Our Oblivion
Chapter 7: Against the Wind


Author's Note: Hey you guys! I feel like this chapter is posted later than it should be. I try to post a new chapter monthly, but I feel that I just kept you all waiting. Oh well. Anyways, I want to thank you all for commenting and such. I actually hated the last chapter. I mean I thought it sucked so bad. And then you all are just like "This is so amazing" and "I love this". I swear to god you people are so amazing. I wish I could just marry you all. So thank you for all those amazing comments and thank you for tuning in to another chapter. Not only would I really appreciate your opinion on this new chapter, but if you can spare the time I was hoping some of you would tell me what you think of my idea for a new Percy/Nico fan fiction. I was thinking about one that takes place around the 1950's or early 1960's involving greaser and squares and such. A fan fiction using character's from the Percy Jackson series and sticking them in something like The Outsiders. The 1950's is one of my favorite time periods; what with all the rock 'n' roll music, poodle skirts, sock hops, famous dances like the twist, 3-D movies, Drive-in theaters, leather jackets, hot rods, greasers, squares. And then you had Elvis Presley in the fifties and The Beatles in the sixties. Whoa, I need to calm down! My nostalgic side is coming out! But then you also had the thought of homosexuality being frowned at by most in that time which could be really interesting for a story. I thought it was a cool idea. What do you guys think? I would really like your thought on this. Anyways, thank you for once again reading and I hope to see you all soon! Bye! :3


Percy's POV
August 17, 4:42 P.M

He was gone. Even before the letter had come, even before it was official, she felt is slink through her heart like the fine grip of a snake around it's prey. Like ice chilling her veins. They had taken her heart along with her future and her love and smashed it like hard rock candy on the sidewalk. They had taken him. The war had taken him. Life had taken him. And she could never forgive that.

Slamming the book closed, soft finger pads slicking along the laminated cover, I felt the sudden impulse to jump up, reach out, grab the ebony haired girl by the neck, and throttle her. Of course, I couldn't for two reasons. One, I would never harm a woman like so. My mother raised me, no matter how obliviously arrogant I turned out, to have respect, manners, and abide by the gold rule; never put you hands on any woman or young lady. Still, I probably would have made an exception if not for the second reason. Reason number two was more of a blatant stopper; She was staring back at me from the book's cover and since I do not posses the power to jump into still pictures it's physically, mentally, and logically impossible. Never less, I stared at the pale young girl on the cover as though it would cause a spark to ignite in her ashen flesh. I wanted to watch her burn. Not because I have any hate for the book or it's author or it's story. No, I just have hatred towards the words printed on the page like a warning of death. Never would I have actually gotten a chance to dwell on the thought that I'm going to die again in the next forty-two hours if not for that small little romance novel nuzzled in the glove compartment of my mom's car. Once more, taking my hands away from the steering wheel where they were drumming, I pick up the book as though it was explosive. As though a simple jostle would ignite some deep force from the very pages themselves and send it into a shower of sparks and fire.

"Waking the Dead" the cover reads. Running my fingers over the softly raised print on the front I sigh. I can't say I ever took a peek at the actual content written within the pages, but I got the jest of it from Annabeth's own lips. She was constantly spewing out random plot point from the novel and adding in facts about the time period and such. It was always her favorite. That much I know for sure. I may not remember exactly what the story is about or what time it takes place or any of that stuff Annabeth was on about. But I do know how much she loved it. The day she nuzzled that book tightly into the space between two CDs and a pack of berry mint chewing gum in my glove compartment I was determined to read it. Never got the time, never stopped to even take it out for a moment, but I promised her. And now I wished I never would have opened the storage space and taken it out. It makes me feel like all the air is being sapped from my lungs. All life is being sucked between my lips like a cold curt wind.

