Um... so I may or may not have forgotten to post Chapter 10 on this site...and I also might have forgotten to post Chapter 11 as well...

Please don't crucify me? I kinda moved the bulk of my activity over to AO3 a while back because the doc manager for this site kept glitching out on me and taking forever to load and was always so frustrating. I haven't even read anything from this site in ages, tbh. But better late than never, I guess? Enjoy!

(AND DAMN IT, when I finally posted this for the first time it glitched AGAIN, so thanks to the reviewer who promptly brought it to my attention.)

NICO

Shimmer- Moose Blood

I'm starting to think that alcohol doesn't stop burning.

It burns going down my already parched, sore throat. Burns so much that I cough nine times out of ten.

It burns like a hot, lead weight in my empty stomach, which churns sickeningly as I lie on a park bench, shaded from hot summer sun but unable to escape the baking heat. I'd long since transferred the stolen contents of the glass bottle to a large plastic one. Nobody knows this way.

It burns even worse when it inevitably comes back up in a tide of sour bile.

I have to wonder if Percy ever has that problem. Part of me still can't imagine him in the same position I am, hunched over a trashcan, puking his guts out while pale stomach acid drips down his chin. I can't image him with aching joints from kneeling on the chipped linoleum floor of a gas station bathroom.

Even now, my hero complex gets in the way. Even now, I can't seem to see him as weak.

But I know that he's…weak. Maybe even weaker than me if this bottle is any indication. I can't image it's the only one. Not with the precense of those glasses, not with the ease he showed in drinking himself.

Nope, he's just as fucked up as me. And that's part of what's calling me back to New York.

I haven't set foot in the state since I left that morning, since I slithered out of his tight grip, taking great care to avoid waking him with the shift of the bedsprings. I've been trying to push all of him from my mind because I absolutely cannot go back there…I just can't, even if I wanted to see him.

I can't image going back there, facing Jason or…or god's forbid Will. Even if I went back to see him, it would be too much of a risk. He might betray me, hand me over to them. And I can't risk it.

No, it's safer to stay here in Chicago, where nobody would ever think to look for me. It's summer; I can handle sleeping rough outside and living off stolen food. I've had to deal with much worse before.

But in the end, I don't have nearly as much resolve as I think I do.

I break one late night, over two weeks after I left, just as the last drops of vodka are drained from the plastic bottle. I want to see him again, want to be with him again because waking up with his strong arms wrapped around me was honestly the best moment I'd had in years. In the fleeting seconds before I remembered why I was there, what I'd done…I'd been truly content. Almost happy...

Drunk me wanted that again; it became my mind's singular focus.

So the plan was simple. I can shadow travel to some liquor store, grab a bottle of something, and go see him. Maybe I'll grab two bottles as some sort of peace offering, since I stole the vodka from him in the first place. My addled mind thought it was an absolute brilliant idea.

And it still felt like a brilliant idea until the very moment I landed with a thump in his cabin, two bottles of hastily snatched vodka fisted in my hands. I swayed for a moment before righting myself to face him, only to find him half-asleep in bed.

"Nico? I-is that you?" he asks, rubbing his bleary eyes with the heel of his hands.

"H-heyyy," I greet, unable to stop myself from chuckling a little at the absurdity of the situation.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, tone incredulous as all remnants of sleep are replaced with shock. He must have assumed that I took the bottle with him when I left, but I doubt he ever imagined I would show up in his cabin drunk.

"Mhm," I hum in response. "Buttttt I brought you some too. 'S don't worry."

I offered him both bottles, and he grabbed them with only the smallest bit of halting hesitation. And he certainty showed no hesitation in pouring himself a glass.

"Y-you want any?" he asks, eyeing me up and down. He's probably trying to gauge how drunk I am. He must figure I'm pretty far gone if I ended up here.

I only nod in response, accepting the glass once he's dug it back out of the drawer and poured me a bit. We move to sit on the bed, everything practically mirroring what went down all those weeks ago. Except now I'm stretched out a bit, one leg splayed out and the other cast upwards, bent at the knee. Not nearly as tense…

"W-what are you doing here Nico? Not that I'm complaining, but like, nobody's seen you in weeks. I-I…I mean, we would've thought you were dead if Hazel hadn't told us otherwise," he starts, breaking the silence.

"Not like it's the first time I e'vr disappeared," I mumble over the lip of my glass, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Why did they even care?

