Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER 28.
There aren’t many rules at Camp Half-blood — which is part of why it’s so great. The rules in the handbook (or Apollo’s shitty music video) are more like suggestions with vague consequences, such as don’t venture into the monster-infested forest or don’t maim anyone lest you lose your dessert privileges.
However, the unspoken rules of CHB are a matter of life or public humiliation (which is basically death to a bunch of angsty teenagers).
One: Never go against a Nemesis kid.
Two: Never put a spider in the Athena cabin.
And three, the most important of them all: Never trust a Stoll.
Breaking at least one of these cardinal rules is a demigod rite of passage here at Camp Half-blood. Sure, the prissy Roman camp has cool tattoos and ranks, but getting hunted down by vengeful demigods is where the real glory is at.
The significance of the third rule has diminished after the oldest of the brothers, Travis Stoll, left the nest for university. It’s safe to say that Travis was often the enabler and instigator in all Stoll-related incidents. But that doesn’t mean Connor Stoll should be trusted in any capacity just because he’s mellowed down without his brother next to him. After all, one prankster is always much quieter than two.
Malcolm Pace knows this better than the back of his own hand.
“What do you want, Connor?” he bites out, back to the door. He’s the only one in here, seeing as the rest of Cabin 6 had retreated to the lake to fight off the heat. The shuffling sounds behind him, like someone scuffing their shoes against the ground, ceases.
“How’d you know it was me?” Connor warily asks as he walks further into the Arts and Crafts Center, where Malcolm sits at a corner table. His shoulders hunch further, attempting to shield the table from Connor’s prying eyes with his body alone. He pushes his overgrown blonde hair away so it doesn’t obstruct the sliver of Connor’s lithe frame that he’s able to see. It’s always good to keep the boy in sight unless one wants to be robbed of all but the clothes off their back.
“I know everything,” he deadpans, slamming his sketchbook shut. He relishes in the flinch it extracts from Connor as he inches further into Malcolm’s peripheral vision. It’s disarming to see him so nervous and jittery. The Connor Stoll that Malcolm has always seen laughed in the face of nerves. Malcolm’s eyes flick to the pockets of Connor’s shorts, which are unusually empty, instead of being filled to the brim with fidget toys.
He snatches a nearby fidget cube and tosses it at him. Connor catches it single-handedly, shooting Malcolm a grateful look and leaving the frayed edge of his shirt alone.
“Where are your usual fidgets?” Malcolm asks, because he just needs to know. Connor is never without them, unless he wants to combust from understimulation.
Connor winces. “I gave them to my siblings and some other younger campers for today.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, still fidgeting away, as a cocky grin lights up his face. Malcolm preemptively rolls his eyes. “Aren’t I such a great person?”
And there’s the insufferable bastard that Malcolm loves to hate.
“Sure, Stoll. And I’m a cyclops.”
“Really?” Connor pretends to stroke his beard. “I’m pretty sure a cyclops only has one eye, not four.”
Malcolm pushes up his glasses with his middle finger, finally turning to face the pest head on. “How unoriginal.”
Connor shrugs. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Ambrosia isn’t going to fix your nose after I break it,” he mumbles. That pulls a laugh out of Connor as he plops down on the cushion across the table. “What are you doing here? I sincerely doubt you have an artistic bone in your body, seeing as your only talent lies in being a nuisance.”
“Hey now, pranking is an art!”
“Your pranks are a plague upon earth.”
“Aren’t you supposed to say, like, ‘no offense’ after you insult me?” he grumbles.
“Oh, but then I’d be lying.” Malcolm ducks his head as he starts packing up his stuff, hiding his smug smirk. “I’m not the liar out of the two of us.”
Connor stands up in tandem with Malcolm. His hands remain on the short desk so he’s staring up with big, blue eyes behind a curtain of curls. A sliver of tongue traces over his front teeth as he grins. “What, scared I’ll corrupt you?”
“You’re hardly something to be scared of, Stoll.”
Malcolm holds his pressing stare with relative ease. Connor, however, does not. His gaze breaks to flit around his face, never focusing too long on one point. Even as he turns his body to leave, Malcolm’s eyes remain attached to Connor’s, bullets to a target.
Time stretches for far too long. Malcolm turns.
“Go on a date with me!”
“What?!”
Malcolm whips around so fast that he hears a pop in his neck. “What did you just say?”
He waits for the other shoe to drop, for Connor to fall into hysterics as he points at Mal's dumbstruck face. But Connor remains rigidly and intensely watching him, lips pursed. All Malcolm can hear is the faint screaming of children, which is always Camp Half-blood’s favourite soundtrack, and the click clacks of the fidget cube. He can’t even hear himself breathe.
“What did you just say?” he repeats.
Connor moves his mouth around in a grimace, like the words are trapped behind his teeth and the only thing keeping them in are his sealed lips. “Go on a date with me,” he says haltingly, each word using another breath.
At the forefront of his mind, Malcolm marvels at how it takes Connor so much effort to offer even the semblance of a compliment to him. But somewhere deep below, Pandora’s pithos opens and a spark of hope emerges. Finally, finally, Malcolm gets to have a stupid teenage romance. He gets to be more than an encyclopedia, or a strategist, or a toy soldier in a bigger scheme. He gets to be the sort of carefree teen that can afford to sneak out with a paramour, or wake up with an arm around his shoulders, or experience every single first that the Fates happened to skip over until now.
But then he looks at Connor’s shifty eyes. Their stares connect for a split second, in which Malcolm recognises a glint hiding among deep blue. The sort of glint that lights up his elvish features, a look he’s only ever seen when Connor is playing a… prank. A prank.
