'Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.'
They're sitting on a bench in a crowded train platform, in a haze of smoke and that oily smell and shouts of, 'I love you!' and, 'I'll see you in a few weeks, okay?'.
The mythomagic figurine (Ares, God of War) fumbles through his hands. The statue feels so natural in his hand, almost beckoning. He drops it.
"Shit," swears Nico. "Goddamnit."
Bianca, usually one to hide in her floppy hat and ignore him, whirls around with eyes a-glare. Nico cowers, snatching the figurine off the floor and holds it up as if to ward off a blow, squeezing oh-so-tight.
"Watch," she growls— it's bleeding, a red trickle streaming slowly down his wrist; it's warm— "Your fucking language."
He's looking at the floor now, muttering 'I'm sorry's and 'It won't happen again, I swear!'s. However, the moment her back is turned he waves his hand angrily at her, middle finger askew. A passing woman gapes at him in shock, and Bianca is suddenly towering over him again.
She was watching in the window, he realizes vaguely. She was watching in the window.
His eyes are wide, staring at the cracks in the floor, back pressed against the wall in a futile attempt to make himself look smaller. He waits. Nothing happens. Ares rolls somewhere he can't place.
Slowly, he ventures to look up. Bianca is looking at him, but not with rage like he had expected. She's looking at him in concern. Concern. That's a foreign word, he thinks.
"You're bleeding," she notes.
"Yeah."
"Are you alright? I'm sorry."
"'t wasn't your fault."
"I'm sorry."
They're back on the bench. Nico looks down at his feet. There's another figurine, he notes. Smaller. Less threatening. It's Hestia, he realizes. I should get rid of this one, he thinks to himself, but he remains seated, bag clutched in one hand and the figurine in the other.
Bianca's asleep, head rolling sideways onto his. He settles back. Comfortable. Warm. A fire's warmth blazes in a trashcan nearby. Nice. . . and comfy. . . and warm.
Sleeping, they wait for the sunrise.
i own neither percy jackson or the quote.