The Drinking Game
An exploration through the darker side of everyone's favorite hero. Because you don't survive wars without some sort of damage in the end.
The dark haired man sat alone at the counter. The bartender eyed him suspiciously; the man seemed a little young to be in a bar. Indeed he was, at the young age of eighteen. However, one flick of his finger, and Mist clouded the man's eyes, and he questioned no more.
Mortals, he thought derisively. They knew nothing of what he'd been through. He was Percy Jackson, Hero of Olympus, and he'd be damned if a mortal bartender would treat him like a kid.
Today was not his day.
Well, technically it was. It was his birthday. August 18. It's kind of hard to celebrate the anniversary of the day half your friends died.
He had dutifully done his obligations for the day. He had taken Annabeth out on a romantic date for their anniversary and put on such a strong mask of happiness, even she had been fooled. He was all smiles when his mom and Paul and friends presented him with gifts at their mini-celebration. I really should've been an actor, he thought. Too bad I was constantly busy fighting for my life.
Now, he sat despondently in a dingy pub, his age cloaked by Mist, and an aura so dark, it turned away other people from sitting anywhere close to him. To Annabeth's knowledge, he was out with the guys. To the guys, (Grover, Nico, Frank, etc.) he was spending a private night with Annabeth.
So he ordered a drink.
"The strongest stuff you've got." he said.
This mourning was all he allowed himself, once a year. It was his burden, his own private moment of weakness. The wars he'd been through the horrors he'd seen. They were all his fault and at this time, they overcame him. How could he be happy, how could he actually celebrate, as the others were confined to the Underworld? They were good people, better than him any day, yet he was here, and they had perished. The Fates were cruel.
So he drank.
One sip for his mother, who'd put up with his shit after all the years. He sometimes wondered if he should just off himself and save her the heartbreak.
One sip for Bianca di Angelo. The first casualty because of him. It never should've been her.
Hell, one for Nico while he was at it, poor kid was too young to lose his sister. He had promised and failed. Never make promises you can't keep, he thought bitterly.
One for Zoe Nightshade. If only he hadn't been so weak, he could've brought her home alive too.
One for Silena Beauregard, who did more than he ever did in the war.
One for Beckendorf, who he'd left to die alone on an exploding ship.
One for all the years Calypso had been left to rot on an island due to the stupidity of the gods. And another one for breaking her heart.
One for Daedalus, a man with infinitely more to give to the world than he, and who'd perished anyway.
One for Castor, victim of an avoidable war. One for Michael Yew, who'd never been found. And he drained the bottle for the nameless demigods who'd perished.
Percy beckoned the bartender over and ordered another. The man seemed almost reluctant to service the disturbed demigod with the insane eyes. However, money is money, and he served it.
Ethan Nakumara. Gulp. He shouldn't have had to sacrifice himself for balance. That was Percy's job.
Luke. Gulp, gulp, and gulp. A tribute to the REAL hero.
Pan, the faded god. Gulp. He had never realized the impact of his human life until too late, and the poor god had suffered.
One drink for the Titan War.
Another for the Giant War.
And a big one for his fall through Tartarus.
He laughed bitterly at his own pain, the scars and memories that would never leave. His knuckles whitened as he clenched the second empty bottle.
Several drinks later, he had progressively sunken lower and lower in the stool, his mind unstable and close to shattering.
One for the abuse he had endured at Gabe's hands. The beatings he had never told anyone about, not even his mother.
One for a deadbeat father.
One for the weight of the sky.
One for a prophecy.
One for a curse.
All he could remember was his name, but that was too much.
One for being born Percy fucking Jackson. And another. And another. Happy Birthday to me, he thought sarcastically and toasted himself to eighteen sips.
And at last he remembered nothing. He didn't know his name, or what he was or why he was here. His grip tightened and the glass bottle shattered, glass slicing his hand. He watched the web of blood stream across his arms. His blood was worth nothing, and so he was not concerned.
He laughed. He laughed at the blood. No amount of pain could ever atone for all his failure. He pressed his arms harder into the glass, grinding it in, as more scarlet fluid flowed.
The tormented man sunk to the ground. The door of the bar swung open loudly.
"Perseus Jackson! You lied to me…" a voice shrieked, entering the bar, but trailed off. The blonde haired girl ran forward in horror seeing her boyfriend lying in a pool of blood and laughing hysterically in a voice she barely recognized.
Her grey eyes met his green ones, and she flinched at what she saw. The raw pain and the insanity. He didn't even recognize her before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out.
And as she dragged his unconscious ass to the car, drizzling nectar on his wounds with patience that only came with love, she couldn't help but wonder what other darkness Percy Jackson was able to hide.
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