A/N: Well hello there! This story was originally going to be a one-shot, but I realized it was going to be way too long, so I'll most likely be splitting it into around four or five parts, maybe more.
This is a mortal AU. Sorry if the characters seem a little OOC.
I hope you enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the order in which the words are arranged.
Part One:
And all the things I thought I knew,
Mean nothing when I'm not with you.
You're sitting in the campus library, with your knees tucked under you in the big leather armchair. You clutch your book tightly to your chest and watch the rain pouring heavily outside. The consistent thrumming that usually would have lulled you to sleep now pounds inside your head – a million tiny hammers all working together to drive you to near madness.
It's warm inside, and a month ago, you'd have gone as far as to say it was cosy, but you can feel the cold emitting from the fogged-up window beside you, and chills run down your spine as you put your book down so you can jam your hands underneath your legs where it's warm.
You should really be studying right now, the logical side of you says. But you can't physically bring yourself to do it. You can't really bring yourself to do anything but nothing, recently. If nothing was even something. Which it technically wasn't.
And there it goes again, the logical side of you overruling everything else you try to do. You had tried to tame it after the incident, but it always comes back to rule. It's the side that both protects and kills you at the same time, and as much as you hate it right now, you know you can't get rid of it. And if a chance ever arose where you could, would you? Probably not. You're much too proud for that.
So, for now you do nothing. Or the something that was nothing, and you occupy yourself by watching the drips slide down the window, zig-zagging and growing until they reach the frame at the bottom and disperse into the ground. For once in your life, you wish it would just snow. Sure, it could be annoying, and shovelling it was a pain in the backside, but at least it amounted to something in the end. If there was going to be precipitation, the weather could at least do it properly. No more stupid "in-between" rain.
But the weather here has a mind of its own. You've been in this country for at least two months, and you can't ever remember seeing a single ray of sunshine. But everything seems gloomy to you now, and you doubt that you would see sun even if you were standing in the middle of the Sahara Desert.
Perhaps it's not really the snow that you want. Snow just reminds you of home. But snow is consistent. It is positively and absolutely there. When it stops snowing, the snow stays, and the world is undeniably snowy. But the rain is sly; it buckets down on you one moment and disappears the next, leaving you to wonder whether it is in fact gone, or merely toying with you. And that sense of indecisiveness and false hope makes you angry.
The other thing that makes you angry is the way your family seems so obliviously happy at your success. They're all back in New York, bragging about how their daughter made it into Cambridge. And about how pleased they were. Because that's all you are to them, isn't it? Bragging rights. And how dare they be so happy for you when the reason that they're rejoicing is the same reason you're so torn apart?
But this was what you wanted, right? This was your dream, wasn't it? But what if it was only your dream because the people around you told you it was? You are supposed to be smarter than that. But He saw through it, didn't he? He saw right through the lies and the shams, and when he tried to warn you, you threw it all back in his face.
Because you're an idiot. And you always mess up.
All your life you've worked so hard for the knowledge you craved. And now that you've got it, you've realized that everything means nothing without him.
And all those things that you wrote off as nothings were the somethings you needed.
And all of a sudden, you've flown back in time to the day you met him. Back when the nothings that were somethings and the somethings that were nothings didn't matter. Back to the not-so-long-ago time when you actually believed things could work out in the end. Back when knowledge was everything to you, and above all else the knowledge that he was there. That he was yours.
.
*-Approximately one year earlier-*
You heave a sigh as you pick up your architecture designs off the café table, running a finger over the big brown ring your coffee cup left on the paper. You're pissed. Not just because of the ruined drawings, and the fact that you should have known better than to leave your coffee on them; no, the truth is you've been teetering on the edge of madness all week, and this was just the tipping point.
What you desperately need right now is a break. A break from your parents who've been at your throat all week because you only scored a B+ on a test. A break from the constant voice inside your head, that keeps telling you It's not good enough, Annabeth. It's never good enough.
You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and purse your lips. You don't realize you've zoned out until a voice breaks through your bubble.
"You know, you could probably get that out by dabbing it with some bleach."
Black spots dance before you as you snap your eyes back open and look around in surprise.
There's a boy sitting a table away from you, and you decide he must have been the one to speak, because he's staring right at you. That and the fact that he was the only other person in the café.
He's sitting backwards in his chair, his arms folded across the top slat, his chin resting goofily on top of them. He's dressed like a skater, in a pair of jeans and a blue sweatshirt, and the board resting against his leg confirms your predicament.
He's looking up at you, his green eyes expectant, his head cocked slightly to the side, waiting for your reply. Somehow, it reminds you of a puppy, and you can feel the corners of your mouth tilt up ever so slightly.
"Bleach?" you respond. "You sure?"
He shrugs, "It works for me."
