There's nothing quite like the agony of finding yourself infatuated with a clueless, preoccupied teenage male.
Everything he does, no matter how simple, how mundane, how completely unrelated to your feelings and/or desires, seems to be for the sole purpose of sending your heart into overdrive and your mind in a whirl. Surely, he's doing this on purpose; surely, he knows; surely, he's hinting at his feelings for you in a completely subtle fashion with the intent of expressing some strange attraction you can't fathom yourself, but can't imagine him not feeling towards you.
You see it constantly in his eyes, especially in the way they gleam in the light of his bedroom seeping through the dancing curtains and open window, in the way they darken as they stare down at you. You can feel it in his voice as he coaxes you to enter his abode and eat cake with him.
Of course, deep down, you know he's not yours; you know he doesn't feel anything for you—at least, not like that.
You know it's charity and sympathy and kindness, purely platonic kindness, but you can't help but grasp his outstretched hand with your trembling, pale fingers, hungrily absorbing the sensations of rough callouses and warmth. Yes, you know know know there's nothing there, but it doesn't matter, because he's letting you in, and you're invading this foreign, mundane side of his life. It's not something you can relate to—you have no experience with a loving family—but it's something you can appreciate, and you don't know how to express your gratitude.
All at once, you know exactly what you could do to express your gratitude; however, the thought is so mortifyingly vulnerable you vigorously suppress it.
Of course, it doesn't quite go away.
As he lets you into his home, you realize it's not so much a physical entrance from your perspective as it is an emotional one: you're here, inside his abode, where his mortal mother and her boyfriend reside, awaiting their beloved Percy—
"Are you sure this is okay?" Nico asks as he allows his hand to fall away from Percy's. "Are you sure they won't mind me being here?"
"No, they won't," Percy answers, and his voice is so confident, so assured, that you feel yourself relaxing despite your reservations. "They'll be delighted... They've never officially met one of my demigod friends."
You feel your heart screech into silence, then break into a rapid beat.
You can't help it this time; there is no rational explanation for why a smug satisfaction arises within the emptiness of your being, why you feel superior to his friends, his girlfriend, his brother. There is no rational explanation for your sudden desire to grab his hand, entwine your fingers with his, and walk out into the living room proudly.
And you realize that by invading his home, you've entered his heart, but you're not supposed to stay, to linger, to leave some lasting impression. You realize that, while Percy was all that remained in your heart, the only living thing left to love, you are not the only thing left in his that breathes and sings his name.
You know you're not meant to be there—at all.
Your visit is an intrusion; allowed, but an intrusion nonetheless.
But you're not there to socialize; you're there because Percy needs protection, and you're the one with the necessary information. As much as you loathe feeling like an invader, you'd suffer worse things than discomfort if it meant his safety.
You hear him clear his throat, and you snap into reality painfully.
Percy stands awkwardly in the center of his cluttered room, and you distance yourself from the situation enough to take in the details: the disheveled bed, the cluttered shelves and desk that hold fewer books than shirts and random knick-knacks. You wonder where he had the time to collect the objects that seem so sentimentally scattered, and you realize that you really haven't distanced yourself from the situation at all; you've just made it worse. In trying to fortify your emotions, you've just left them open for Percy to read.
Percy knows you want to stay.
He grins at you softly, invitingly, and inches towards the door.
I shouldn't be here; I shouldn't be here; I really shouldn't be here. This was supposed to be a simple conversation, not a visit.
He opens the door, and you're about to protest, about to flee, about to shrink into the shadows and never taint his apartment again—
Something flickers in Percy's eyes as his gaze ensnares yours. He reads your hunched posture, the way your hands dangle awkwardly, openly, at your sides, the way your body tenses as if ready to sprint away. Something in you growls at the way he seems to soften with each passing second; you do not need his sappy sympathy.
That's not why you slunk through shadows and silence towards his apartment.
"Don't," you growl. "I didn't come here for you to pity me."
"Then why did you come?" He asks, voice strange, darker.
And you can't quite answer that. You know you have information regarding Kronos and his defeat, information Percy desperately needs if he is to survive, but it doesn't seem right to visit him on his birthday solely to remind him of his pressing mortality.
There is no answer you can provide to placate your tell-tale heart or whirling thoughts.
I don't know. You force yourself to stand straighter, and you clench your hands ever-so-slightly, grasping desperately at some twisted form of honesty. "I wanted cake."
A grating laugh bubbles from Percy's lips, and you immediately hate it. "Cake. Of course; you just wanted cake."
Bewilderment overwhelms you as you try to process Percy's words. You don't quite understand what's happened, but you know that you answered incorrectly.
You think that maybe the right answer is the one that will never see the light of day.
"I—"
"Come on," Percy says, calm and collected, as he tugs his door open. "Let's get you some cake."
Percy eases you into the party so flawlessly you're able to ignore your awkward feelings in favor of reluctantly honoring his efforts. When Sally and Paul retreat, allowing an opening for the real reason for your visit, you immediately explain your plan.
He's wary, but willing to cooperate, and you want to tell him that the world doesn't matter, that his safety is the only reason the plan is so dangerous, but you know you lost the right to express your feelings somewhere between entering and exiting his apartment.
You leave as soon as you can, his demeanor strangely solemn, and he says goodbye like he's not ever going to see you again (a ridiculous thing, when the plan heavily involves your guidance). You suppose it's practically a goodbye; a goodbye to the only good opportunity you had to tell him, but it doesn't matter anymore.
As you melt into the shadows of a dark alley, you realize you never got your cake.