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He had had another fight with Percy. About the same thing. Always the same. fucking. thing.
“ We’re in too deep we can’t just quit now” “Three of us have almost died, and one of us literally did!” Pointed stare. Glare back. “I’m here aren’t I?” “For how long, Jackson?” “We can’t quit. It’s too late to quit we just have to see this through. We’re almost there.” “And if we don’t make it? What is the point if we don’t even make it?” “Someone will. Someone will and that is enough. ”
By then the storm that had been brewing cracks over their heads, cracks and breaks. Lightning scorches his skin, the gorgeous brown wood of the deck, Percy. Neither of them notice, or care.
Flinch
. Anything the bolts touch they burn. That’s how Jason feels. Burning. Burnt. Both the fire and the victim.
The boat is rocking, being pushed, and pulled and fucking yanked across the ocean by the force of Percy’s anger. Sometimes Jason thinks Poseidon doesn’t even have control over these waters anymore. Sometimes, when Percy gets that dark glint in his eyes, Jason really believes a new god is being forged.
Water sloshes over the side, so similar to the whiskey glass his mother used to glue herself to. Just as vile.
“We have to end this.” Percy is soft now. But not quiet. Not gentle. No his voice is both the brutalness of the ocean and the hardness of rock. “Because if we do not, I know we will not survive another.”
Jason cannot even weave a response. He is beyond speech. Pure rage screaming unchecked through his body, strangling his voice box. With a single wave of his hand the storm dissipates overhead. The air tastes charred. Jason practically melts through the floors of the ship and into the deep dark hull below.
The only light is a flickering yellow globe inside the broken wall sconce. It glows faintly at the very back of the room, buzzes loudly. In his ears. In his veins. Maybe it’s the lightning finding a way in. A way out.
The light is enough for him. It must be because this is the only place he can really call his own. Even his room is not just his ; shared with Frank, who is a good bunkmate and a sweet friend but not very equipped at handling all the Emotions™ Jason always seems to be barely able to keep in check. Mostly anger, always anger. But sometimes sadness. Guilt in violent bursts.
He palms his hands along the curve of the wall– smooth and cold against his skin– trying to find the tiny sunken shelf that holds what he so desperately needs. His hands close around cool metal. Sharp. Already digging into the softness of his skin. He welcomes it.
Careful not to disrupt the other treasures tucked away he pulls out the two knuckle dusters. They’re the colour of blood silver, with tips sharp enough to shred bone jutting out from each knuckle. They’re called wolf metal. Fitting. Fitted.
When he had stumbled upon them in a pawn shop on his way back from a quest he had known then and there they were made for him. Maybe Hermes had put them by the window so he would see. Maybe Hephaestus had forged them and dropped them at that pawn shop the day he would be there. Maybe his father had simply wanted him to have it. (Unlikely. So unlikely. But so so tempting to believe). Whatever it was, he saw them and he bought them and he only uses them when his pretty bow of control unravels.
It happens a lot on this boat. With these people. He never wanted to be a leader but he Was. He was one. And now that he’s not, or he doesn’t need to be, or he shouldn’t be, it is ripping at his identity like knuckle busters through sand bags. Far too much ease. A god plowing through mortal beliefs.
Jason shakes off the last of the storm, stamps out the lightning trying to catch against his fingers. Now is not the time for power. Not this power. Not this god made power. No. Now he wants to see his man made
magic
, destruction.
He slips on the cold rings. Flexes his hands. So pretty and bruised. He’s so angry on this ship. He curls his fingers, slots them into his palms. What a strong fist. What a fist that could break through walls. He wants to break through time.
A single deep breath in.
An exhale.
Jason Grace punches.
And the wall sh a tt e r s.
He smiles. Blinks at the teeth spreading across his vision catching in every tiny piece of mirror. Blood is already sinking into the metal of his knuckles, dripping onto glass. Red is so pretty when you can see it in splatters.
He moves to the next wall. Sees his reflection whole and perfect. Straight shoulders. Strong legs. Cropped blonde hair. Lips thinned in grimace. And those beautiful bloodied hands, with their shining metal decoration. The only imperfection. The only thing keeping him tethered to his humanness.
If he saw gold dripping where red should flow, he’d never survive. What does it take to become a god? Depravation.
The mirror stares at him. He blinks back.
His knuckles smash through.
The mirror has so many eyes. The mirrors blink at him. He stares back.
Every time he slams that wolf metal into those glass walls, a piece of him rips open a little more. Anger must seep out from somewhere. Anywhere but his mouth. Where it is poison. Where it sits on his tongue, coats his teeth. Where he can recognise the flavour and demand it again.
His hands drip with blood. He destroys another wall. So many mirrors. One for every god. One for every monster. Aren’t they the same things in the end?
And when the whole room is covered in shining pieces, Jason Grace collapses, the smooth wood floor unbending, unbreakable beneath him. And he stares at himself a thousand times over.
Slouched shoulders. Folded legs. Messy blonde hair. Lips tilted upwards ever so slightly. And those beautiful red hands, slick with his anger, so pretty in their power. The only strength. The only thing keeping him grounded to this life.
The light flickers. Flickers again. Everything blinks when there’s so much of it. Flickers once more. The room plunges into darkness. The mirrors disappear.
Jason Grace stands up, slips off his knuckle dusters, and goes to the deck of the ship. The dinner bell sounds out, in his ears, ring ing. Maybe it’s the humanity finding a way out. A way in.
Percy almost knocks into him in the hallway up. Blinks as he pulls to a stop. Sniffs the air. Gaze falls to his hands. The blood drying over his knuckles.
“We’ve come too far.”
He stares, tilts his head slightly, wolf metal. “We’ve gone too far.”
Jason blinks. The blood is gone. His hands smell like salt water. No anger. Not enough light. The only way out is… smashing through.