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Percy had promised his mom that he would be fine, that he could manage a couple of hours, or even the whole afternoon at home alone, or with Paul, and that she could go to creative writing class and then to the library to gather material for her book.
It was his mother's dream, and she was finally doing something to make it come true, and Percy wasn't going to get in her way again, he wasn't going to stop her from living the life she deserved just because of a mistake she'd made at nineteen, the worst mistake anyone in the Greek world could make: falling in love.
And Percy had said it was okay, that if Paul made her happy, then it was okay for Percy. And it was true: seeing his mother smile had made the oppressive weight of that day manageable, especially after the vote and the even greater burden his father had ironically placed on his shoulders after vouching for him.
But approving of Paul's relationship with his mother had very little to do with approving of Paul’s relationship with Percy himself, assuming such a relationship existed.
So, Percy hadn't expected Paul to be home at that moment, just as he hadn't expected Percy himself to be sick.
Fever, headache, sore throat, and every muscle in his body seemed to be desperately begging him to lie down, even for just a second.
And yet, he couldn't, because Paul was home, and when Gabe was home, Percy couldn't be sick.
Being sick meant being useless.
Being useless meant being a problem.
And problems, in their house, were solved, and always in one way.
Percy had learned never to show when he was sick. It was one of the few things he knew how to do well, along with playing dumb when someone told him something he couldn't remember at the time.
So, when he woke up that morning with a heavy head and a hot body, the first thing he did was get out of bed, get dressed, and walk down the stairs, perhaps walking a little slower than usual, but not slow enough to reveal he was sick.
Paul was already in the kitchen, smiling at Percy when he saw him enter. "Good morning."
Percy paused for a moment in the doorway. "Good morning." His voice was a little hoarse, but not enough to raise any doubts, so Percy didn't worry too much.
Paul smiled at him and looked back at the pan. "I made breakfast." Paul said, gesturing to the table. “Your mom had to go to her morning class. She told me she’s going out for lunch and then going to the library, because it’s across town.” Paul’s expression was confused, but Percy smiled at the old joke between him and his mother, the excuse she told him to use when Gabe questioned him about why he hadn’t come home earlier, a survival trick that had become an inside joke between him and his mother.
They had plenty of those, and Percy was discovering more and more as he grew older.
“Thanks.” Percy smiled cautiously, sitting down in the spot Paul indicated with a ladle—Percy hadn’t flinched at the movement of the ladle, it was just the movement of standing still for too long—and reaching out to drink the blue juice Paul had already poured.
His fingers trembled slightly, enough for the glass to rattle against the table.
Paul looked at him.
Percy immediately lowered his hand. “I’m fine.”
Paul frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking that.” Percy accused, momentarily forgetting that he shouldn’t have spoken like that to Paul.
Paul seemed nice, but Gabe might have been nice too, and it was just Percy bringing that up to the others around him.
It would explain all those demigods who ignored or hurt him; or the gods who wanted to kill him.
“And you can read minds?” Paul raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning Percy's face, searching for something Percy was a little afraid Paul might find.
"No," Percy muttered.
"Too bad." Paul smiled slightly. "That would be an incredible power to have."
Percy smiled faintly.
He took a deep breath, waiting a few more minutes.
Just for a few more minutes.
He could do that.
He'd faced monsters, Titans, Gods.
A little fever certainly wouldn't have gotten the better of him.
The problem was, Percy's body didn't seem to have been informed of the situation.
After a few minutes, his head fell back against the chair.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment.
"Percy?"
He opened them immediately. "I'm fine."
Paul stared at him. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." Percy replied dryly.
Paul moved closer.
Percy stiffened.
It wasn't a reaction he could control.
When a hand came close to his face, his body reacted before his mind could even process the movement, especially when Percy was more vulnerable.
But Paul simply placed the back of his hand on Percy’s forehead.
Percy held his breath.
The hand was warm. Gentle. Normal.
No anger.
No question about how difficult it was for him to do even a simple thing.
No punches.
