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The Second Titan War is over.
It's over now.
Except it isn't, and it probably won't be for a long time. Not when her heart aches in her chest like this, not when his eyes are so hollow it hurts. Not when they're both bruising and battling and still not moving on.
(Idiots.)
(We're both idiots.)
Clarisse can't go a single day without feeling ashamed at the fact that she wasn't there, that she didn't get there in time. She spent the majority of the battle being a popsicle and the only useful thing she did was killing that goddamn drakon.
She's pissed about it, to say the least. She's mad at herself for being so irrationally stubborn and refusing to help even when Percy asked her to. She hates herself for not being selfless enough to just get over herself and fight when it had mattered.
She lost friends over this. But she's not the only one.
(Not the only one.)
(Never the only one.)
It's strange, how drastically everyone's changed in this war. How friendships, relationships changed, too.
Her prime example is Percy and her.
He used to be the most irritating person she knew. He had this sort of thing to him that irked everyone, something about him was just off. Something about him rubbed everyone in the wrong way, and he knew that. It was why he was so insufferable to be around. He had this take-no-shit attitude that Clarisse hated more than anything.
But now? Hating him just seems a little silly.
She finds Percy sobbing over a picture of him and Luke once, shoulders drawn into his frame and shaking with the brutality of his crying. His eyes are gleaming with tears and he looks so small and vulnerable and tired.
They never talk about it.
She thinks he might've loved Luke and never said a thing, through war and death and fight after fight. He had the best reasons too.
Luke was a dick. He died a hero, but he was undeniably an asshole while he lived. It's unfair that he'd be loved by someone so loyal, so selfless. So unbelievably stupid.
It's the only time she's ever seen Percy Jackson cry.
(Why did you leave me, Luke, why did you betray me, why, why, why.)
You know the answer.
Percy is still a lot. He still has a resting bitchface and an annoying tendency to do absolutely reckless things in the face of danger. He still hates flying and he still likes blue food and he still flinches every single time someone raises their hand at him, but he's different now.
Clarisse doesn't know how more people don't see it. See the way his eyes are too absent, too tired for a sixteen-year-old. See the way he always has his pen in his hand, mindlessly fiddling around with it. See the way he flinches when people talk too loudly. She doesn't know how more people don't see how tired he is of everything.
Of living?
(Of battling.)
(Of war.)
Liar.
She does, though. And she can't bring herself to hate him as much as she used to. Not when his smiles are so brittle and the bags under his eyes just get darker and darker and he has this haunted look to him. He's quieter now, more agreeable, less irritating.
And, most importantly, he understands. He understands what it's like to not be able to sleep. He knows what it's like to watch everyone laugh while the war still rages on in his heart. He knows what it's like when he feels like too much blood is on his hands and clogs up his throat.
Sometimes, Clarisse still feels like she can't breathe. Tremors settle in her lungs then, a bloody battle she fights all on her own with every breath. Sometimes she thinks she's choking on Silena's blood, and the image of her beautiful, burnt features is etched into her mind like little else.
She always ends up with Percy.
(Who else?)
(Who else saw Silena burn?)
Percy is there for her and she doesn't even need to ask. He hugs her when she needs it and gives her space when she needs it and talks to her and leaves her alone again. He lets her sleep over in his cabin even though they mostly end up talking the entire night. They both can't sleep and they both can't move on and they just keep going.
He's so easy all the time, easy to talk to and easy to be with. He gets her when she herself doesn't, and there's this weirdly dull pain in his eyes that reflects in her soul.
Sometimes pain keeps people human, but he has the curse of Achilles and he wears it like a crown.
A crown that suffocates him.
People think they're strangely close now. They used to hate each other over petty reason x and petty reason y, but now?
She's just tired, and Percy is too.
Whatever souls are made of; yours and mine are the same.
(I wish, Clarence.)
"You ever been to New York?"
Clarisse looks up at him. He's hanging upside down from her bed in her cabin. He does that a lot. The others are all at dinner, but Percy hasn't moved since hours (or talked) and she stays with him, always.
She shrugs. "Nah, why?"
Percy's lips pull upwards in the ghost of a smile. His eyes are still far too absent, but he blinks and some light bleeds back into them. "You got to, though. I can take you there somewhen."
When he goes missing, it's hard on her.
Percy?
Percy.
Percy, I know you're not dead. You can't be.
Come back home.
Please.
Clarisse is constantly irritated and angry, she spends her hours awake cursing Percy for leaving her the gods for not helping and whatever took Percy away from them. They'd just started to be really good at normal again. She's so happy with Chris and he's so happy with Annabeth and life isn't fair, it never was and it's never going to be.
She's had his voice in her head for a year now, and she despises silence.
She looks for him, of course she does. She dreams of him too, a couple of times, but it's all vague and frustrating and he just looks like he's being hunted down by something.
When he comes back, Clarisse looks at him for a long time.