I'm going to die tomorrow, I echoed mentally as my shoulders tensed. Shoving the book away, watching as it slipped between the passenger door and seat, I simply turn the car on and floor it out of my drive way in reverse. The flutter of gravel and dirt that spurs up in my wake lingers like a cloud as the tires spin. As soon as the wheels pass the ledge that separates the drive way and the road I am flooring it. Surging forward like a lion in chase. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want anything to do with this place anymore. Home hurts. The thought of leaving my mother there alone to fend for herself against Gabe- running errands for him, waiting on him, and working a dead end job- is nearly to much to take. And to think that I haven't spent a moment of my time with her. Not a moment could have been spared to show her how much love I have. How much I'll miss her. And then there's Annabeth. So sweet, so kind, so friendly, so smart, so perfect. She's always been mine. She's always been the friend there when things got tough. And now I just want to drop her. The love I have for her hasn't disappeared. It's simply faded. The love I have for Nico burns like seething coals; so hot to the touch that it will burn you, but not hot enough to be unruly. Plus there's Grover and Thalia and Jason and Travis and Conner and Clarisse. So many people I care about, so many friends. How can I- My thoughts are stopped dead by the instinct to slam my foot on the break as an elderly woman whips out from the sidewalk, darting as fast as her old bones will take her, as she trails out on a walk with her dog. Like a noose tightening around my neck I slam into the seat belt with enough force to shake the fillings from my teeth. My head instantly snaps forward and stops mere inches from the windshield. For a moment, my fear moves when my body has stopped. A soft muffled sound escapes my mouth as one of my hands leaves the wheel in preparation for the strike. It never comes. Rather, I find my balance with ease and realize that danger has been avoided. My heart stops rumbling in my chest after a few calming breaths. I shouldn't have been going so fast. Imagine me flattening little Miss. Manson and her poodle because of some stupid worry. I've died before and I can do it again. Might as well not dwell on it.

But I'm leaving so much behind now. How can I deal with that?

No, I chide once more. No more thinking. I don't need any more of these damning thoughts. All I need to do now is focus on Nico. Nico and what I'm doing for him. How much I care about him. How much I...love him. Wow, never thought I would say that about anyone, but Annabeth. Funny how the best things hide in plain sight.

With a wave from Miss. Manson and a soft bark from her poodle, Carter, I am on my way shifting pass them as the car rumbles weakly.

(Makeshift line break since it won't add one! :)

As I stood on the wooden porch steps, boards creaking every once in a while, bile rose at the back of my throat. Eyes burned bitterly at the wide frame above me, windows looming, and paint scheme looking bleak. Everything about such an American dream-ish home makes me sick.

Peach curtains line every little window like a badge of honor. A bristle like welcome mat lays under my converse sneakers with a smile face grinning widely from between my toes. Even the porch lingers with the deep over saturated scent of apple and cinnamon and I can just see the wave of candles lit about the inside of the house, shadows of all the family's little knickknacks and picture frames jutting up along the wall just beyond the flame. It seems like such a beautiful scene and it looks even better from a distance. The first time I ever showed up at the Underwood's home for a sleep over I swear I thought they were rich. In a child's mind if a family has anything nice it means they're rich. For a sixth grader it looked fantastic. Now, however, it makes me sick. Nothing can be so perfect.

In all honesty I wouldn't even come to this house if it wasn't for desperate times. Usually me and Grover met up somewhere else just so we can avoid this place, but now I don't have the time to waste.

Grabbing the door knocker, slamming it down so viciously that the noise hurts my ears, I pray that Grover will answer the door soon. His car is sitting silently in the drive way so I know he hasn't left for work yet. His mother's car, thank god, is missing . If she would have heard me beating on the door like so I would have gotten a speech about how I'm messing up the paint job on the wood. She's so proper. I wait another moment before giving up on the door. It's apparent that he isn't inside which means I he'll be out back.

Wiring my way about the back of the house, following the cobblestone sidewalk, I flick open the metal latch on the gate and push. Never less, no matter how much force I use, it still takes me a moment to get inside. The damn thing always sticks. It has since sixth grade. I remember the first time I tried to run and force my way straight through. My eleven year old noggin got a pretty good bashing out of that one. Never less, I push through with one shove now. It's funny how far I've come in the last six years. I've grown up. I've gotten better at things. I've learned a lot. I've died.

As soon as my foot pricks the edge of the back lawn I am slammed with a tsunami of sensations. The heavy sent of cigarette smokes wavers up into the air in a smokey cloud, burning my eyes and causing me to couch cautiously. The smell assaults my nose like we're in a battle for the championship belt. And I'm losing. It smells exactly like Gabe's bedroom when I crack open the door in the early morning hours. The only difference is this smell has a edge of innocence. It lacks the cruel lash of heavy long term smoking. It's not as cold, but eventually it will be strong enough to kill.

