The nineteen-year-old's eyes sweep through the crowd. The twin globes of blue flick to one spot and another, taking in the appearance of the Italian people with an unconcealed fascination. To her, they are so unlike the people of the streets of her native New York. They move with a smoother grace—perhaps, there is just something in the way they talk? She cannot tell, perhaps she is exaggerating in her mind. They speak Italian, just as easily as she herself speaks English. The sound is like an insane chorus burst into song, and she enjoys the way the voices speed about in complex twists.
She likes the narrow streets, she likes the architecture; and her eyes enjoy every curve, every twist, of Italy.
Europe is beautiful.
Italy is beautiful.
What writer could not draw inspiration from such a place?
Apparently me, she thinks, dully.
It is beautiful—that cannot be denied; it cannot be denied that Italy is breathtakingly beautiful, and the sun is shining so strongly in the sky. It's beautiful, she thinks, over and over, it's beautiful, truly beautiful.... The frustration stays.
She sweeps her dark locks of hair behind her in irritation. Even Italy can't sweep aside the empty block that keeps her inspiration at bay. She closes her eyes, in the despair of a writer at the end of her world.
xXx
She meets the prostitute on the eve of Gemini.
She's being insane, wandering herself around the café near her hotel, sipping at water and wandering, simply because she's there, she wants to know the streets, she wants to become one with them. For some reason that seems to reach cosmetic irony, she thinks of the words—veni, vidi, vici; and she hopes again for something to write.
It's sunny again, and the streets are alive with the pulse of bodies moving about. Again she thinks Italy is beautiful, is a special jewel in that crown that is Europe. She thinks that, over and over again, at the world that is so new to her—narrow streets, people that are not diverse in race...everything that speaks the word European in tongues of scenery. It is a change, a drastic change, and she loves all of it. She wants to take in the experience, to soak it up fully before returning to America.
And then she sees the blonde girl.
She sees her—the blonde one, whose revealing clothing only implies prostitution of virginity. She is walking towards the nineteen-year-old American, the writer whose mind does not register the advance of the whore until it is too late.
And then she jumps back in surprise. She wants to run—she wants to run from this girl who—and the thought is what brings her back into a curl of repulse—is willing to spend her days making money—filthy money, working a filthy job, she thinks. But she stays still—out of curiosity?—out of politeness?—she cannot tell herself, but she stays. She looks at the girl, up and down, before the girl speaks.
It is surprising that she can speak English...but she can, and does:
"Do you have a few Euros?"
"Oh...um...," is the nineteen-year-old's only response, but it only takes a moment for her to comprehend. "I think?" She digs into her pocket and pulls out a few—
Then stops.
What the—What is she doing? She is giving money just because someone asked—a complete stranger—a prostitute, no less—
You're not sure about that, she thinks to herself, but she continues her paused act of giving the girl the money.
"My name is Annabeth," the girl continues, calmly, putting the money in her own pocket.
It was common courtesy to return one's introduction with one's own.
"Thalia."
A smile curls slightly on Annabeth's face. "Unique name. I suppose you're from America? I saw you leave the airport the other day. My parents were from America."
"Yes," the nineteen-year-old—Thalia—says. "What were you doing at the airport?" she adds upon an afterthought. And why do you ask?
Annabeth is being friendly—too friendly. As if she is already friends with Thalia. It's unnerving.
Annabeth's smile fades for a brief moment, and she shifts uncomfortably. "No reason," she says; and Thalia knows she is lying.
Thalia's expression hardens, but she lets it relax into a stoic mask with little effort. She fits it in place on her face and keeps it there.
Annabeth smiles again, with some reluctance, and walks away without another word. Soon she fades into the scenery, another faucet on the jewel that is Italy.
xXx
Thalia meets her again the next day.
Annabeth is sipping at something yellow, standing calmly at the entrance of the café.
She acknowledges Thalia with an echo of a nod.
When Thalia returns to the entrance with a purchased cup of simple tea, Annabeth is sitting at a vacant table. Thalia joins her, if only to have some company. They don't speak.
For the next few days the process is repeated.
xXx
Annabeth speaks the first time.
"Why did you come to Italy?" she asks, in an almost listless way.
