustrated.
“I’ve known you for years, now,” he mutters to himself. “You’re infuriating, but I know you. So where are you hiding?”
It takes him a moment longer, but Francis finally comes to a realization.
The campers usually head to the woods only for games of capture the flag. But the old creek runs through them, and empties out into Long Island Sound. Francis walks along the creek, thinking of the many times Arthur’s taken vicious pleasure in knocking him into the water. Francis’ alliances with other cabins have won the games as often as they’ve lost, but his personal rivalry with Arthur is a factor in both his wins and losses.
He laughs to himself, walking the length of the creek before realizing that he hasn’t found Arthur, yet. So now he heads east through the woods, keeping the murky water of the Sound in sight. He’s halfway back to the cabins when he spots a small, smudged figure on the horizon, on Fireworks Beach.
“Aha!” he calls out triumphantly, as he gets closer. “What have we here?”
Because he’s expecting it, Francis can mostly dodge the upsurge of water that rises from the Sound and heads directly at him, even before Arthur has turned around. He feels the water mist his face as he ducks to one side, tucking and rolling to avoid the majority of it.
He huffs, standing back up. “That wasn’t very nice,” he mutters.
Arthur is turned towards him, arms raised as though he’s expecting a fight, green eyes wide with… fear? Panic?
“Arthur,” Francis begins to say, but the other boy cuts him off.
“I didn’t know it was you!” he says. Behind him, the water continues to church dangerously. There’s a frantic kind of energy to Arthur’s movements as he takes a step towards Francis, and then another step back. It isn’t anger, and Francis isn’t sure what to make of it.
“Arthur,” he says again, and it’s almost subconscious the way he laces his voice with charmspeak, another legacy from his mother. “Calm down, won’t you?”
It takes a moment. Arthur breathes in sharply, then breathes out, and finally the waves behind him slow down to their natural rhythm. Arthur sighs heavily and turns away, staring back out at the sea.
“Sorry,” he mutters shortly.
“Oh, this must be a special occasion, if you’re apologizing to me,” Francis says teasingly. But then he realizes that Arthur still isn’t even looking at him. Frowning, Francis steps up beside him, looking out at the same spot on the distant horizon.
For a moment there’s silence, just the warm sun on their faces and the ocean breeze blowing through their hair. Then Francis says, “Would you like to tell me why you’re hiding out here?”
Arthur huffs, and when he speaks his voice is bland and impatient. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m keeping away from… that. From everything. From everyone.”
Francis realizes that there’s something larger at work here than just his own relationship with Arthur, but he can’t help but ask, “So you’re not just avoiding me?”
Maybe it’s the wrong question, but Arthur barks out a short laugh. “Why would I avoid you? I don’t mind being around you.”
It’s not a particularly romantic sentiment, but it warms Francis’ heart all the same. He smiles softly. “I see. But you mind everyone else?”
Arthur still isn’t looking at Francis. He bites down on his lower lip, and his hands clench into fists. “It isn’t them, particularly. I… I mean, they’re my friends, aren’t they? I shouldn’t feel like this. And everyone else can just lay out by the lake or in the amphitheater or anywhere, and just joke around and relax. And I just—I just can’t do that, alright?”
Francis doesn’t really understand. He’s always been a social creature, even when he feels moody or morose. He likes having an audience, and he also just genuinely enjoys human company. So he can’t really understand why Arthur is shying away from all of that.
“I thought you could do anything,” Francis says loftily.
Arthur grits his teeth. “Belt it, pretty boy. I was trying to confide it you.”
Francis chuckles, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know. But I meant what I said—I’ve never seen you back down from a challenge, or lose at all.”
“That’s different,” Arthur says, after a long moment’s pause. “I can always do things like that—I can fight and I can figure things out and I can order people around when I know what I want them to do is what’s right, or what will work out best. It’s the rest of it.”
“I don’t really follow you,” Francis admits.
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Idiot. That’s what I don’t understand about you. You’re so… popular!”
Francis raises one perfectly-shaped eyebrow, lips forming an o. “You don’t like that I’m popular?”
“I don’t get it,” Arthur says, voice cutting with his frustration. “You’re insufferable, honestly. You smell too much like lavender and honey, all of the time, and your accent is atrocious. You’d rather talk your way out of things than actually fight, but when you draw your sword you’re almost impossible to beat. And I can’t go two minutes with you without wanting to punch you in the face, but I don’t mind that. There’s nothing to like about you, and yet everyone loves you.”
Francis is a little taken aback by this speech. He’s been at camp a long time, perhaps longer than anyone at this point. And he has many dear, dear friends, both old and new. But he’s never really quantified it. There are plenty of people he doesn’t get on with—like Roderich, the head of Apollo’s cabin, or Arthur himself, back in the day. Sometimes he thinks he isn’t respected at all, because people expect Aphrodite’s children to be shallow and ineffectual. Would be rather be respected than loved, though?
“Arthur, that isn’t true. And in any case, you’re one of the most powerful demigods alive. You’re… you’re a leader, aren’t you? Everyone respects you.”
