Chapter 7: In which Malcolm faces death

Malcolm woke up screaming.

Every square millimeter of his body was being crushed. He couldn't see. He couldn't move. He could almost feel his soul leave his body.

The iciest pressure dug into his pores, like he was being buried alive in the snow dumps of Illinois's cruelest storms.

Except why couldn't he just freeze right now? Surely an all-consuming numbness would beat the feeling of being squished to death from every imaginable angle?

Over his own screams, a woman was shrieking. "Mà tòn Día. Ma ton Día! Skatá! SKATÁ!"

The ground shifted beneath Malcolm's neck, but something rather cushy was keeping his head perched up.

"Hey. Hey! Malcolm. Drink this!" the voice said.

Sugary pecan dribbled onto his tongue, and he was forced to swallow to breathe.

Instantly, the pain receded. The darkness turned into a blurry red light.

But the fading crushing sensation was replaced by a burn in his chest as trickles of liquid pecan entered his airways.

Just as he erupted into a coughing fit, his windpipe suddenly cleared.

When he finally blinked away the tears in his eyes, he happened upon the strange sight of Rhode peering over him upside down, looking like she was preparing for the third coming of Gaea.

"I am so sorry!" she cheeped.

Malcolm jerked under the uncomfortable touch of her fingers on his neck, exactly where the nectar he choked on had vanished.

Adjusting his head on her lap, Rhode got into a more comfortable position and swore as she snatched the glass of nectar that fell onto her mattress.

The hand cradling Malcolm's face went to her hair as she let out a deep breath. Her bangles were clinking like cymbals, and he winced at every note, somehow unable to move.

"Oh Fates," she said, "you're still—"

The ropes binding him disappeared, and under the piles of blankets Rhode willed over him right now, he pulled his limbs back to his body with a whimper.

Everything hurt. But, thankfully, the torture had turned from a sitting-on-balls level of pain all over his body to a much more manageable ache.

What the actual fuck?

"What…?" he croaked.

Rhode touched the glass of some drink to his lips. He was too tired to question it or refuse.

"We fell asleep," she said. "It seems the effects of the nectar were wearing off. But you should be fine for the next twelve hours."

Malcolm drank a few gulps and groaned. "I… dying."

"You're okay now. You'll be okay," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Just stay here until the morning. You're in no condition to move."

His muscles strained to reach for the glass of nectar. But Rhode swatted his hands away.

With a tired fury, he tried to glare at her. "Wha—?"

"I just said you're in no condition to move," said Rhode with a huff. "Keep still. You'll get better faster." She touched the glass to his lips once more and tilted the nectar into his mouth. "Don't put your pride above your health. It's not cool."

I'm not, he wanted to say. Fucking geez. But his mouth was full, he was tired, and he didn't want to piss her off.

He sensed his strength return after several more sips, and upon the tell-tale sparks under his skin that signaled he was approaching self-combustion, he backed away a smidge and shook his head.

"Too much?" she said.

"Would be."

Malcolm tested his muscles. They were still achy as hell, but he figured that was also from the weight of the pile of blankets Rhode had thrown over him. At least he wasn't cold anymore.

"Feeling much better now," he said, and met her gaze. "Thank you."

"Of course."

Setting the nectar aside, Rhode laid his head on a pillow and sat herself beside him.

He kept his eyes on her and regretted the decision immediately upon the realization that she was still unclothed. For her part, Rhode appeared totally unfazed.

Flitting glances at his face, she cautiously lifted one of his hands to rest on her knee and used her thumbs to press lines into his wrist and up to his palm.

His lips twitched. "They're good." And truly, it was unnecessary. "Does feel better though," he said anyway.

It was entirely too nice to ever stop. And when Rhode began to massage his other hand, he couldn't help but curl his fingers to brush her wrist.

Malcolm poked his mind awake after every labored blink. Sleep was taking over, and he fought its forces valiantly.