Thalia is silent for a moment—almost ready to reel in surprise at the abrupt question—and takes a gulp of lukewarm tea before answering. The mass of bitter water moves down her throat, slides down heavily. She says, simply, "School trip."
"I see."
"Do you have any friends here?" Thalia asks back, also in a near-listless way. Curiosity tingles in the back of her mind, at this girl who stands, waiting for her, at the entrance of a café.
A melancholy smile itches to crawl over Annabeth's features. "No."
"I can be your friend." Thalia pauses, a little surprised at her own bravery. Oh...it's all right, she thinks, and doesn't know why she does. "While I'm here I mean."
Annabeth gulps down her drink in one fell swoop; then she looks Thalia straight in the eye, grace in her gray orbs. "Grazie."
xXx
"Who's your friend?" Annabeth asks, pointing at the brunet sitting at another table, chatting with an older man.
Thalia looks over, recognizing her schoolmates. "Percy Jackson and Luke Castellan." She points at the younger man—slim, dark-haired, with eyes like the green sea—then the elder—tall, well-built, blond, with eyes like heaven. "Percy's my friend. I never really talked to Luke"—which is not a lie; her words with Luke had been awkward, sparse.
xXx
"Are you a prostitute?"
Annabeth's head snaps up at the sudden question.
Thalia repeats.
Annabeth's eyes dart around, as though the Italians could understand her companions English. She nods, letting her eyes drop to the table—in shame, in admittance.
She lifts herself from the chair and leaves before Thalia can say another word.
xXx
Annabeth does not come back the next day.
Thalia waits.
xXx
Annabeth does not return still.
Thalia waits. She writes.
xXx
Luke and Thalia speak for the first time with a strike of smoothness. He asks for the identity of the blonde girl she sits with every day and why she suddenly disappeared.
"I offended her," Thalia says. "Her name is Annabeth."
Luke shifts at the slightest, but manages something identical to a sympathetic smile. And he abruptly reaches over and holds her hand. Perhaps it was upon impulse; his palm is unexpectedly warm, and he keeps her hand rested upon his. Thalia lets him.
xXx
Annabeth returns the next day. She does not speak. Her eyes are downcast, as if in fear that Thalia would turn her down.
xXx
The process repeats until Thalia decides to speak again.
"Why did you become a prostitute?"
Annabeth glances up, with eyes and face completely clear. Yet her lip trembles at the slightest. "I ran away from home," she admits. "My dad was starting to shun me—because I look too much like my mom. She died when I was young. I needed money. All I had was my body.
"My dad died later on." She swallows, as if stemming a burst of tears.
Again she stands to leave, but Thalia is more than ready this time—she grabs Annabeth's hand, feeling the sympathy flood and rise beneath her own skin—"I'm still your friend."
Poor Annabeth. Having to run away, having to get such a job. And not being able to turn to anything else. Poor Annabeth...
And she thinks of the airport—like cosmetic irony, she thinks of it, and decides to ask again, sure of an answer. "Why were you at the airport the other day?"
The gray depths of Annabeth's eyes are uneasy. "I don't know," she admits. "I usually don't go there, but I did that day...it was almost like cosmetic irony," she adds, reflecting Thalia's thoughts.
Thalia smiles. With an abrupt feeling, she realizes that she has grown closer to Annabeth.
"It's almost like we were friends in another life."
xXx
Thalia speaks to Luke more often. Annabeth notices, but she only smiles and says nothing.
She really has broken the ice with him.
xXx
Annabeth sees Thalia locked in an embrace with Luke behind the café one day. Still she says nothing, but smiles and walks away with a heavy heart. She is losing the only friend she could feel close to, and so soon.
xXx
Thalia and Annabeth see each other more often. They sit at the café, walk around, just talking to each other, just to be together.
It's strange, Annabeth muses, that their friendship has grown so quickly, in a way that frightens and interests her.
...Almost like we were friends in another life.
xXx
Something frightening happens the day before Thalia is to leave for home.
The thought of Thalia leaving for another world entirely on the other side of the Earth—so far, it was so far...
It hurts Annabeth; she is determined not to think of it; she continues doing her work, and seeing Thalia when she can. Sometimes she wonders how Thalia manages to never flinch at her presence—she wonders if Thalia feels dirtied by her. She herself feels tainted.
