A/N this is my first upload to Fan fiction! Please, no flames. This is a Leo-centric fic, because I find him relatable, and he's basically my favourite character. Writing like this is different to writing like this, okay? Enjoy!
Leo had once heard someone say that life was like a race. If you wanted to live, you had to run.
That was okay, Leo was good at running. He'd done a lot of running, but not for a while now. He thought he'd found a home, something permanent. Leo thought that the victory against Gaea would make everything better, but the same few words kept bouncing around his skull.
'You will always be the seventh wheel. You'll never find a place among your brethren,"
Even after the Giant war had been won, there were still plenty of monsters to round up, and an influx of demigods were coming to camp-half blood. Anyone could get lost in that mess.
You're all lined up at the start. The gun announces the beginning, and you're all running; running as fast as you can.
A lot of the more experienced demigods, namely the seven of the prophecy, were being sent on errands. Errands to collect new demigods, to defeat rampaging monsters, and to fix damage made to the mortal world. Some were even being sent to Mount Olympus to talk to the Gods.
Leo was spending more and more time in Bunker 9, finding that he needed more and more time alone. Being outside, among the other demigods, dampened his usually cheery outward appearance, and that wasn't a good thing. He needed to keep up his act, polished to perfection. Humour was always a great way to hide the pain, and without humour, what else was he?
You've got to keep up, or no-one will look back. No-one's going to look back; they're all too busy concentrating on winning the race; even if you're only trying to keep up.
Everyone around him seemed to be important to someone or another. Everyone had a best friend, or a boyfriend, or a girlfriend. It's hard being the one who's always last choice, the one who's forgotten… a last resort.
Someone falls over up ahead. The person in the lane next to them skids to a halt and picks them back up. They speed off again. You trip on the same rock, falling flat on the ground. No-one notices and no-one stops. You pick yourself up, even further behind than before.
Leo's fallen over a lot of times in life. Both metaphorically and literally. He never uses his fire anymore, as it gives him a sense of dread and awful guilt. The flames make his stomach lurch and his eyes water. Three times he's hurt someone with fire, and three times too many.
Leo's sitting in Bunker 9 right now, working on a smaller version of the Argo 2. This project has been keeping him sane for several weeks now, even though he's losing sleep over it.
You can feel a presence behind you. Something that's not really there. It's not a nice presence, more like misery and dread. You run harder to escape, but it's too fast. The people up ahead feel it too, because of you, but to them it's more of a nuisance.
But Leo doesn't mind losing sleep over the Argo. It keeps the nightmares away. He can't dream unless he's asleep, can he? He can't be haunted by memories, or dreads, or fears in his nightmares if he's not asleep.
Leo still tries to keep up his humorous façade. Very rarely, someone finds it funny, but those occasions are becoming fewer and more far between. Very often, he chooses the wrong moment to crack a joke, or provide a sarcastic remark, and is shooed away like an annoying gnat.
"Not now, Leo, this is serious,"
"You wouldn't understand,"
"How can you be happy at a time like this?"
"Go away Leo, I'm busy,"
Leo scowls at their words, a bitter taste in his mouth.
You're so far behind now; you can't see the other racers. You fall, and you can't get back up.
Leo can't let himself dwell on his thoughts, or he'll do something bad. He'll get mad, or upset, and that's not a Leo thing to do.
You never cross the finish line. And if you haven't crossed the finish line, you haven't run the race.
He tells himself to calm down, but he's already got up, and snatched the ready-to-go backpack that hangs on a hook at the exit of Bunker 9. He rubs the edge of his eyes, and flicks on a torch, before stepping to the dark outside. It's night and there's no-one about.
No-one will see him leave. His feet are already carrying him away from camp, across the borders, away from them.
He was never welcome there, anyway.
And if you never ran the race…
He is good at running, just running a different race. Maybe this'll be the last time he runs, the last time he does anything. Maybe this life, this race, was never right for him.
If you never ran the race, well,
No-one's going to remember you.