I don't own the characters, or PJatO, or HoO, or the cover image. Happy belated birthday to Percy!
Her glare was sharp steel.
It cut through him the first time they had a full conversation, gutted him right then and there so that all his shortcomings were laid out for her to see. It sliced the words out of his mouth so that he tripped on the empty spaces and made a fool of himself. But he learned that it had been sharpened over the years, with everything and anything, and so he set himself out to smooth the edges of her metal eyes so she wouldn't cut herself on the past anymore.
Her frown was a stinging slap across the face.
He'd seen it so often, disdainful at his stupidity, at his incapability to do anything. She'd frown down at him, judging everything that he did. It hurt every time, and his head jerked to the side, his face stained red from the blow. But he learned that she hurt inside and out, and so she hurt others to lessen her own pain. But he knew that every time she pushed people away, tried to be superior and in-control of herself, she wasn't just hurting others. He caught her wrist mid-swing and gave her a timid smile, if only to counteract her unhappiness.
Her words were throwing knives.
Oh, he'd heard them often. Was there anybody at camp who hadn't been stabbed by her silver tongue? True, most of it was unintentional. It was an automatic reaction. She didn't do her fighting with words; she jumped into action and made her battles into dances. But, after being hurt by others, after being told she was useless and a danger and everything else, it wasn't that much of a leap to start throwing knives herself. Besides, she was smart enough to win any battle of wits and to have her knives hit bullseye each time. But he saw her scars; the scars she herself was inflicting upon others, and he traced them with his fingertips and told her that she didn't have to hurt so much.
Her walls were mountains that reached the sky.
She had let two people in. And one of them was dead. The second year that he knew her for, the other turned traitor and betrayed them all, and it cut her the deepest. She fell down and broke her bones, and she vowed that she would never let it happen again. Her walls, already impassible, soared higher and higher until nobody would ever be able to get in ever again. And inside the confinement she had made for herself, she held herself and wept, even if she seemed strong on the outside, stronger than even the walls she had built. But he saw past the façade that she had painted on, and he knew he had to reach her. But nothing could break the walls; only she could take them down. So he promised himself and prayed to the gods and started climbing to heights of mountains that reach the sky.
Her soft gaze was a spike in temperature.
When she looked at him like that, his cheeks would flush and his pulse would race. It was like he had pulled her out of Tartarus and scattered the sky with stars so nothing would ever be dark again. And when he met her gaze, he had to pray to all the gods that she wouldn't hear his heart that was beating so hard it was hard to breathe. She was stealing his words again, and he was tripping over the missing pieces, but it wasn't in a bad way. He just hoped she wouldn't notice his sweaty palms or the way he couldn't take his eyes off of her.
Her smile was a fresh batch of blue chocolate chip cookies.
Every time she smiled, he grinned like an idiot and fought the urge to say something stupid. He'd find herself lost in her, breathing in the moment and the sugary sweetness of her smile that she so rarely treated anyone to. But then he'd be so entranced by her smile, by the way it was so utterly and completely her, that he'd do something stupid and reach out for her, only to burn himself with scarlet blushes and a sharp sting. But, eventually, she was there to kiss it all better, and he was only so happy to oblige.
Her I-love-you's were soft blankets.
They covered him and wrapped him 'round, and, in the end, it was hard to tell who was comforting who. He'd never want to leave the moment, the way one never wants to leave their warm bed in the mornings, and he'd replay the simple words all day. They were as intangible as perfect dreams, but unlike the silvery wisps that made up fantasies, they never went away. And he'd never want them to.
Her hand in his was the missing puzzle piece
to complete the both of them.