And yet she sees Thalia as much as she can. Even if it seems that her skin is covered by substances she would never like to see again—no matter how many times she washes it—she sees her, and clasps Thalia in the thinnest lock of faith.
Luke and Thalia are together, she knows now; all she does is smile for Thalia's happiness.
She watches them as they advance from across the street, dodging cars with ease—(she marvels at the way the so quickly adapt to Italy's insane streets)—and her heart stops. It stops, drops to her gut as a Thalia trips. Like a case of cosmetic irony, cruel irony, she trips as she brushes against the bumper of a car, and another speeds forward without stopping.
A scream is wrenched from Annabeth's throat a she stumbles forward—"NO!"—
Another car—miraculously—so miraculously!—catches a paralyzed Luke at the hip, sending him forward to trip—
Then he and Thalia collide, and roll on the Italian sidewalk—Annabeth can only stare, though tears are forming at the back of her eyes. Amongst bystanders—shocked bystanders—they lie there, stunned, before shakily standing up.
In an instant Annabeth is by Thalia's side, asking her how she is, a lump in her throat, swelling into something that resembles tears.
It frightens her—how she almost loses her friend, Thalia—Thalia, Thalia, Thalia...her friend....
xXx
The next day Thalia is leaving for America. It's a far way from Italy.
xXx
"I'll wait for you," Annabeth says. "I'll wait here, any time I can, until you come back." She nods at the café.
Thalia's mouth opens at the slightest, in wonderment at the touching gesture.
Then she shuts it. She nods firmly.
"I'll return. When I do, we can be friends a little longer. I'll—" she swallows "—I'll—I will..."
You fool, she thinks, you can't set her free. She knows, she knows she can't; she tries not to choke on her tears.
Annabeth waits, with a patience Thalia feels guilty for; the girl seems to know what she is thinking, what she is about to say.
"I'll"—Thalia tries not to choke—"I'll come back when I graduate from college. I'll stay here for a few years, I'll get a job here, I'll be with you..." Words fail her; and she reaches over, clasps Annabeth's hand with hers, in a moment of rare emotion. She squeezes and hopes she does not do it too hard.
Annabeth smiles. "Ti amo," she says, but so quietly Thalia can hardly hear.
xXx
Annabeth waits.
Dawn to dusk, she waits.
When she works, she does she half-heartedly, making the right sounds but never meaning them, thinking of the deep blue eyes of Thalia; her friend's promise ghosting at her lips. Thalia.
She is in a distant land when her clients enjoy her service, doing everything robotically—Thalia, she thinks of Thalia, in America, soon to come back to Italy. She waits.
She almost completely forgets her fear of tainting Thalia just by being near her.
Thalia will come back, a voice in her head murmurs.
xXx
In another life, Annabeth wouldn't be a prostitute. In a utopia of a life, she would be Thalia's friend, along with Luke and Percy. Thalia would leave for a while, but return years later, to stay with her forever. Best friends.
xXx
Annabeth recognizes her next client, years later.
Percy Jackson.
Clearly he recognizes her, and he immediately pays her to do her job.
In the room, however, he makes no move. He speaks,
"Thalia's having a hard time right now," he says. "I'm not sure who you are—but I saw her with you a lot of times when she was here. Luke told me a bit." He cocks his head, the sea green eyes flashing momentarily in the dim light. "I lost contact with Thalia a while ago, but last I heard she was securing a job for here in Italy."
So she was keeping her promise.
"I'm Percy."
I know—but Annabeth doesn't say it out loud.
"Maybe Thalia's mentioned me before."
"Annabeth." She thrusts her hand out, charmed by the line. It is a sign of kindness, a sign of honesty—it is a sign of innocence. To her, he is naïve—but cute. She takes an instant liking to him—cautious but instant.
Percy shakes it; his hand is soft, firm.
"I still need to do my job, you know," Annabeth adds. "You only have a few more minutes left."
"I—what? You—you can't be serio—" He blushes deeply, instantly, and Annabeth has to smile.
"What, you honestly think you can pay and not do anything? Why waste your money like this? Seaweed-brain." And she kisses him on the cheek.
xXx
A book is released. It creates an impact upon the world.
Taking place in Italy, a book based upon romance and friendship, of prostitution and those less fortunate. Between the narrow Italian streets, friendship blossoming.
