matchlights.
Thalia strikes a match, lights a cigarette. She flicks the burning match onto the cracked concrete with an air of casual indifference; her shadow sways and turns in the red glow of the matchlight. She peers through the night at Nico.
The shadow accentuate his face, and it flickers and changes with the firelight and the shadows it casts. He looks up.
"You can still see the stars, y'know."
She nods. Blows out. Smoke mists toward the rooftops, fusing with the city lights, hiding in their glow. "Does that surprise you?"
"They're memories, the fading sighs of the gods. He wouldn't want anything left of them to remain."
"Or maybe he leaves them to mock us." She holds the cigarette at an angle, watches dispassionately as the matchlight flickers out. If anything, the stars are shining brighter now.
"Is it working?" He's looking at her again.
"Yes. Godsdamnit, yes." She shivers in the frigid December air, hugs her free arm around herself. "Zoë's still there. See? She's right there. She's right there but Artemis—" She cuts off, and looks at the ivy crawling up the base of the building.
"I'm sorry."
"No, no you aren't. Hades still rules the underworld."
"I am. I'm sorry. I lost friends too."
She laughs, starkly, a defeated laugh that rings hollow in their ears. "Does it matter now? Does anything. . . fucking matter anymore?"
"Does it have to? It's been five years and Kronos hasn't ripped the world to pieces yet. He hasn't even touched it. You could almost go on pretending like it never happened."
"Almost."
"Not quite," he admits.
"Not quite." Thalia drops the cigarette. With a jerk, her foot grinds it into powder, and it is borne off by the winter winds. "Worst damn Christmas," she mutters.
He smiles, the empty smile of defeatism, tosses something her way. "Here. A present."
"A present? Gee, thanks." She rolls her eyes at the gesture. She looks at the book in her hands, turns it over and over again. She gives a small smile when she reads it— "Pandora's Box. . . thanks."
"Thanks," she repeats. When she looks up he's gone, though. Her grin only fades a little bit. She pulls out another cigarette, lights it, tosses the match behind her, and steps into the street lights. The matchlight is still flickering. It casts the shadows of the alley into disarray.
It is flickering, it is still.