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She listens to the sound of his breath like it's a prayer. In, out, in, out, burning air coming out of his nose, warming her face in such a haunting way. She holds his face right in front of hers, too close but never close enough, and sees his eyelashes falling over his cheeks, skin full of dust, his eyes tired and heavy, his mouth agape.
"Wake up. Wake up, Percy. Do not sleep."
Annabeth shakes him. She slaps his face, yells at him as much as the needed silence allows her. Then he looks at her, eyes wide open, shocked. He nods. She nods.
They keep walking.
*
She feels disgusting. It's pathetic. They've heard each other's battle cries before, have seen each other's ugly expressions of pain, have seen each other's selfishness—they do know each other's fatal flaws. But when Percy looks at her, she looks away.
The floor is hot, uncomfortable under their feet. Percy's mouth is bleeding from when he was biting his lips, there's a painful, purple-green bruise on his forehead, and he still looks beautiful. She loves him. She does. But she is the one who took him there, she's the one to blame.
When Percy looks at her, Annabeth holds back tears.
The universe tore her apart. She's broken, burned ends and poisoned blood. She feels ugly, undeserved of his love. It's guilt, the acid that crawls through her brain and consumes her whole.
It strikes her like lightning. Annabeth cringes, hugs her own body, a noisy and ridiculous hiccup coming out of her throat when she tries to breathe, and then she cries. And cries and cries, and Percy watches—he drinks in the sight of her insanity and his whole face contorts in delirious suffering, in the most human and disturbing expression of pain.
Percy kisses away her tears, kisses away the wet dust on her face, but not her despair. Annabeth holds her closed fists against her chest, almost feeling her ribs breaking and poking her own heart, trying to destroy it from inside out.
He whispers her name, maybe to make her remember it, maybe to keep her grounded. It doesn't work.
She's his killer, his most disturbing monster. Annabeth looks at Percy. Her nails sink into his forearms, her breath comes out in wheezes, and she kisses him.
Percy's lips taste like blood, seawater and her own tears. Is he crying too? He grips her, holds her like his life depends on it, and she wonders if there will come a moment in which she'll have to die for him.
She promised him her life a long time ago. Secretly, silently, quietly, with nothing but the breeze of her own thoughts, Annabeth came to the realization that she would die for Percy Jackson as many times as she'd have to. A life for a life. She'd perish happily, would exchange peace in Elysium for his life on Earth, for his heart beating.
Percy hugs her, and she closes her eyes while focusing on his heartbeats along with hers.
Mine, she listens in her own head, and she knows it's true. Mine mine mine.
*
Will his mom ever forgive her? All this suffering, all the loss, all the despair—will Annabeth ever be forgiven for her own reckleness?
Many Greek tragedies took place in the name of love, in the name of overwhelming passion, panic. Is she part of one of them? Will she rot in the pit, begging for forgiveness, because of everything Percy went through in her name?
If they make it, will Sally still hug her and see her as the daughter she's never had? Will Sally hold Annabeth at night when the nightmares come? Will Annabeth still be loved? Will she ever be able to go back at all?
"Annabeth?" Percy says. He holds her hand, squeezes it until it hurts. Annabeth's heart aches for him, urges for him.
Percy looks just like his mother, even though there's so much of Poseidon in him. Annabeth stares, studies his exhausted eyes and deep frown, lies in the waves engraved in his irises, in the way the air enters and leaves his mouth in takes of tiredness.
What kind of monster would separate a child from their mother—they are extensions of each other, two parts of one. Annabeth closes her eyes, squeezes his hand back, and thinks of this type of love that she, in a way, will never have. And it's because she'll never have it that she's terrified of taking it from him.
"Let's go." Her voice cracks. Survive, survive, survive. "Let's keep walking."
In the end, what even is a mother without her child?
*
She's scared. She can't hear him. Somehow Annabeth knows that he's there, but she just can't find him anywhere, and everything is dark and she's alone and left to suffer and maybe this is karma, maybe this is it.
Percy. Percy, where are you? Percy!
*
He saves her again, and she realizes that the love she feels for him can somehow represent some people's suffering. She'd die for him, while others would kill for what she has.
They are surrounded by the weird darkness of Tartarus, and Percy's gaze is lost. Bob is quiet. Annabeth is starting to question her own sanity.
Percy breathes in and out and the sound is soft, the sound is music, but his eyes are haunted. Even heroes make mistakes.
*
"We're surviving this."
"Percy."
"We are. You are. I am. I promise you. We're getting out of here. Okay?"
She breathes. He listens.
"Okay."
*
They'll survive this. That's a promise. She repeats it in her head like a mantra.
Live, live, live, live, live, so many times that Annabeth is afraid the word will lose its meaning, but it never does.
Live, live, live, live.
*
She hates it and loves it at the same time. Annabeth stares at him, and he stares at what's left of her—there's poison everywhere and they look like corpses and it's horrible and they're both shaking.
Annabeth loves him. She loves him and she would kill and die for him, over and over and over again.
Percy would do the same, and maybe she deserves it, but she doesn't know if she wants it.
(A long time ago, there was a boy with a heart full of sorrow and a never-healed scar on his face. A long time ago, there was a boy, an angry boy that didn't have love in his heart, only twisted hope. Not so long ago, he died.
Why would family matter if you can't control your own madness?)
Annabeth looks at him. She holds Percy's heart in her hands and embraces it, knowing that now the unforgettable and secret parts of who they are are engraved in each other's souls, but it's not because she accepts it that she likes it.
Now, she understands that he will kill for her, but she doesn't want him to destroy. There's a blurry difference between both—killing is about surviving, and destroying is about revenge, about not necessarily losing control, but wanting all of it.
Tartarus is no place for demigods. Tartarus is no place for humans.
Annabeth holds Percy before he slips into insanity. She pushes him back when he almost falls for it, for Tartarus' trap. She makes him promise, and she knows he'll keep it, and she's not scared when their eyes meet.
Never again.
*
She will never forget them. She looks at the cruel battlefield and tastes blood and pain and tears and sadness in her mouth, all together.
Does she scream their names? If so, does Bob listen to her? Is Damasen scared in any way?
Percy pushes her. He's crying too and doesn't even realize it. They run.
*
Annabeth will love him until the day she dies. Together forever, until they are killed or they simply die. Even after her heart stops. She'll still love him in her next life, in every moment in which her soul is still existing.
Percy's gaze is glued to the stars in the night sky, searching, looking for Bob, looking for Damasen, but they both know the world isn't going to recognize them for who they are.
It hurts, but with pain comes freedom.
Alive, alive, alive, alive. Not just surviving. Living.
She puts her hand on his chest. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats, infinite, music, not completely in peace yet, but at least there's something—a new beginning.
When Percy smiles, Annabeth smiles too, and this time it's sincere.