After a second of the smoke lingering around like a pest the cloud pans out and reveals the two characters holding cigarettes as they lean on the porch railing. Grover Underwood and Thalia Grace both let out a long stream of cloudy air in synchronized breaths. Sitting between them is a pack of smokes and a lighter. As I stand back at watch this scene play out I realize something; the two of them- Thalia and Grover- are polar opposite in appearance and attitude, but they are tied together by a common interest. Smoking.

Grover leans back against the porch with a deep disgruntled hi hanging between his lips, shoulders square against the wooden boards as he takes another drag. The lazy haze that looms over him is something that's equivalent of getting high and for just one moment I believe he might be smoking a joint. After a moment, however, I realize they're just a pack of normal smokes. He must just be tired. Grover has never gotten the hang of working a eight hour shift. It's not his taste. But, to my surprise, his mom has stopped paying his car insurance. Which means he has to get a job.

Pale bare feet brushed long stalks of grass subtly as Grover straightens out the deep creases in his neon green swimming trunks. A black tank top stretches across his finely slim chest and stomach, ivory skin stretching and bending out of shape. Curly brown locks dust his nose, spilling cigarette ashes against his bleak cheek, before Grover manages to sit up. A bit of debris lingers on his face before a thin wiry hand comes forwards to dust it away.

"Hey Jackson." Thalia states simply, still rubbing the teenage boy's face. He dark nails are a blatant contrast against his ashen face and for a moment the bright difference hurts my eyes. The entire scene, in fact, seems to make my mind boggle as I step back. Thalia is adorned completely in black. Dark jeans, a black tank top, ebony sneakers, damning make up. The only thing that's bathed in color is the fine blue strands that lace her hair, her electrifying eyes, and the picture of space printed on to her tee- a image that read "Wibbly, Wobbly, Timey, Wimey. I believe in the doctor." in white scrolling letters.

Grover is light and she is dark. A complete difference.

Shaking my head at the thought I step forward. Grover cocks an eyebrow as he flicks a cigarette bud in the grass, eyes full of wonder. Thalia, on the other hand, looks completely impassive. Monotone.

"I need to talk to you. It's important." I state without hesitation, looking directly into Grover's eyes.

Grover looks taken aback by my bluntness. Usually I am a lot more subtle. He knows that if I am being so upfront about things then I am bound to be pain strikingly serious. Standing up shakily, tossing his cigarette down and grinding it into the grass with his foot, Grover shoots Thalia a gaze that simply says get lost for a minute. Bright eyes flinch with a dark light.

After a moment of contemplating whether or not she should Thalia flops upwards from the porch. Her footsteps are heavy as she walks across the wooden boards, door creaking as she flung it open, and flounced inside. Never would I have dreamed that Grover Underwood would click so perfectly with someone like Thalia Grace. I reminded myself that I was the one to introduce them. I had no idea that Grover would become so close to her. Not that I have a problem with any of it. The only problem I can see is the fact that Grover's mother believes he is sleeping with her every time Thalia comes over. Never less, she still shows up every week to smoke cigarettes, play video games on their console, and raid the fridge.

"Okay, I need to ask two things of you." The words linger on my tongue like a death sentence as Grover shoots me a demonizing gaze. There is a special glint in his eyes, one that seems to say, "Do you remember the last favor you asked of me?" And of course I remember that. The last time I asked Grover something was around sixth grade. At that point he made me promise to never need a favor from him ever, ever, ever again. I haven't since them, but rules are made to be broke. Of course, this isn't something like throwing him in the park's pond in front of Annabeth so I could dive in and save him to look cool. I see the flaws in such a plan now, but in my eleven year old mind it seemed fool proof. Perhaps if I knew someone with a brain at the time (someone like Annabeth) we could have easily figured out that it wasn't going to work. I mean, come on; Nothing says romance like drowning and throwing your best friend in a pond. Shaking my head to fend off the vicious embarrassment on my cheeks I look heavily at Grover once more. He seems to be reading my mind, reading my eyes, and apparently my begging is getting to him.

"Okay, propose your favor. I can't say that I can do what you ask of me, but...I'll listen." He pauses for dramatic effect before adding, "Promise me there are no ponds involved. I don't feel like dying today."