“Everyone respects the Son of Poseidon,” Arthur hisses, but a moment later his expression shifts into something more wistful than angry. “I don’t—I don’t know. I’ve just, I’ve moved so much and gone so many different places and I’ve never really had friends before. And here everyone knows me as Poseidon’s son, first, and never really as myself. And I’ll go home tomorrow and try and be normal, but it won’t work and then I’ll be back here for the summer and nothing will ever really change, will it? No one’s ever going to just want me.”
“Foolish boy,” Francis says, heart filling with an almost unbearable amount of fondness. “Why on earth do you think I’ve been looking for you all day?”
He doesn’t wait for Arthur’s response, just cups the other’s face in his hands and leans in for a proper kiss. There’s no taste of blood, this time, or relief at having avoiding imminent death. Alfred isn’t going to come interrupt them. And so Francis takes his time, lips soft and relaxed against Arthur’s, not pushing until Arthur parts his lips and fists his hand into the bright fabric of Francis’ shirt. As will all other things, Arthur is aggressive and a bit chaotic with his kisses. But Francis finds he doesn’t mind that, much. He follows along with Arthur’s tempo, hands coming up to comb through the other’s hair, humming his approval when Arthur’s tongue meets his.
It’s not very long before they’re breaking apart, gasping for breath with flushed cheeks. Francis reaches out for Arthur’s hand, keeping him close.
“Is that another gift from your mother?” Arthur asks, arching an eyebrow.
Francis takes no offense. “More useful than bringing in the tides, isn’t it?”
To Francis’ immense gratification, Arthur turns entirely red before turning away, flustered. “Maybe.”
“Are you going to let me escort you to the bonfire?” Francis asks, deciding to press his luck.
When Arthur turns back to him, that panic is back in his eyes. Francis wonders if Arthur is doing this to himself, unconsciously—if he’s thinking too much about how others will perceive him, or about whether he’s valued and why. The thought makes Francis very sad, because he wants Arthur to know that he’s precious just because he’s himself, and not for any other reason.
“Or,” Francis says, as though he’s just decided. “We could ditch tonight, and stay here instead.”
Arthur huffs a nervous laugh. “You’d want to do that?”
“Why not? Honestly, you have no idea how difficult it was to find you. I fully intend to enjoy myself, now that I have.” As though to prove the point, Francis sits down in the sand, cross-legged to keep his balance.
Arthur remains standing for a moment, looking down on him with a slightly bewildered expression. Then he mutters something under his breath while looking skyward, finally taking a seat beside Francis and leaning close against him.
“You know I’m going home to Cambridge tomorrow,” he says after another long moment.
“And I’ll be here, left alone and desolate.” Francis sighs dramatically. “The same thing happens every year, darling.”
Arthur pokes at Francis’ side in retaliation for the endearment. “Yes, but usually I’m more than happy to see the back of you.”
“Most people usually are. I have a very, very nice backside.” Francis is expecting it this time, so he tilts away from Arthur’s vicious jabbing. Unfortunately, with the two of them leaning against one another, this leads to Francis falling sideways and hitting the sand, Arthur landing gracelessly on top of him.
“You’re an idiot, pretty boy,” Arthur says, face inches from Francis’.
Francis laughs. He can feel Arthur’s breath against his face, and finds he doesn’t mind having the weight of the other boy against him. He reaches up to wrap his arms around Arthur, pulling them as close together as possible. “And yet you keep calling me pretty. Does that mean you have a crush on me?”
Arthur shifts, looking embarrassed, but then his expression settles on dismissive condescension. “You kissed me, not two minutes ago!”
“Yes, but I don’t have a crush on you. That would be embarrassing.” Francis speaks will all the knowledge of a Child of Aphrodite.
“Oh, yeah? Then just what would you call it?”
Francis leans in ever closer, whispers in Arthur’s ear, “A love affair, darling. What else?”
He catches Arthur’s flustered retort with another kiss, but the Son of Poseidon doesn’t seem to mind very much. They lay like that together, entangled on the beach. The sun begins to set, dyeing the ocean a fantastic myriad of colors that make Francis sigh happily. This close to Arthur, Francis can feel the beat of his heart. It’s erratic and jumpy, but full of life.
“Gods, are you guys going to get a room, or what?”
They both turn at the same moment to find Alfred standing a few feet away, head cocked to one side as he grins sharply at them. Arthur jumps to his feet, face a livid red as he prepares to let loose a no doubt impressively explicit tirade, but Francis actually beats him to it.
“Honestly, hasn’t anyone at this camp heard of privacy! By the gods, you’re all uncultured and thoroughly unromantic! What if I were to interrupt you, Alfred, when you decide you’d like to—”
Alfred looks properly mollified, but the real victory is the way Arthur throws back his head and laughs, loud and clear and bright. That makes Alfred grin, and soon Francis is laughing as well.
Tomorrow, they’ll attend the summer’s last bonfire together. They’ll watch the fireworks go off over the ocean, and Francis won’t let go of Arthur’s hand the entire night. He’ll say it’s to give Arthur strength, but really the proximity will be just as much for his own benefit. And when Arthur leaves him for the year, it will be with happy memories and the promise of a truly wonderful summer to come.