"Yeah, but it's the first time in a long time that you've done it without contacting…well, anyone. Usually at least your dad knows where you are," he tries to reason.

"Can you blame me for leaving?" I ask, staring sideways at him, head pressed lazily into my arm.

"I-I…well, no. But we've been worried," he admits before trailing off, taking a sip of his own drink to fill the silence.

"No, no," I sniff, eyes watering involuntarily. "That's not true. T-they don't care. But you…you only care 'cause you understand."

"Understand what?"

"What it's like to hurt someone really bad. Y-you let Bia get hurt," I mumble. His face blanches immediately at the mention of Bianca, and he looks like he's about to be sick. Perhaps I'm drunker than I thought. I haven't talked about her in a long time, much less brought her up to Percy…

"But…but it's okay, really. 'Cause I forgive you even though you promised me you'd bring her back," I reply as stubborn tears threaten to slide down my face. It still hurts to think about her…

"'S okay," I mumble again, reaching to brush my fingers against his cheek only to have him flinch away, eyes squeezed shut.

"Y-you didn't kill Will though," he manages shakily.

"But I hurt him really bad. S'wasn't…wasn't moving when I ran away," I hiccup. I can practically feel my throat closing up at this point, getting all thick and tight…

"Have you tried to apologize?"

"Doesn't matter. Nobody'll ever forgive me, specially not him."

"H-he walked away with a concussion and some bruises. H-he's physically fine now, so I'm sure he'll forgive you if you really apologize. I mean, you just said you forgive me for what I did so…" he tries to reason.

"S'not the same though. You're easy forgive 'cause you do so much good stuff to make up for it. You're all nice and you save the world and junk. But I never do good things, so I don't deserve to be forgiven," I state simply, like it's something so obvious, like he should already be aware of it.

But still, he looks at me like I'm crazy.

"I'm not good though," I choke out, swallowing hard. "I almost joined the bad side; whole world would've been destroyed. Betrayed you to my dad too, got you locked up in that cell. You could've suffocated. A-and almost got you killed 'cause you were trying to save me from the j-jar. C-couldn't pull you and A-annabeth up, so…so you fell down there. Nobody else should've ever seen that, nobody."

"But that wasn't your fault. You tried to help," he attempts, voice catching at the mere mention of her. But I ignore his protests and continue, my one track mind hell bent on bringing up every reason I don't deserve to be loved.

"But I couldn't! Couldn't save you and now y-you're like…like this. A-and then, when I was i-in the forest with Reyna and Hedge…I-I just…"

My voice abandons me before I can finish the statement, before I can admit to what I'd done all those months ago. Fat tears make tracks down my face and my hands shake so badly that the vodka splashes past the brim of the glass.

Before I know it, Percy is taking the glass from my hand and pulling me closer, long arms wrapping around my torso. He cradles my head against his chest in a way that's strangely protective, in a way that I should probably reject.

But I can't control it anymore. I can't bite my tongue and sour my face and pretend like it doesn't hurt. I let myself cry instead, my tears soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. The whole time I'm trying to talk, but everything that leaves my mouth is a half-crazed string of mumblings and stutters. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me. I didn't mean to. Wasn't trying to. Didn't want to…to…only wanted to hurt him. Said I'm sorry.

"I…it doesn't matter what you did. Not to me," he mumbles, unsure of what to say to comfort me. "I-I've done shitty things too. A lot of terrible things. But I guess…I guess I just mean you're not alone. I won't judge you…" he manages, his own eyes going glassy in the process.

The tears slow over the course of the next few minutes. His hand is on my back now, rubbing soothing circles through the roughness of my jacket.

"I…why don't w-we just go to sleep? It's late and you're…kind of a mess."

We lie back, just like last time. My head rests on his chest, cheek pressed close enough to feel the warmth rolling off his body.

"Just…promise me you'll still be here when I wake up? We can talk more in the morning," he murmurs in the moments before sleep.

I bite my lip, but I eventually nod in response. Still, I'm not sure if my attitude will change in the morning. I don't know if I'll wake up and realize that I can't stay, that I can't talk to him. I don't know if I'll roll out of my bed and grab my things and shadow-travel to another city. Maybe I'll try Seattle next.

Is this going to be an endless cycle? Am I just destined to come see him every few weeks, spectacularly drunk? Am I always going to leave the morning after?

Sleep takes me before I can come up with an answer.