"I promise. No ponds." I swore, "All I need for you to do is give me your reservation for The White Lily. You said the manger was going to pay for you and Juniper's meal. All you have to do is tell him he'll be paying tonight and put my name down for a reservation."

"Why should I give you my reservation? Do you know what I had to see to get that?!"

Fear gleams in Grover's eyes as I stand there staring back. I've heard this story on several occasions although it's mainly brought up as a joke. Apparently Grover was working until the restaurant closed and they were already short staffed. Grover was waiting tables and cleaning up so they could prepare to go home. One step into the back room and then- Bam! The restaurant manger was, as Grover puts it, "Getting a little touchy feel with one of the cooks". It was such a kick in the head, especially since Mr. Manger is already married, that Grover swore he practically screamed in terror.

There isn't really much more to the story other than the fact that the manger promised to pay for Grover's meal if he swore not to tell. The man didn't want his wife to know about such an indecent. Of course, that's understandable. The easiest method, however, would have been to not cheat on his wife.

Sudden, at the very thought, I cringe inwards as I realize that I'm doing the exact same thing. Me and Nico, the manger and the cook- it's the exact same story. Nodding softly, trying to swallow my pang of guilt, I look up at Grover. Before I can explain myself he cuts me of.

"Oh, okay, I get it. You want to take Annabeth out right?" He breaths out as though it's obvious, shooting me a cheeky smile as he adjusts the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment I can't make my voice exhale proper. Rather I just stand there staring at him as though my mind has suddenly gone missing. My tongue goes bitterly dry as I smack my chapped, pastel lips subtle. My mind feels like a swirling cone of meshed thoughts. No, I'm not going out with Annabeth, is what I wish to say. I'm actually going out with my neighbor. You know, the one I abused for years as though he was trash. Of course, things would be a lot more clear if I could just speak in a straight forward manner. Rather my brain has to make up lie after lie and the more I lie the more my entire life become a muddled mess of what it should be. So instead of being bluntly honest and letting someone else in on my secret, someone who could give me advise and help me explain to Annabeth, I finally murmur out, "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing."

"You should have started by explaining." Grover finally breathed out after a moment, "Juniper does really like the place anyways. Something about she believes in small, family owned businesses or something. She doesn't like it when a big company saps all the money and customers away from those places that have like been shelling out items for the last five generations. I think that's what she means."

A chuckle bubbles up between my lips as Grover shrugs offhandedly. Juniper is constantly preaching about stuff like that. She doesn't like to eat meat, she's always trying to get us to participate in animal rights events, she's against chain companies or fast food joints, she likes to take care of the environment. All that good stuff. To be honest I don't have much interest in such. I mean it's great and all to stand up for all the right things, but I never really have the time.

"So, I'll tell Chad about you and Annabeth needing that free meal. I'm sure he'll be delighted to pay up." The very tang of sarcasm lingers in the air, seething on his tongue as Grover spits out another zinger, "And if he's not so willing I threaten to tell his wife. Shouldn't have been doing that in the first place. Ungrateful prick. You can't treat people like that."

Another hurricane of guilt burrows down on me labored as I feel a sting under my skin. Ever word cuts like a knife through butter. It all hurts. Never less, I know it's the truth.

"What else do you need?"

"Secondly, I need to borrow your suit." I spoke seriously, willing away the ache in my heart, although a wickedly giddy smile spread across Grover's face, expanding along his cheeks exponentially.

"You mean my death uniform." A cocked eyebrow waved in my direction. Grover refers to any and every fancy article of clothing he owns as his 'death suit'. Apparently, he coined the term at his great aunt's funeral (much to his mother's dismay) after someone commented that he looked well in a suit. I don't know why the term was used or how he came up with it, but at some point he just murmured the word death suit under his breath in their direction. Even if he was prepping for a dance or so he would claim his suit was his death suit. Shaking my head pointedly, feeling a crafty chill rush up my spine, I dismiss any spiteful thoughts that could have been conjured. I don't need to be pondering over what death suit Grover would wear to my funeral. No, not would. Is. That's the proper word. What suit he is going to wear to my funeral.

"Yeah," I spoke. "That's exactly what I need."