He probably seems alright to everyone but her. Everyone but her, because even if Percy is madly in love with Annabeth, he spilled all of his worst secrets to Clarisse over clouds of smoke and ice cold toes. Everyone but her because they tried to fix each other a long time ago and it worked halfway. Everyone but her, and she knows that he knows that when she looks at him. She knows him like the back of her hand.
He looks... tired.
(Haven't I always been?)
Liar.
The light has faded out of his green eyes again, replaced with that dull look that she used to hate so much it hurt. His hair looks like he cut it blindfolded with his sword in the middle of the night. There is too much withdrawal in his stance and too much absence in his gaze, and his fingers are bruised black and blue and purple.
Clarisse walks up to him and squints her eyes a little, trying to catch, to determine, but his emotions are hidden behind a mask of a halfhearted and still assholish grin. She hates that fucking grin, and he knows it. It's a testament to how brittle he is.
"Miss me, Clarence?"
His voice is hoarse and rough and of course he uses his stupid nickname for her and he's here, he's really here.
The war is over. Gaea is gone. Leo Valdez is dead.
('Cause I missed you.)
Clarisse smiles so widely she feels like her face splits in half. It feels like a grimace, and it probably looks like one, too, but she's just so unbelievably relieved that he's here, so she just smiles and hugs him. She wants to cry.
He doesn't. Not really. Percy doesn't cry.
It's because he got into x fight and his stepfather beat the shit out of him when he started to cry after getting expelled from y school. She knows that.
I know a lot about you.
(Wouldn't want it any other way.)
Percy wiggles his toes in the chilly air of the night. Clouds of smoke float above them as he blows out a long breath, he watches it float and lose itself in the wind before he takes another drag on his cigarette. Clarisse follows the smoke's journey with her eyes and wonders how many of her secrets she's given away under its promise of safety.
"D'you got a driver's license and shit?"
Clarisse shakes her head. "Nah. You?"
He huffs out an empty laugh. "Yeah, I do. Thought I'd never get to use it, but look, I'm still here. I'm sixteen and I'm here and I'm still alive."
Sometimes Clarisse doesn't know whether or not he's glad that the dying hero in the prophecy wasn't him. Sometimes she looks at him and doesn't know whether or not he walked into that battle thinking he was going to die or wanting to.
(I killed Bianca. It's my fault she's dead.)
Shut up, Jackson.
(What about Beckendorf?)
Just shut up. You're not guilty.
(Yes. Yes, I am.)
No, you're not.
You're not.
Do you hear me?
Percy?
Percy?
(Liar.)
Everyone stands there and watches Clarisse cling to Percy like her dear life depends on it. He slings his arms around her loosely, burying his nose in her shoulder, and she feels like she's going to cry. He's a bit taller than her now, probably six feet.
(Don't have it in me to brag about it right now.)
"Don't you ever just leave like that again, Jackson," she says out loud, and her voice sounds weirdly tearful as she closes her eyes.
Percy snorts quietly. It sounds hollow and bitter and he's just the same as he was a year before, just the same he was when he came home from the war. Just a little more stronger.
"I won't," he mumbles.
She wishes he could swear on it, but they both know life isn't fair like that. They've both seen it, they stood on the edge of time together, and Silena was dying between them because of love and lies.
He mumbles, "I won't," and it's a lie.
Liar.
(I'm sorry.)
Liar.
She can feel him crumbling, trembling around jagged edges, falling apart in her arms like he was never alright in the first place, but he still fucking smiles when they seperate again and he looks at her. There are glass shards inside of him, like something's shattered in his chest. Like something about him is broken, something that isn't her job to fix.
He looks exhausted and too thin and too pale and there's a scar on his throat. She's never been silmutaniously happier and sadder to see someone in her entire life.
The war is over.
(Not for us.)
(Never for us.)
He gets hugged by so many people that day, and they all treat him the same way, like he's a delicate thing, closer to the edge than anyone else. Annabeth doesn't leave his side, and when he smiles at her, it looks more honest and vulnerable than before.
She doesn't need to be told that he doesn't have the curse of Achilles anymore. The scars speak for themselves. She hates, hates, hates herself for being glad.
(Heavy is the head that wears the crown.)
Shut up, Jackson.
(You know I'm glad too, right?)
Sure.
(I mean it.)
Yeah, I know. You're strong.
(I wish.)
You're still here. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?
(What doesn't kill me should fucking run.)
He's different.
It's not the tattoo burnt into his forearm, the trident and the mark for one year that she knows is from Camp Jupiter, it's not his back that is so scarred the skin looks borderline ruined in some places, it's not the way he's skittish about everything.
He's just so angry.
They play Capture the Flag and he almost drowns someone. His fighting pattern becomes unrecognizable to Clarisse even though that used to be one of the most steady constants in her life. He swears a lot and he yells at the walls in his cabin and he never, never cries.
It's not Clarisse's job to fix him. But still, they helped each other back on the track once, and she can do it twice. For him.
Are you there?
(What do you fucking think?)
Then tell me what the hell is wrong with you.
(I don't know, Clarisse!)