A part of you is surprised that this boy is helping you. It's not that you don't appreciate it – you do, but he just doesn't seem like the sort of person you should trust. He has that scruffy, careless sort of look about him. With his dishevelled black hair, the mysterious glint in his eyes, and the way the corner of his mouth is turned up into an almost-smirk, he's exactly the sort of person your parents had drilled into your head time and time again that you were to steer clear of.
But something about him fascinates you. It's almost as if he's radiating a kind of energy. You're not sure what it is exactly, but it doesn't seem at all dangerous. It's more . . . positive . . . excited.
But he could be acting. His motives could be . . . not in the right place. Okay, now you're being way too cynical. This guy is just gave you a helpful tip to solve your problem, and here you are trying to decide whether he's a rapist or a thief. You definitely need to get some sleep. Besides, he doesn't even look like the type of person who could put up a very convincing act.
You realize that you're probably staring at him in quite a strange way, and he's probably wondering whether there's something wrong with you.
"Umm…thanks," you attempt. "I'll give it a try. When I get home."
You spit out the word home with more force than you meant. He raises an eyebrow slightly. Well done! Now he definitely thinks you're a lunatic!
You sigh heavily and run a hand through your blonde hair, tugging at the pins that were supposedly holding the strands out of your face. In reality, all they did was hang there, get tangled, and fall out randomly. All part of the pleasures of having thick hair.
The chair scrapes back as you stand up and begin stuffing your things into your backpack. Being careful not to bend your already ruined designs.
"Are you alright?" the softness in his voice startles you. You look up, and real concern is etched across his face; his wide green eyes scrunched together in an expression that isn't quite pity. It's more like empathy.
You send him a smile that you're sure isn't very convincing, and shrug your backpack over your shoulder. "Yeah, just family issues," you say nonchalantly.
"Yuck."
You snort. "Got that right."
You straighten out your sweater and start towards the door of the café. "Thanks again for the bleach tip," you say over your shoulder. You're not entirely sure what else to say, or if any other words are necessary, and the silence that follows is a little uncomfortable as you walk out into the street.
The air is filled with the hazy orange glow of streetlights just starting to light up the city. You'd been in the café longer than you'd initially thought, and dusk has snuck up on you. It's honestly not surprizing, though. This is far from the first time you've lost track of yourself while floating around in architecture land.
It begins to snow very lightly as you meander down the street. The knowledge of getting into trouble if you're home too late does nothing to spur you on, and you take your time, sticking close to the inside edge of the side-walk to avoid being trampled by the herd of hasty pedestrians.
The streets are pretty packed for a Monday, and the traffic's backed up in every direction. Strange. You can't help but feel there's some sort of information that's evading your mind. Something you knew. Or were supposed to know.
It's probably nothing important.
You fold your arms across your chest and bite your lip in frustrated denial. You hate not knowing, and convincing yourself it's nothing is a trick rarely successful. It's obviously something.
And the strangeness is only amplified further when three blocks from the café, you're suddenly brought up short.
Because He's standing there. Leaning casually against the crosswalk pole ahead of you, his skateboard tucked under one arm, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if waiting for something.
"What the heck?" you mutter, as you dodge an impatient businessman who clearly didn't appreciate you stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Confusion fills you up. How is this possible? You replay the conditions in which you left him. You can picture him sitting at the cafe, with no visible intention of leaving. But supposing he had left immediately after you, he would still have had to have overtaken you at one point or another.
You wonder for a moment if perhaps he isn't the same guy at all. Maybe the lights and your tired brain are playing tricks on you. But as you scrutinize him further, there's no doubt about it. He's got the exact same ruffled hair, the exact same features, and the exact same outfit you remember.
Not that you had memorized exactly what he was wearing. That'd be psychotic.
Right?
With an air of definitive caution, you take a few steps forward. You'll have to take that crosswalk to get to your place anyway. There's really no avoiding it.
He turns when you're just a few steps away from him. He doesn't notice you at first, his eyes flit excitedly from one brightly lit advert to the next, but inevitably his eyes come to meet yours, and when it does, his face lights up with a fully genuine smile. He pushes his body away from the pole and comes practically skipping to your side, energy rolling off him as if he were a power plant.
"There you are! You were taking so long I thought you'd never get here," he says it as if he knew you would be coming this way. Even scarier, he said it as if he were waiting for you to come this way. A big uh oh shiver tingles your spine, and you instinctively eye your surroundings for any possible means of protection, just in case things take a turn for the worst. The way your luck's been going today, they probably will.
Waiting around for thing to happen has never been your fall back, and you need to get on top of the situation quickly if you're to keep things in check. You decide to test the waters. Act friendly first, find out his intentions and then decide what to do from that point. Get as many facts as you can before you make a hypothesis.