"Well, I hate to say this, and don't tell my mom, but the death suit has kind of...died." The way Grover uttered the words as though his suit was living made me feel a slight pinch of discomfort in the base of my spine. The pinch grows to about the size of a plumb as Grover begins to feed me the gory details about exactly what happened to his attire.

"The suit was kind of...damaged from a birthday party at my cousins. Her parents wanted to do like a black tie event sort of thing so we were all so, so, so well dressed. Anyways, the suit was looking great and I felt like I was on cloud nine. That is until some kid decided to take a chunk out of the birthday cake and replace it on my crotch. There was a blue stain directly in the center of my pants when I stood up and I swear everyone was staring. So, I don't have fancy pants anymore. The shirt and jacket came out unscathed, however."

"So your telling me I need to go buy fancy pants before tonight? Like literal fancy pants?"

"Wait, you're wanting that reservation for tonight?" The clenching of Grover's teeth and almost disgusted look on his face suggested that something bad was coming. I barely managed to brace for impact as the blown hit.

"Do you know how hard it will be to get you a reservation tonight?!"

"Grover, please! I really need it tonight. This is important. Probably the most important moment of my life." I stressed.

For a second brown eyes clouded with deep suspicious. An almost scandals expression broke out across Grover's face in a mask of unbelievableness as he spoke, "You're not going to propose are you?! You're way to young for that!"

"What? No. No! I'm not proposing." I shuddered out.


Nico's POV
5:07 P.M.

My fingers turned a bleak cream shade as I clenched them ruthlessly into the white fabric of my formal shirt. Of course, its not really formal. Just a long sleeved shirt with collars and cuffs and a few loose buttons. Brushing the soft, crisp, barely worn sleeve under my nose I get a whiff of such an immediate and overwhelmingly familiar smell that a knot wells in my stomach. When was the last time I wore this? When I went to a dance with on of my friends? When I was blissfully unaware of how hard life could really be? At that point I had lost my mother and my sister, but it wasn't really a troubling time. Rather, I had a few that I could trust. Some that I could talk pretty openly with. Now however I don't have those anymore. God, how could I have been so rude and selfish is the true question. Why did I have to be such a jerk? Why did I have to push them away? Swallowing harshly, bile building in the back of my throat, I sat down on the frail black comforter of my bed. Of course, as soon as my body comes in contact with the mattress I hear a voice from down stairs. My father's voice welling from under the stairs as he mines for a response. I don't reward him with one however I do stand up once more and pull the door to my room open. My descend down the stair only take a few seconds, taking two steps at a time, and when I finally reach the living room my father is waiting for me, a pair of burning eyes gazing at me and a almost painful smile upon his lips.

"Nico..." The words trail off as my father continues to gaze with knowing yet hurt filled eyes. Something about his demeanor, his look, sends a well of hateful ice through my heart. Hate that isn't forced at him or even myself. Instead the hate I feel is for someone different entirely. Someone that I don't know. That hate I feel is for whoever has put such a look on my father's face. Whoever had made him look so woeful. After a moment however the pain fades into a subtle burning. Seething like old embers. They don't truly look hurt any more. Just wistful. Like he wished he could have been there for me more.

Shaking off the look that I had been shot I simply take another glimpse in the hallway mirror. Crisp white shirt, red tie, black pants, partly tamed hair; I look like a mangled monstrosity with clothing that is too tight in some places and too loose in others. Pulling on the fabric I try to rearrange the collar, the armpits, the shoulders, every other part that feels odd and out of place. So, practically, I try to reform my entire body to make my clothing more suitable. My attempts are futile.

"You don't have to keep messing with it. I think you look nice."

"Thanks for the support, dad." I murmured under my breath letting out a long whoosh of air. I try to force the hateful tone from my voice, but it continues to linger. Automatic shame washes through me as I catch a longing gaze reflecting behind me in the mirror. His eyes- eyes just as burning and vivid as my own- seem to crumble in on themselves in distress as he grapples for something to say. No, there is no stuttering or fumbling over his speech. Rather he sits there silently with the wheels creaking in his mind. Gears grinding together for a solution. None can be found however as he just simply supplies me with one word.

"Sorry." I bite my tongue at this. I shouldn't feel guilty. I shouldn't have to feel as though I did something wrong. Never less, I do. All because of the way he presents such a word- as though I've condemned him and he's asking for me to change my mind.

