Forget It
Named after "" by Breaking Benjamin
by Heaven's Rebel
Ethan N.
Angst/Hurt/Comfort
Rated T for mentions of Alcohol Abuse and Cutting
Summary: If there was anything Ethan Nakumara was good at, it was keeping his mouth shut. And on the ground, Nico di Angelo found the body of a boy with an eye patch in his hand, and a smile on his face.
Disclaimer: If I owned PJO, Luke (or Ethan) wouldn't be dead.
Btw, an explanation for the set-up. It's like, the story, and then Ethan flashbacking during the story (that's in the itc.)
I.
If there was anything Ethan Nakumara was good at, it was keeping his mouth shut.
The night brushed against Ethan's skin, sending shivers down his spine.
The waitress that had arrived from her station behind the counter of the run-down diner stood over him, her gum-chewing louder than the thoughts inside Ethan's skull. He looked up at her, wondering if she would believe him if he told her everything he wanted to – keep your mouth shut, Nakumara – before deciding to simply say, "Coffee. Black."
Ethan originated from the West – Arizona to be exacts – so the idea of cold was near foreign to him. There was no reason for layers of jackets and other such clothing. Then again, was there even really a reason he carried a bronze knife in his hand, running towards something that was entirely impossible?
With a roll of the eyes, she departed, pulling her golden hair into a messy bun atop her head. He watched her sullenly, wishing so bad he could be as mundane as her, have the same problems she did. Human problems. Normal problems.
He tripped and fell hard ("Have a nice trip, see you next fall," the kids at school would laugh at him, just like they always did), his hands outstretched in a desperate attempt to cause less damage to his exposed flesh. It hardly helped, and branches cut up his arms anyways, opening old wounds.
He stared at his hands, at the scars etched into his wrists. They stretched upwards, reaching to the inside of his elbow, their pinkish color shining under the fluorescent lighting attached to the ceiling.
He could almost feel the pain with the memory . . .
He got to his feet, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that felt like broken glass beneath the skin ofhis ankle. Almost there, almost to the place she told him to go. She rescued him, so he was willing to meet her anywhere to be honest. As long as it was far, far away from his father – the wretched man she somehow fell in love with.
The waitress returned, a faded, chipped mug in her hand and he quickly folded his arms over his chest, hiding his scars from view. She gave him a weird look as she set his coffee before him, before leaving once more, muttering under her breath.
His father was a tall, powerful man, who dwelt on superstitious things like karma. Then again,karma really had nothing to do with his daily chugging of every alcoholic beverage on the market. Hismother found him in one of those stores, no doubt searching for somebody to send that very samekarma on. . . How it went from that to where Ethan stood now, he was not entirely sure, but should he care?
He reached across the table top, wrapping his hands around the too-warm mug. He hated coffee.
His mouth tasted foul, like blood, and his nose was crooked from his fall, but he plowed on, ready to face the task his mother had for him . . . almost there . . . almost there.
The door opened across the way, fingers of ice reaching through the sudden vacancy between Ethan and the outside. He shivered, bending his head and hunching his shoulders to conserve body heat. The attempt was unneeded though, for the chill was replaced with a sudden, overpowering warmth, warmth that could only belong too . . .
He found her.
Luke Castellan took a seat across from Ethan.
She was cold, to put it simply – it radiated off her skin in waves, raising an army of goose bumps on Ethan's arms. She was beautiful, and she looked like him (or rather he looked like her), with the slightly upturned eyes and the dark hair. "Mother," he breathed, falling to his knees and staring at her in the purest awe.
Ethan did not say a word – keep your mouth shut, Nakumara –, simply staring at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed son of a bitch. The elder demigod spoke first, a smile on his face, "Where've you been, Nakumara?"
She smiled at him, and began to speak in a language that felt so natural in Ethan's mouth.
Ethan stared.
The things she said bewildered him – balance? Revenge? What did any of that have to do with . . . oh God.
Luke leaned forward, setting his over-sized hands on the table, almost tipping over Ethan's revolting cup of coffee. "Have you thought about my offer?"
"When you take from the dark, you must also take from the light."
Ethan did not blink.
The pain was blinding.
Luke did the opposite of his previous action, resting his back against the red, cracked booth seat, bright eyes studying Ethan's features. Ethan moved his gaze to his coffee, the black liquid reflecting his face. He frowned at the white bandage over one of his eyes, remembering. The son of Hermes reached across the way and grasped the mug, bringing it to his lips. Without looking up, Ethan heard him say, "How'd you know this was my favorite?"
Excruciating.
Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.
All Ethan wanted to do was die.
Luke stood, "Come with me."
And then it stopped.
Ethan did not argue.
And he could not see.
II.
"Where are we?" Ethan spoke for the first time. Snow fell around the two half-bloods, and Ethan pulled his jacket tighter against him, squinting over the cold water, wondering idly how it wasn't frozen over.