"Hey," you say with mock casually. "How'd you know I'd be here?"
"Your backpack," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "St. Clarence is on that side of town," he jerks a thumb behind him. "Figured you probably lived nearby. This is the most direct route."
Of course. It hadn't even dawned on you that you were wearing your school backpack. Then again, it had also never dawned on you that he would have paid notice to it. It's not that the crest was inconspicuous; quite the contrary, in fact - St. Clarence was probably the most prestigious and sought-after girls school in New York - He just doesn't strike you as the sort of guy who'd give a damn. But then, there seems to be no end to the surprises this boy can conjure, and it was more than possible he'd seen the pack as you'd walked out the café door; the bold white lettering stood out strongly against the navy-blue canvas: a design that was undoubtedly made with the intention to flaunt the fact that you went to St. Clarence. And that was probably a contributing factor as to why you hated it so much.
That knowledge does little to quell your suspicions though. It does nothing to change the fact that he was waiting here, seemingly for you.
He holds out an arm, pulling the sleeve of his hoodie back, revealing a simple digital watch.
His face lights up. "C'mon!" he shouts excitedly, grabbing your upper arm and practically dragging you towards a dumpy looking side street. "We're going to miss it!"
Your heart rate speeds up to what feels like the speed of sound. You can feel each beat pulsing in your ears, blocking out the world around you, until it's just a grey tunnel with him and you, with his hand clasping your arm.
Your instincts kick in, and you dig your heels hard into the pavement, tugging at his grasp. You're about to scream for help, when the pressure on your arm is abruptly released.
You stumble back a few steps and your back comes up against the side of the alleyway. Your hand runs over the course brickwork as though looking for something to cling to. Your head snaps up to look at him.
He's standing in the centre of the alleyway, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a blush steadily working its way down to his Adam's apple. As though he finally realized that maybe dragging a girl who doesn't know you into a deserted alleyway at sundown wasn't the best idea.
"Oops," He grins sheepishly. "Sorry about…that."
The expression on his face is so adorably hilarious that if you weren't still recovering from nearly having a heart attack, you'd probably have laughed.
"What the hell?" You shout. You're not really worried anymore; His newly exposed nervous demeanour tells you that he hadn't meant you any harm, but that doesn't stop you from being angry. What exactly was he thinking?
"Yeah…uh, that was an accident. Sorry."
You huff. "So, you accidently almost gave me a heart attack?"
"Yup!" he says, a little too enthusiastically. "Exactly. I'm glad we see eye to eye on that. And speaking of seeing, I wanna show you something…" The last bit comes out a bit like a question, as though he's not entirely sure how you'll react.
As if! Who does he think he is turning up like that, scaring you, and then expecting you to willingly follow him who-knows-where? Nuh uh. No way. Not a chance.
Still, it appears this is the escape you've been longing for. As stupid and reckless as it was, the thought of danger and adventure draws you in. It's the chocolate you know you shouldn't eat, but the scent draws you nearer. Your new desire to break the rules startles you; it's never really been an issue until recently. All thoughts of deviation were usually hammered out of your head by your mother before they could fully take shape. But imagine the look on your mother's face when she realises you've been out adventuring with some random skater you found on the streets! Oh, Revenge is sweet!
I can't believe you're even considering this! Your logical side tells you. It's utter madness!
"Okay," you say boldly. "I'll go." You're a disaster, Annabeth. A total disaster.
His face lights up at your words. "That's great! I'm Percy, by the way."
"Hi Percy, I'm Annabeth. And for the record, you might want to do introductions before the dragging into alleyways. Girls don't generally like being hauled away by strangers," you say with a slight smirk.
"Yeah…look, I'm really sorry about that," he mumbles. "But," he adds, perking up a little, "I'll let you hold my board. As, you know, insurance. That way, you can escape if I scare you again." He untucks his skateboard from the crook of his arm and holds it out to you with both hands, like an offering.
"An insurance board?" you chuckle, taking the aqua colored death-instrument from his outstretched arms. It's just about the most ridiculous form of comfort you can think of. "Why not? Although I don't know if this thing could outpace you."
"Erm…not sure if that was meant to be offensive, or a compliment." He says.
You smirk in reply.
"Anyway, where is this thing you were so desperate to show me?" you ask, placing the board under your own arm. It's slightly heavier than you'd thought. No wonder he gave it to you to hold. You don't care though; you're glad for the peace of mind, no matter how ridiculous it was.
"Right this way please, milady." he says, gesturing grandly down the alleyway.
A/N: Please leave a review! Constructive criticism is appreciated. :)
I'm already writing chapter two, so hopefully that'll be out soon-ish.
Also, St. Clarence is not a real school. I made it up.