Finally he adds, "But you really do look good. You shouldn't worry about it so much."

"Thanks dad. I'm just getting kind of stressed. You know...I want things to work out, I guess. I really don't want to mess this up." I admit as the last few sentences go soft. My voice is nearly inaudible by the time I finish speaking. People have always told me that if I need to say something then just say. What they never told me was how hard it would be. Emotions have never been my forte. Nether has talking to my father. Put those two together and you're practically begging for an explosion. Plus with that confession this morning it's even worse. The awkward levels are so high I can barely breath.

Out of the corner of my eye I see my father rolls his eyes, frowning pointedly. For a moment I'm perplexed. His facial expression almost reads disappointed, however, he was fine moments prior. We share a gaze as I mine for answers.

"First of all," He starts, "You still have time. About an hour actually. Secondly, you really do worry too much. Nico, I promise you that if this boy likes you half as much as you seem to think then he won't care what you're wearing. He'll just think you're amazing in general."

"Oh god, I don't want to talk about this." I crone as my face bursts into flames. The fire on my cheeks is so burning that I have to cringe inwards. Even so I am rewarded with a gloating smile from my father.

"You wanted reassurance. Well, there you go." He cackled slightly, "But I do mean what I said. And no matter how embarrassed that makes you you know it's the truth."

"I hope it's the truth."

For a moment the living room goes quiet. No shared gazes. No disappointed looks. No questioning. Rather me and my dad just stand there in silence. There's nothing to say. All I know is that the deep fluttering in my chest and sweat condensed on my palms is not very promising. I'm nervous. Nervous as hell. It's been a good while since I can say that I had a crush on anyone and I can honesty say no one has ever made me feel like this. Chapped lips pop as I attempt to catch my breath. You can literally the air whipping out in a desperate gasp.

"You love this boy, don't you?" The question came out so sudden that my knees nearly buckled in response. For a moment I choked on my breath before turning to face my father. Instantly there was one of those knowing smiles- one that makes me wish I wasn't here.

"I know exactly how it looks when someone is in love. I just never really thought about one of my kids falling in love. It's strange." One of my kids. A pang of hurt washed across his face, making the skin bleed pastel. I knew he was thinking the exact same thing as me. He knew what I knew. There were no more kids. There was a kid. I was the only kid he had left. Never less, my father spoke without acknowledging the fact that he was in pain, "Don't wear that suit around the house until your about to leave though. You'll get something on it and ruin your date."

The playful tone in his voice was practically drowned out by the deep saturated misery that latched to each and every word. Never less my dad made no comment on this as he stepped out of the room in silence, eyes focused on the ground as he walked. For a second I'm speechless. I've never thought of my father losing his daughter. Never really have I spent the time to wonder what it feels like to know that he'll never see Bianca go to prom or he'll never walk her down the isle or he'll never meet where her kids would have been like or her husband. The thought hits me hard and I feel more selfish then I've ever felt. I may have lost my sister, but he lost his first born child. I lost my mother, but he lost the love of his life. No wonder he acts the way he does. No wonder he tries to forget. Wow, I'm such a jackass.


Percy's POV
5:32 P.M.

"Stop avoiding me."

The ruffled voice on the other end of my cellphone caused all my confidence to wash away, swept up in a tidal wave of guilt and inner hate. I usually mingled with the thought that a good attitude could keep you from being persecuted in the face of lies, much like a safety blanket, but now I don't even try to keep up my front. My insides just yearn for the conversation to end.

After speaking to Grover about the reservation, everything going swimmingly, I climbed back into my car to where I was so close to putting the car in drive when my cellphone began to ring. The cup holder literally vibrated from the jagged force of the call. Of course, my heart was in my throat from the sudden noise and I already knew who it was, but that didn't stop me from being any less nervous when the voice on the other end began to speak. Staring out of the musty car window, still in Grover's driveway with the car idling, I listen as she gives me a roaring, over heated speech about never making contact with her. My mind has been so preoccupied with everything that I didn't even give calling Annabeth a second thought. I also told her see you at school yesterday and it's the weekend, but that's a different problem.

"Annabeth, I'm sorry." I breath out, slowly tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. The fine sound of my skin coming in contact with the clothed cover is enough to distract me. Any thing she says- No, everything she says- makes my brain pound with an overwhelming sense of grief, "I've been busy, alright?"