Ethan stumbled through the city that was New York. Much like his mother, it was beyond freezing, cold enough to seep into his bones and mold him in ice.
Luke chose the silent treatment, simply stepping forward onto the wooden dock. The moon hung full over their heads, bleaching Luke's features white, contrasting him against the black night. Over to the left was the Manhattan skyline, the Empire State Building towering over all else in a greenish light. Ethan couldn't help but flinch.
Ethan had succumbed to the demon his father had for years and years and years alcohol. The word stung Ethan, even in his thoughts, accompanied by memories of flying fists and a burning eye.
Luke stopped and glanced back over his shoulder, "Are you coming?"
It ignited Ethan's throat in a wild fire, like the ones that cropped up in Arizona on a near monthly basis, it sent his brain into a torrent of puzzle pieces that never fit to each other, it made his mouth thick and unable to cry to the homeless man at his side for help.
Ethan stepped towards him after a minute of hesitation, jogging slightly to catch up to him. The elder stopped suddenly, sending Ethan running into him – however, Luke did not budge, and Ethan ended up on his ass. Luke chuckled softly and held out a hand to help the son of Nemesis to his feet, before gesturing at the cruise ship that gleamed before them. Ethan's mouth opened in awe, and he almost said something about the glory of it.
He stood, stumbled, and a pair of hands grabbed his upper arms.
Keep your mouth shut.
They were warm, so warm in fact that they almost burned his skin, almost melted all the ice-cold hate inside his heart.
On the cruise ship, mortals walked about, their eyes glazed over. Though snow was still falling, most of them were in summer gear, including bathing suits. They seemed unaware of the monsters mingling among them, but Ethan wasn't and reached automatically for the bronze dagger he usually kept hidden in his boots – before remembering his mother's argument about balance.
He looked up . .
Luke, as if reading his mind, unsheathed a sword from gods-knows-where and held it out Ethan, hilt first.
Into the face of an angel.
Ethan took it without thinking.
III.
The Labyrinth scared him.
Ethan had never been so afraid in his life.
It's sounds echoed off the barren walls – well almost, except for the smiling faces of cartoon gods created from the multiple, tiny pieces of a mosaic – bleaching his skin whiter than it already was in pure terror. Those sounds were not normal: they were not that of blades clashing, of monsters who looked like they would eat you but were really at the command of Kronos, of lips on lips . . .
The voice resonated from deep inside his skull, whispering dark things that only three people in the world here cognizant of: him, his mother and his father. It told him to take revenge, his mother deserved respect, his mother put down the horrid man that had beat Ethan. His mother deserved respect. She didn't even have a throne. His mother deserved respect.
A shrill cry reached Ethan and he pulled his blade out, ready to fight, arm reaching out to protect his blind side. Whoever was there, whoever dare to get in his way . . the plan, must fulfill the plan . . .
He. Deserved. Respect.
Ethan stumbled into Percy Jackson.
IV.
Luke's eyes were golden.
The coffin lay before him, in all its glory, just waiting for Ethan to step up to the plate, to be a man and do what he was always destined to do. Raise Kronos. Make everything okay. For his mother, if not for him, for his mother.
They weren't supposed to be.
All he had to do was say the magic words.
Oh my gods, she was going to murder him.
All he had to was pledge himself.
V.
Ethan tumbled through the air, the wind screeching past his ears in a whistling sort of fashion. It did not surprise him, not in the very least. He expected death. His mistakes, he knew, would surely lead up to that, to that ultimate demise. Never did he imagine to fall though. Fall like an angel from grace. Like Lucifer.
Like Lucifer.
He almost smiled when he remembered that he no longer had to deal with the sobs of those Luke tortured, of the broken demigods that Ethan watched die. He no longer had to pretend everything was okay and bend to Luke's – Kronos', really – every whim. Oh, those eyes could no longer haunt him.
Would he go to Elysium? Was he a hero in the end? Surely his death would balance out all the wrong he did in his life, so maybe, just maybe, if he went somewhere good, someone else would go somewhere bad. Someone who particularly deserved it, more than he did, if such a thing was possible.
Almost there, he knew. His wings had vanished. He could no longer take flight.
In those spare moments before he hit the ground, he ripped his eye patch away, thinking about how stupid it was to ever don it in the first place. Cliché, even.
Oh, almost there.
He apologized to his mother, to those he killed, to those he allowed to be killed. He even dedicated a second to Percy – the boy had tried to save him, pull him away from that awful life he had sold himself into, but he betrayed him. For that, he was truly sorry.
Almost there.
He told his mother he loved her.
Almost . . .
The pain.
On the ground, Nico di Angelo found the body of a boy with an eye patch in his hand, and a smile on his face.