For once, it's him that shuts her out, and not the other way around. And she hates it, because he's supposed to be easy, he's supposed to be her best friend and not a ticking fucking time bomb.
She gets at the only thing she's ever gotten right and goes over to his cabin.
Percy is lying on his bed. Upside down. The upper half of his body is hanging over the edge. Familiar. Typical.
You know all the blood is gonna rush into your head, right?
He doesn't answer.
She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe of Cabin Three. He has such a pretty cabin and he hates it so much because when Tyson isn't here, he's so lonely.
(Percy.)
Nothing.
(Answer me. For fucks sake, please talk to me.)
He sits up and turns around. His eyes are flaring with anger, induced so quickly and startling she almost takes a step back under his drilling gaze. But she stands resolute, because he doesn't fucking scare her, she's just so unbelievably reminded of Poseidon when his eyes are full of so much anger and she hates that.
"Have you ever done something so bad you felt like you couldn't breathe?" he presses out through gritted teeth. "Like you don't deserve to after you did that? Like everything, every single fucking thing in your life is always, always going to be stained red from the blood that you spilled?"
His words hit her unexpectedly hard.
He laughs harshly. "Or golden. Everything is golden, Clarence."
What did you do?
(I tried to kill a godess.)
Why?
(Because I could. And I think I wanted to.)
Liar.
She's missed basically lying on him and talking about something that doesn't matter. She's missed the smell of the sea in his breath and the dark shadows under his eyes. She's missed him so much, and she's missed him so long.
He tells her a lot of jarring things.
They go out to the beach in the middle of the night and they go to the woods in the middle of the day. She thinks getting things off his chest helps him, because he's less angry with every day and new campers aren't afraid of him anymore.
He has it in him still, to be gentle. He's been through too much crap. He needs time to learn softness again, but he'll manage. He always does.
Annabeth pulls her aside one day and thanks her. Just thanks her, gray eyes earnest and something hopeful in them that she adores. She never bottles things up like Percy does. She supposes that's why he's so messed up.
(D'you got a cigarette?)
For you? Always.
Clouds of smoke follow, and Percy finally talks to her again. About terrible things that scare the shit out of her at night when she's alone. His voice cracks and shakes and sometimes she thinks he's actually going to cry, but then he just buries his face in his hands and the tears never come.
He doesn't tell her about Tartarus much. She taps that scar on his throat and gently asks about it, and he talks about curses over curses and blind eyes and dying, and she thinks maybe it was too much.
Maybe she can't make him feel better. Maybe nothing can, after what he's been through.
And of course, he tells her about Akhlys. It doesn't scare her, what he did, and she thinks somehow that keeps him talking. His voice is so full of fear and hatred and anger it sounds like he's crying.
That's where it comes from, all his anger. It stems from fear. Fear of his own abilities.
Everything is golden, Clarence.
Talking about Tartarus is never a good thing, but it somehow has to be. Percy needs to talk about all the horrible things that happened in his life, or else he's really going to explode one day. And as much as she loves him, she wants him to be as far away from Camp Half-Blood as he can when that happens.
You alright?
(I miss Luke.)
Clarisse is silent for a while until he keeps talking.
(Not as enemy. As my... my... whatever the hell we were, before.)
I think the word you're looking for is 'friend'.
(No... no, I don't think- I think... I think- I might've loved him.)
She wants to snort.
You're only realizing that now?
Percy cares about her snippish remark. Why would he? He really shouldn't, he knows her better than that. It's sort of stupid. But he cares, and it cuts through his scarred skin and Clarisse is sorry.
(It's hard to realize you've loved when you've only been good for hate your entire life, Clarence.)
She closes her eyes.
Yeah, I know.
They float around each others thoughts for a short while, enjoying the silence.
(I hate him.)
Yeah. I know.
Things get better after a while. He wakes up screaming and smokes too much, but he smiles more again, and he's not nearly as angry as he used to be. It's good. They're good now. He's not going to stay forever and she tries not to think about that too much, but they're good now.
He doesn't stay for long. And she knew that, but she tried not to think about it for too long, because she really wanted him to stay.
It's all too much, and she gets it, she really does; she doesn't know where the sudden bitterness in her mind comes from when he asks her to help him pack his stuff. She doesn't know why she can't let him go if she already understands, and she does.
It's too much. The wars, both of them, the battlefields, the cries of terror, the blood on his hands. She understands, more than ever. So does Annabeth. So they all let him leave, let him go back to New York, to his family. Where they can all pretend, forever and always.
(Sometimes I think you and I were the same thing.)
Were?
(I don't know. I feel like... like hell's catching up with me. Does that make sense?)
For you it does. For me? Not so much.
(Theory proven.)
She's there when he shakes hands and goes back to New York. She walks him down Half-Blood Hill, and they don't need to say anything. They don't. They don't-
"You'll be back?" she blurts out anyways.
He doesn't smile. He looks tired. But he takes her hand and holds it in his, and she stares into his sea-green eyes and thinks a thousand things.
"I'll always be, Clarence," he says hoarsely.
Liar.