The world is abuzz with talk of it, of controversy, of the beauty of the dancing words that the story is composed of.
The dedication: "For Annabeth."
Percy brings her an American copy; she admires the waltz and the tango of the words, and loves the truth it is filled with.
The writer's name is Thalia Grace.
xXx
Thalia keeps her promise. She returns.
Annabeth stands at the entrance of the café, after another meeting with Percy—an innocent, innocent little rendezvous of sorts, that she thoroughly enjoyed. She thinks she may be falling in love with him.
She sips at her drink, thinking of him, him and the link he creates for her and Thalia. Percy Jackson. Thalia Grace. The drink is yellow.
She catches the sight of blue, blue eyes among black locks of hair—instantly she is at attention.
The crowd seems to part around the familiar figure, who walks with a brisk manner, head held high, eyes searching for someone.
Gray.
Blue.
Their eyes meet.
In the next moment there is only sweet and pure joy—an awkward but full embrace, perhaps one tear or a thousand tears.
"You're back," Annabeth cries, joyfully, almost disbelieving that she is back after so long. "You're back, you're back...!"
"Yes," Thalia says, breathlessly. "I kept the promise...."
Another embrace.
Thalia almost babbles—for Thalia never babbles—about how she earned the money from writing her book—"Did you read it?"—and how she graduated from college successfully, how she managed to return to Italy and secure a job as a writer, on and on about how she would miss New York but Italy is a beautiful place as well, on and on about how she has missed Annabeth, about this and that...
Annabeth can only smile, and listen.
It is the best thing she can do. And she enjoys every moment of it.
"Ti amo," she murmurs again.
Thalia pauses again for breath, her eyes sparkling with a light Annabeth hardly ever sees on the stoic face.
"I have the money to pay for you now," she says.
Annabeth's heart skips a beat.
"Wh-what?" It is almost a croak.
Thalia smiles. "I can pay for your freedom. I can get you a job—I talked to the manager of this café. I think it's small, but the manager pays well. I called him before I came here, I asked if he had any open spots for a job...it turned out that he doesn't really need one that bad, but he's considering since one of this workers seems to be interested in another job...anyway, he agreed to give you a try, and I didn't tell him about your current job."
She finishes with another smile.
"I..." Annabeth swallows. "I..."
I'll be with you...
Annabeth has no idea how to react—in what way is she to express her sheer joy?—what way to show her gratitude? Gratitude for remembering her—for going through all this just for her?—her, a whore from Italy?
The next thought is childish; she does not call for it, just thinks it. Maybe we were friends in another life...
She swallows and nods.
Then cries.
Her future has been polished and shined.
A new life. She's given me a new life...a better one...
xXx
PT: A few things to go over. I learned somewhere that Italy's streets are crazy. Just—crazy. Pedestrians and vehicles are one. –Giggles- It must be crazier than in China. They don't have traffic in Italy, apparently. I'd also like to acknowledge the fact that I've never been to Europe, let alone Italy, in my whole life. However, my high school has this trip to Italy and Greece next year, which I've signed up for. That's why this fic takes place in Italy, really. The closest thing I have to a European experience right now is Montreal. I drew upon that a little. This is AU, but I did draw upon parallels from the original storyline. And yes, I do imply reincarnation n__n" Luke and Thalia's relationship is minor. I need to acknowledge the fact that I was inspired by Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell and Q and A/ Slumdog Millionaire by Vikas Swarup. I used New York here, simply because I'm from it and Percy's from it. Yes. As for the phrase "Ti amo"—"I love you"—take that as you will. In Italy I think they use it quite loosely. Well...as far as Hetalia goes. That's an anime/manga. Pretty interesting. And why use the age nineteen? ...Because I felt like it x3 Blame Hetalia. But anyway, the waltz and tango thing. I only know the latter—it's a serious, graceful dance, but I always found it quite jerky, in a way. Mostly I'm thinking of the seriousness, since that was so emphasized when I was learning it. I don't know about the waltz, but I always think of something graceful and sliding when it comes to mind. Why prostitution?—because ezyl might like the idea 8D So yeah. Happy birthday to ezyl—the Pi in TomaPi—for whom this fic is dedicated. Very happy for your aging to fifteen, ezyl~ :D