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    Summary

    The sky bleeds into a deep indigo, one of Percy's favorite shades. Apollo knows it.

     

    "What did you think?" The other asks once they're coaxing through the sky, cruising amongst the clouds like birds that belonged there. Percy wonders if his uncle knows that he's up here, or if he is safe in this chariot. Safe with Apollo.

     

    "It was pretty," Percy answers honestly, not one for poetics. Though he knew 'pretty' couldn't possibly capture the feeling that the sunset had left in his chest.

     

    "I think you're pretty," The other says, fast and unabashed. Percy snorts; it's a corny attempt at flirting, his cheeks heat just the same.

     

    "Cute," He comments blandly, lifting an eyebrow at the other as Apollo laughs.

     

    Percy can't help but think that if anyone could have a laugh that sounds like music, of course, it would be the god of song himself.

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