"I don't want an excuse." She spits back heatedly.

"Well, what do you want from me?!" The words slurred out pointedly. Instantly, as soon as they reached the air, I felt guilty. Never have I been so rude to her in all my years. Usually me and her are part of the same puzzle. We fit together. We were made together. But now I sound absolutely malicious.

"Stop avoiding me. Come over and make this up to me maybe?! I just want you to be around, Percy!" Her voice etched up in pitch as she refused to back down. That's what I like about her; She always speaks her mind and never lets anyone tell her that she is wrong. That's an admirable quality. A fantastic one. But right now I refuse to be taken aback in awe at her gift.

"You know I have other things to do then come by and sit around all day! I have stuff to do!" I cried. Within that one moment I wished I could just throw my phone out the window, dwelling in utter bliss as the item went flying and web cracks etch across the car's window. Never less, I keep a tight grip on the phone, chewing my lower lip as my finger went an ashen shade of white.

"What do you have to do, Percy!? You've never had anything to do before!"

"I"m going shopping, alright?!" I breath out dully. Never has anything sounded so lame, and yelling such words doesn't help, but I try. I try until it hurts. For a second the voice on the other line goes dead. It takes Annabeth a few heart beats to reply.

"I'm coming with you."


Sweet air pooled in my lung as I stood upon the side walk beside my mother's car. A breeze whipped through my hair with such a neutral heat that I barely felt it. A cloudless pastel sky lingered over my head as though to taunt me, barely dotted with a few hints of pink and orange. A group of kids were rambling and ranting over beside the mall door, skidding by on skateboards and grinding along the metal benches, cigarettes cupped in their hands and smoke riffling out of their noses. A young pretty face of a girl in cargo shorts and an American Eagle t-shirt flashed before my eyes as she slid along the curb, shooting me a breezy smile as she shot past and allowing her blond pony tail to brush my face. The hint of lavender in my nose was almost consuming as she moved around and did another turn in front of me once more shooting that easy going smile. After a moment I managed to wave back with a grin of my own. Even so, even with all the friendly exchange and smiling, the girl never said a word. Rather she just went back to her group, giggling and blushing in her own right, before they shoved away. The young blonde shot me another smile, waving all the way, before they finally turned the corner of the mall and disappeared from sight. Now let by myself, shielding my eyes from the drastic sun light that attempted to badger it's way through my lids, I was able to dwell perfectly on what was about to happen. Who I was about to hurt. Shifting from side to side nervously I feel my body burning with such a desperate guilt. I was about to go shopping with my girl so that I could go out with another person. So I could go out with a boy I barely knew. A boy I feel in love with within the period of a day. Never would I have imagined this happening to me. Do I regret what I've done? No, not really. Do I feel bad for Annabeth? With all my heart. Do I love Nico more than her? Yes, if I am completely honest with my self then I would know there was no doubt. Never less, I continue to try my best to make my mind believe that I'm still in love with her. That there is a possibility that I love them the same. But it's just not true.

"Percy!" The voice catches me off guard as I sit there, eye focused down on the sidewalk in deep thought. Annabeth's footstep are heavy as she jogs towards me, her step mother's car peeling out behind her in a cloud of dirt and squealing tires. Immediately, my eyes ogle over her. Tight black shorts cling tensely to her pale legs, the dark fabric being a jagged contrast. Converse adored her feet with two perfect little bows. Her black Jurassic Park t-shirt clings loosely to a skinny form. A smile courses over her pastel lips as she steps forward. Gray eyes meet my own vivid blue as we stare at each other. A storm and water. Lightening striking the ocean.

Despite the way she whipped out my name previously all joy has been sapped from her voice when she approaches me. A disgruntled murmured hey breaks the silence subtly. In the vivid, jagged wind Annabeth's hair jerks around like she's on a carnival ride. Soft blond locks brush my lips like a kiss from a ghost. Like being touched by something transparent.

"So," I try to be calm rather than awkward. It doesn't sound any better. "You want to...go in?"

My hand move on freewill, becoming jarring motions and weird displays, as I try to speak. She shots me a quirked look, one that reads as a mixture of confusion and humor, before bursting out in a faint laughing fit. For a moment my heart whirls like it's on a roller coaster. Something in side me seethes with a familiar, yet distant passion. It's squashed after a few seconds however.


