Liquid fire. It isn't a metaphor anymore. Not to him.
He wonders and ponders and thinks and mulls it over. Fire. He's constantly cold these days. Shivering and trembling. The room is hot.
He sits by the flames more and more. He doesn't talk to the lovely brunette that tends to the embers, though. She seems nice enough. But he's busy. His Annie visits him and always says only he can call her that. He smiles, his eyes vacant and looking a bit pained. He sits and sits and doesn't move and stares.
For hours.
Sometimes Jason joins him and tries to talk to him but he is busy. Each word pulls at his eyes because that voice sounds nice and important by every single syllable distracts him. The fire paws at the sky and rakes its greedy fingers over the wood. It claws and embeds itself and devours it. Normal flames have a certain sense of remorse before they die out. These don't.
They scare him and entrance him and he wants to move but what if he just- no. They wouldn't like that. He still wants to, though.
These flames stay strong and merciless. They are just like people that way. But, with the absence of regret they are less human. They don't feel bad for ravaging the logs or scorching the ground. Their last dying thought isn't, Why did I do that? Or even, why didn't I do that?
He walks barefoot even though there's frosted dew on the grass. It feels nice. His destination is the same every single early, early morning. His hands trembles as he wrings them and sometimes when he's sure no one is looking he reaches out. Someone, Nobody, turns to look at him and he sweeps his fingers through the little drops of moisture instead. It spreads to his palm and no matter how hard he rubs his hands on his pants he stays freezing, regretting even looking at the grass.
Leo tells him it's definitely not all that. He says it isn't something to be interested in. Piper says it's weird and so does Thalia and everyone else but he ignores them. It's more fun to ignore people. They get in the way. He gets lonely, though. He wonders why Frank doesn't visit him that much. He looks scared. Frank says they just creep him out.
They are odd.
Today it's hot and he's shivering. It's a busy day. He doesn't know why. So, his friends are all off doing something because they think he's not going to do something "stupid". He hadn't been edging closer to the coals and his eyes didn't look so empty or hungry for a couple days. They were still cloudy but apparently he was doing better. Plus, Rachel was going to come and paint with him. He always subconsciously picked hot colors and somehow ended up with a landscape he wanted to burn. Not because of how beautiful the fire was. It was rough it terrifyingly familiar. He just didn't like the look of the painting. He can almost remember.
Remember what?
He rocks himself a little and plays with the grass. He scoots closer and no one is grabbing his hand leading him somewhere more "fun". His lips curl. The cloudy eyes are wide and he realized no one is going to stop him. For weeks or months he's been wondering and pondering and thinking and mulling. He's been watching people burn his canvas for him. Today he will have his fun.
He hears his name and it sound a bit frantic. The words go in one and ear and out the other and the corners of his mouth point up, sharp. His teeth show as his fingers finally grasp what he's wanted- no –needed for so long. He smells burning flesh as the fire crackles and caresses his left hand. Someone, maybe Rachel, screams.
And Percy smiles.
oO-Oo
Just a drabble I wrote really late one night. Let me explain, though. This is Post-Tartarus Percy, who forgot what happened down there because of the sheer trauma. He has an obsession with fire because what I believe Tartarus looks like it hot colors and, well, pretty much like hell. He feels cold because compared to Tartarus, everywhere else is cold. So, yeah, I'm gonna try to focus on another fandom, Noragami, but I liked this idea and I needed a story to hold you guys over. Bye bye!