And Malcolm remembers that Pandora’s pithos held worse than just hope. Dread and resentment snuff out the light, cold wind to a candle. It festers into something dark and murky, sitting solid in his throat. Malcolm swallows it down and wishes his stomach acid was strong enough to disintegrate the sick feeling it leaves.
This isn’t Connor’s usual modus operandi. Normally, there would be some sort of physical evidence of the prank, along with the mental scar. A court jester, not an evil clown. But this sick joke doesn’t sound like something Connor would cook up on his own.
“A bet,” he gasps. The pieces click into place when Connor’s eyes widen guiltily. “This is a bet, isn’t it?”
“H-how did you…” he stammers out, taking a step back.
“Like I said, Stoll,” Malcolm feels his lips stretch up, forming a manic edge along his grin, “I know everything.”
Connor retreats even more, especially when Malcolm calmly places his things down without breaking eye contact. Malcolm stalks towards him as Connor scrambles back, far too alarmed to risk looking away.
“For a second, I thought you were dumb enough to actually ask me out.” Connor’s back hits the wall. Despite being a few inches taller than him, Connor cowers away from Malcolm. They stand toe to toe. Connor’s frightened gaze flicks between Malcolm’s grey eyes frantically. “But then it seems that even you’re aware that an act is pointless if you know the response will be futile.”
Connor clasps his hands together in front of his face. “Please? I’m going to lose so much money if I don’t win this,” he begs.
Malcolm tilts his head. Connor absentmindedly replicates the action like a lost puppy. “So. How much did they pay you to ask out someone you hate?”
The son of Hermes ducks his head, preferring to stare at the paint splattered floorboards instead. Malcolm kicks his shoe impatiently. “Well?”
“One hundred dollars,” he mumbles out.
Letting out a low whistle, Malcolm slowly steps away. Connor’s shoulders sag like a massive pressure just disappeared off his back.
“And who do you owe this to?”
Connor’s face twitches. “Travis.”
“Right.” Malcolm leans against the opposite wall. Letting his head thunk against the wood, he stares at the boy from underneath his glasses. “So you either lose a hundred to Travis or gain twenty dollars.”
“What do you mean twenty?”
“Well, if I’m to go on this date with you, I deserve compensation, right?”
“You’re not getting eighty percent of it!” Connor scoffs, pushing himself off the wall. It seems he’s finally remembered his height when he squares his shoulders. Puffing his chest out like a proud pigeon does nothing to deter Malcolm however.
“Fifty-fifty, come on!” he barters. Malcolm shakes his head. “Sixty-fourty? Sixty percent to you?”
“You seem to forget that you’re the only one who could lose in this situation. You either lose money or you gain money. Surely you can tell which is the better option, O son of Hermes, god of trade.”
Instead of his face falling into resignation like Malcolm wanted, Connor smirks. “Oh? It sounds to me that you don’t consider going on a date with me as a loss. Something you wanna confess, Pace?”
In between their little negotiation session, they seem to have gravitated to the middle of the room, once again mere inches apart. Malcolm presses a single finger into Connor’s chest. The boy lets himself lean back as far as he dares before having to catch himself.
“Don’t push it,” he warns. “I could refuse flat out. I’m only considering it now because you’re quite pitiful and this situation is funny.”
It’s far from funny, actually. The ache of a hope long lost makes itself known in his chest. But the prospect of outpranking a Stoll brother, even if it is just Travis, is too enticing to ignore. Besides, why shouldn’t he get paid for having to interact with Connor?
“But, I will consider the fact that you have to go on a date with someone you hate. Even if we both know that my company is much more tolerable than yours.”
“That doesn’t say much, since that’s such a low bar to beat in your opinion,” he rolls his eyes.
Malcolm shrugs. “You said it, not me.”
Connor’s resulting glare is glorious. Amongst his smiley, cheeky disposition, Malcolm is the only one who can get Connor to scowl and sulk like a moody toddler. Even in the midst of war, the boy wears a perpetual smirk below his steely eyes. Of all Malcolm’s privileges, the ability to get under Connor’s skin is by far the most rewarding.
“Seventy percent to me, thirty percent to you. Final offer.”
Connor grits his teeth. “How generous.”
“Aren’t I such a great person?” Malcolm mocks back. He nods at his outstretched hand. “So?”
After eyeing his hand for three seconds too long, Connor clutches his hand. Before they can shake on it, Malcolm tugs him closer, almost cheek to cheek.
“If you even try to cheat me, Connor Stoll,” he whispers in his ear. The hairs on Connor’s neck stand up and he swears he feels the taller boy shiver. “I will find out and not even the gods could save you from me.”
When he leans back, Malcolm doesn’t find fear but instead determination in Connor’s relentless gaze.
“Deal,” he says. “I swear it on Cabin Eleven.”
But of course, as quickly as the solemn expression appeared, it’s wiped off faster. With the speed of the trickster god he descends from, Connor places a kiss on the back of Malcolm’s hand before he gets the chance to snatch it away.
In utter horror, Malcolm gasps. “Ugh! Gross, Stoll! Who knows where that mouth has been?!”
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you, Mal?” Still cackling at his scowl, Connor jogs out of the Arts and Crafts Center. “Pleasure doing business with you!”
Malcolm thoroughly wipes his hand on his jeans, taking a mental note to grab some bleach from the Big House.
Insufferable. Life would be so much better if that wretched boy was predictable, like a math equation or the steady etch of pencil on paper.
Life would also be so much better if he didn’t just agree to go on a date with Connor Stoll.