"Percy? Check this out."

My heart hammered drastically at the sound of her voice. From the point of which we walked into this damn store I haven't spoken a to her. Never have I felt so awkward in my entire life . Annabeth's decision to come into this store was a pretty practically one considering she always comes in here. I just didn't expect it to be so... strangely painful. I mean just standing here without speaking or even looking at each other. The only human interaction I've had since we entered was when the woman at the counter connected eyes with me. To bad she looked like she was expecting me to steal something.

I turned slowly and caught sight of a tiny little orb on a chain hanging between Annabeth's hands. She didn't saying anything else as I stepped closer, gazing down at the jewelry as she once more began pawing through the others hanging from the hook. After a moment she backed up and allowed me to view exactly what she was looking at. My finger slide along the tiny clear orb upon the bottom of the chain carefully, examining the material, and looking at the tiny picture just beyond the glass. Held in my fingers was the cover of 'How To Kill A Mockingbird'. And hanging in front of the line was 'A Clockwork Orange' and then 'Harry Potter' and '1984' and 'The Time Traveler's Wife'. Each one was a beautiful little reproduction of those books that you always hear about in magazines, the kind that are classified as classics. Smiling quaintly to myself I softly lay the necklace back on it's hook, listen as it rattled against the others. Above the necklaces was a line of glass rings as well. I simply brushed my fingers against the rings before turning back to Annabeth. She was grinning unabashedly.

"Their all classic books. I've read practically all of them. Just need 1984." She claimed with a jagged gleam in her eyes. Annabeth has always been hell bent on being a big bookworm. If anyone takes a single look into her room then they'll understand her passion. One side of the wall, the one across from her bed, is lined with three large wooden bookshelves. Each book was sit up in a perfect pretty little line looking like the room belonged to a very strict librarian. I've read through a few of these books, skimming and such, but after about twelve minutes of doing so I simple shoved them all back in place and give up. It always seems like my efforts to read like a normal person are useless. Of course, I used an excuse for most of it. Dyslexia is something I've always struggled with. But if I'm completely honest with myself then I would admit how bad it hurts when I'm sitting there reading and the class laughs at how poor I am or Annabeth leans over me and points out a word that I messed up. Shaking my head I try to whip away the jagged blush on my cheeks.

I was about to turn away, following Annabeth back down the row of merchandise, but my body stopped cold when I caught a glimpse of a dark blue bubble hanging behind all the rest; The last in the row. There were a few of them, about three, all in a line and if not for my disgruntled thoughts I probably would have missed them. Stepping back up to the display I struggle to pull it forward. Finally, I manage to tear it from the hook, gazing down at the little orb with bright, excited eyes. My cheeks and head burned with cheerfulness at my new discovery. This was perfect. This couldn't have been real. Way too perfect. Cupped between my hands was a tiny little ball with the cover picture for 'The Great Gatsby' peering back at me. The blues and pinks and reds and purples and gold seemed to glow through the glass and under the hot white lights. A smile almost instantly tore along my lips as I follow the chain downwards and find the small tag on the end. A fine little seven dollar number peers back at me with beautiful white teeth. The only word roaring through my mind, my body, and my heart is Nico. Nico, Nico, Nico...

Instantly I close my fingers around the chain and turn towards Annabeth. My chest clenches as she looks at me curiously, accusingly. Questioningly. Wondering why. All I can do is smile blatantly until she finally turns away, giving me room to breath. The way she looked- almost as though her mind had calculated everything and figured out the only answer. I never buy stuff like this and I'm certainly not buy it for her. I would have told her. She knows I wouldn't spend an extra dime unless it was for someone important. I don't have any close family members besides my mother and she doesn't read that much. We're also going to buy fancy clothing without a reason why. And I'm suddenly buying a gift for someone when all I need is pants. It would sound very fishy to me and Annabeth is as sharp as a tack. She wouldn't let all this go unnoticed. Every part of me trembles as I wait for the final blow. As I wait until everything falls apart. Rather she just goes back to her own shopping with a grimace printed on her face.

"You just about done?" She asks casually although I can hear the hitch in her voice. Like she's choking back the need to scream. And I know that she knows.