Disclaimer: Percy Jackson and its characters solely belong to Rick Riordan.
This story can be found on Tumblr, and now, on AO3 as well as my other works.
Only Human
But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
He's only human, was the constant reminder that Perseus Jackson instilled firmly onto his mind as his calloused fingers delicately caressed the dozens of self-inflicted cuts – fresh and old – carved onto that once immaculate and pale skin of those arms. The skin beneath his fingertips was unnaturally cold, comparative almost to the body temperature – or lack thereof – of a mutilated corpse. He had seen enough of deaths in his lifetime; held multiple corpses within his arms. But, never like this.
The son of Poseidon had been convinced that the purpose of that worn aviator jacket was solely for aesthetic purposes; a fashion appeal and a personal trend, and a means of comfort. He inhaled that belief without hesitation, with no hints of doubts or plaguing inquiries on how the son of Hades could withstand adorning it despite the heated climate. He inhaled those gestures – Jason's obvious concern, Will's lingering eyes, and Hazel's barely concealed crushed expressions – towards Nico as nothing more towards his unhealthy lifestyle without a question if those gestures meant more than what he intended to believe. He inhaled Nico's withdrawn nature and those lifeless dark brown eyes – edging close to black now – as nothing more than mere consequences of venturing to the depths of Tartarus. He inhaled his own little white lies greedily, foolishly, in preference to being an oblivious party.
Regrets are like arsenic, coursing through his body with that intent to slowly kill with that excruciating pain. Yet, his pain was nowhere comparable to that which Nico di Angelo decided to bear on his own.
"Why are you doing this, Nico?" he vaguely registered asking, looking disconsolate at the sight of those desolate and unseeing eyes.
Bony fingers trailed along the mangled skin, tracing each passing cut in a sickeningly fond manner. A small smile lifted those thin lips, bleak and just as equally lifeless.
"Forty-nine," was breathed out.
Percy loathed those numbers; loathed what they represent with each instance that they were breathed out. Forty-nine cuts. A tally of the self-inflicted wounds that marred the skin of his arms; a tally of the self-inflicted wounds that he shrouded from prying eyes with the thin barrier that was of his worn jacket. Essentially, it was a tally that managed – though barely – to keep the detached son of Hades from completely falling apart; from losing ground.
His sanity was short-lived, now only fleeting, since the end of the wars. Tartarus, Jason forcibly voiced out once. The phase stemmed from the depths of that hell, and with each life by which the son of Hades had to reap by obligation, a fresh cut was his equivalent price; his penance and redemption.
I'm a monster, Percy, Nico had voiced out once, no recent kill fresh from his mind. Ambrosia and nectar, they are capable of healing physical injuries. But they can't save me from my own demons. I'm a ticking time bomb. You can't save me, Percy. No one can.
Just like you can't save Zoe or Beckendorf or Michael or Silena or Luke… or Bianca, was an unspoken statement; a sore subject that was left untouched for grave reasons.
They did not need two dysfunctional demigods, not when Percy needed Nico back.
There was something much excruciating of a dysfunctional Nico di Angelo who stayed over one that might have left but remained sane. Admittedly, Percy would have much preferred the latter if it meant that Nico would have the chance to live normally, rather than this of living just barely. The situation lacked flexibility and options. Demigods were expected to slay monsters and – under unfortunate circumstances – their own strayed kind. While the act plucked incessantly at the remaining threads of sanity that the son of Hades possessed, it inadvertently offered a sliver of remedy that had Nico somewhat on ground with reality; sane. They had taken it away once, and once had been a grave lesson learned, if the thin scar running down one of his arms was not enough of an implication.
I'm broken beyond any fixing. I'm a lost case, Percy. You should just give up.
Never once did the thought crossed his mind since Nico offered it to him. There was much that he owed to Nico, and giving up on the younger demigod was an option the son of Poseidon would rather not take, let alone contemplate. Percy believed immensely that he had failed Nico on many occasions and that his failures had contributed to some extent on the damage Nico incurred. A huge chunk of Percy believed immensely as well that Nico was far from being broken beyond any fixing, but that belief dwindled by a fraction along with Nico's state of mind.
One day, you will have to kill me, Percy. It's not an option. You have to kill me. You have to prepare yourself for that.
Percy vehemently denied the possibility of, perhaps, an inevitability. Seeing Nico and envisioning the irrational act of killing – murdering – the boy whom he had sworn to protect after the loss of his sister, Bianca di Angelo's life, had his heart palpitating painfully. He could never prepare himself for that, no matter of under which circumstance he had to do so.
Lifting three fingers and curling them like claws, Percy cautiously dragged them from atop the son of Hades' heart and outwards in a gesture of dispelling evil. For his sake or Nico's, Percy was uncertain of. Once he encircled his arms around the frame of the distant demigod, Percy lost all intention to release him, squeezing him tight as if it would somehow manage to keep Nico whole; as if it would somehow manage to keep Percy assured that he would not lose the son of Hades.
Percy breathed his scent greedily, basking in that slight metallic scent of the riches within the earth, of petrichor and chrysanthemum. This was Nico. This scent is Nico. For a moment, Percy could delude himself that that was his Nico, and not this hollow frame that stared at him with desolate and unseeing eyes, muttering numbers while tracing the multiple cuts on his arms.
Nico was only human, like the rest of them were. They were bound to be severed, to be broken, and to be unsalvageable at some point. Yet, Percy would not accept it. Not for Nico. Never for Nico. For if there was a thing that Percy could only be too certain of, it was that he would be unable to kill Nico di Angelo. Not without killing himself along.
Will you be able to kill me, Percy?
Those desolate eyes slowly blurred in his sight.
.
.
.
finisce l'amore