Just a hand on his forehead.
“You’re hot,” Paul noted.
Percy swallowed, not knowing how to react to an adult caring about him. His mother loved him, but she was almost never home, and Percy had learned to manage his illnesses on his own. “It’ll go better.”
“Percy.” Paul said.
“Really.” Percy insisted, wondering how long it would take Paul to accept that Percy was simply fine. Everyone did it, sooner or later; it only took a few tries with some. “I just need to rest.”
Paul looked at him for a few seconds. Then he picked up the thermometer. “Open your mouth.”
“Paul, it’s no use.” Percy groaned, confused, but Paul was adamant.
“Open up.”
Percy obeyed.
The thermometer beeped a few seconds later.
Paul looked at him. Then he looked at Percy. “Thirty-nine.”
Percy shrugged. “That’s not that much.”
“Thirty-nine.” Paul repeated.
Percy wanted to answer to the implied accusation, but the room began to spin before he could, forcing him to grip the edge of the table.
Paul immediately grabbed his arm. “Hey.”
Percy closed his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
That answer made him open his eyes again.
Paul was still holding him. Not tightly. Just enough to keep him from falling.
“You know?” Percy whispered.
“Yes.” Paul confirmed.
Percy frowned, memories of Gabe overlapping with Paul’s now, showing all the differences. “But I have a fever.”
Paul nodded. “Yeah, I know, buddy, you’re the one who says you’re healthy.”
Percy remained silent.
Paul helped him up. “Go back to bed.”
“No.” Percy shook his head.
“Percy.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” Paul asked then, perhaps trying to use the teacher method against Percy.
Percy opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Why couldn’t he?
Why wasn’t he allowed?
Why should he be supposed to move on?
Why would anyone be angry?
Why did being sick mean being weak?
The answers were so deeply ingrained that Percy didn’t even know which was right.
“I have to do something.” Percy finally said, settling on the one that seemed to sum it all up.
Paul looked at him. “Like what?”
“Anything.” Percy replied.
“Why?” Paul asked again.
Percy pursed his lips. “Because I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
Paul was silent for a few seconds. Then he simply said, “You can.”
Percy stared at him. “What?”
Paul put a hand on his shoulder. “You can be sick. You can rest. You can do absolutely nothing all day.”
Percy looked down.
It was absurd.
It shouldn't have been this hard.
It wasn't a mission.
It wasn't a battle.
There was no one to save.
And yet, Percy felt something tighten in his chest.
“You're not angry?”
Paul frowned. “About what?”
Percy shrugged. “Because I'm sick.”
For a moment, Paul said nothing. Then his face changed. Not enough for Percy to know exactly what he was thinking. But enough. "Percy." His voice was softer. "Why should I be angry?"
Percy didn't know.
That was precisely the problem.
Paul cupped his face.
Percy remained still.
"You're sick."
"Yes." Percy nodded, wondering why Paul kept repeating the same thing over and over again.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Paul said. "You don't have to earn the right to be sick."
Percy lowered his eyes. For a few seconds, he tried to think of an answer, but gave up when he found none.
Paul ran a hand through his hair. "Now let's go to bed."
Percy nodded.
This time, he didn't protest.
Paul walked him to his room, tucked him in, and brought him a glass of water.
When he returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup, Percy was already half asleep. “What is it?”
“Soup,” Paul replied.
“I'm not hungry,” Percy said quickly, fearing for the inconvenience he had caused the man.
Paul wasn't moved by the statement. “You don't have to eat it all.”
Percy barely opened his eyes. “Why do you do that?”
Paul smiled. “Because you're sick.”
Percy stared at him.
That answer again.
So simple.
So absurd.
So different from anything he'd ever known.
Paul sat down next to the bed.
“Sleep.”
Percy closed his eyes.
After a few seconds, however, he felt a hand tuck the blanket in more tightly.
And for the first time in his life, Percy allowed himself to be sick.
Not because he was too weak to hide it.
But because, maybe, for once, he didn't need to.