If Annabeth hated one thing, it was this.

She wasn't sure what to call it, emotions, feelings— but those words seemed too much of an understatement for whatever swelled in her chest when something reminded her of Percy. Everything in this damn camp reminded her of him.

She needed an escape.

That used to be the ocean for her, but she doubts that the thing that best personifies Percy would be comforting (maybe if she breathed in the scent of him it would help, but she stubbornly refuses to find comfort in the cold water's embrace when she should be where she belongs– in his warm arms).

So now she sleeps whenever she can, or is praying to every deity that they please keep the nightmares away, begging that she receives only sweet unconsciousness, where she is ignorant of Percy's danger. She can tell they try, but some things filter through.

In her dream (nightmare. she tells her dad, not dreams, they're nightmares) she sees him. He's laughing, but not quite facing her, something is wrong. 'Look at me, Percy, look at me.' Annabeth says. When he turns around, there is no smile. His face has gone deathly pale and he hacks into his elbow. He doesn't even try to hide the blood coming out of his mouth. She shouts his name, begs him to tell her what happening, but she could not move her arms or legs.

Percy doesn't seem to notice her or her shouts, too occupied with his coughing fit. It's only then that she notices the sword in his abdomen, tilting upwards towards his ribcage. She knows instantly that it's punctured both lungs, a fatal injury.

He's going to die.

She can't move, can't even turn away. She's forced to watch as he dies there. Whoever— whatever —is forcing her to watch this grants her the smallest of mercies. She is mobile the second he collapses, catching him. Percy's dying and she's crying, but she whispers love in his ear and promises him Elysium.

Annabeth watches the light leave his eyes.

She doesn't find sleep nearly as comforting as before. Sweet nothingness has become pure torture.

. . .

Annabeth throws herself into building the Agro, into solving math problems, into training.

She never thought she'd dislike her thinking talents, her ability to think about multiple things at once, but she hates it now. Positively loathes it.

How is she supposed to distract her mind from Percy when at least half of her mind goes on and on about him?

It was the most infuriating thing (I thought that was Percy? the said part of her mind asks).

. . .

At the end of the day, though, (while she avoids sleeping, or more precisely; dreaming) when she's alone in her thoughts, she allows herself to think of him and to release the tears she held back in the daytime.

"I miss you. I love you." She whispers every night.

She never gets a reply, and it's probably the most depressing thing she's ever felt.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Paul was incredibly selfish.

When he took time off work to help his wife get through, people admired him. When he held her close and let her cry into his chest, she was thankful. When he bought her flowers, everyone smiled.

They didn't know that Paul loved this boy too, that he was sad too. People didn't realize that his indifference was fake. Nobody noticed that Paul had Percy's photo on his bedside stand.

No one knew that every time he looked at it, tears formed in his eyes.

Paul missed him. Maybe not as much as Sally or Annabeth, but as much as his friends. How many times have random demigods stopped by with sad faces, looking for their friend, grilling them for information? How many quests to save his step-son had he been informed of?

He doesn't deserve to mourn this boy when people are risking their lives to search. He doesn't deserve to feel horribly sad when a search quest fails. He doesn't deserve to be married to that holy woman or to even know her courageous son.

But he still can't rid the knot of worry in his stomach, or nearly throw up when bad news comes, he can't close his eyes and not see a dead boy behind his eyelids when he attemps to sleep.

It was terrible, yet everyday he smiles with false brightness. He can't help but feel like a liar when he responds to his co-workers questions of 'how are you today?'.