Well, no. Because there was a better reason to stay awake, wasn't there? Because right now, he had zero desire to get up and leave Rhode's bed.

Have to get up, prodded his brain. Leave. Camp. Late.

Right. That reason.

With all his might and none of his pleasure, Malcolm let the dread hovering around him seep into his bones.

Ughhhh.

It took all of him to speak. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly 2 am. Our time," said Rhode, with a final stroke of his wrist. "Just stay until morning. Then you can go back to Camp Half-Blood."

"Think you just want me here," he mumbled tiredly.

Then came a broad smile accompanied by a chuckle that his subconscious described to him as sweet and lovely.

Rhode shushed him. "Just rest."

Proud he actually got her to laugh, Malcolm's lips tugged into a smile. He stopped fighting the weight of his eyelids and felt the blankets tuck in slightly around him. Four seconds later, he blanked out.


When Malcolm woke up again, his body felt like sweaty mush. He blinked at the image of a rocky coral wall and teal sheets.

The white noise surrounding him sounded not like the fans at camp, nor the AC in Kenwood, but rather like faint hums and glugs. Almost as though he were swimming. Was he… under… water?

And why did he feel like he was naked? Under a pile of blankets, Malcolm checked to see that he was.

Well, that was unusual. Rather uncomfortable, too.

Trying not to freak at how creepy this felt, he focused his efforts on finding clues.

Looking up, he spotted a glass of nectar on the bedside table. To its right, a note bearing his name rested on a pile of books.

Malcolm, the note read. He heard the written words like an echo.

I hope you're feeling better. You last had the dose of nectar at 2 AM. It'll last you 12 hours. Here's some more if you need.

– R

It was in Greek.

On the other side—the front of the paper actually, judging by how it curled—were Latin letters. English, he guessed. Written halfway. In cursive. He could barely make out any of it.

Feeling like Alice, he heeded the instructions of his savior.

Long, black hair sprawled across a pillow on his left. Looking peaceful as she hugged a pillow, Rhode was resting on the blankets over his, covered by her own quilt that didn't quite cover her bare shoulders.

How strange that she also didn't seem to have her cl—

Oh. Oh!

In flashes, the events of the night previous came back to him. Every cliff's edge he'd leaped from. The quelled fears and wondrous thrills. All the secrets they'd made.

Malcolm turned away his burning face.

That. Actually. Happened.

And then he'd nearly died. All because he slept with her. Wonderful. Another near-death experience to add to his list. Among the records of monsters and street gangs, there was now this sea princess.

What the actual hell? mocked a voice in his head. Was it worth it?

He glanced again at Rhode. In theory, no. In theory, having underwater sex to the point of being knocked out and inching towards death had to be the stupidest decision he had ever made in his life. In practice, however… well, that was a different story.

His mind flooded with memories of their mental tug-of-war games, his inability to resist her, and her glorious rewards for his efforts and submission. This would've been one of the better ways to die. It was a complete accident anyway.

But everything else… hadn't been.

He found himself grinning. Malcolm tore his gaze away from Rhode and just sat there for a minute in her colossal presence while he considered his options.

His body was begging him to hit the sheets again, but the graininess he noticed on his teeth just felt too gross to leave himself be.

Ah, gods. He must've also still been wearing his contacts.

With a sigh, he quickly got up.

Trying not to wake her, he pulled a corner of one of his four blankets over her shoulders and shuffled his bare ass across the chilly room over to his pile of clothes.

He slid up his boxer briefs and tried not to be disturbed by the fact that he was now also wearing yesterday's underwear. He felt clean, though, and then remembered the currently sleeping goddess was to thank for that.

And new campers asked why he never went on any quests. Ha.

Well. It was one reason.

With a last glance at Rhode, he gently slipped into the bathroom, making a beeline for the facilities. Just as he was about to finally take his contacts out, he met his mirror reflection and reeled at the red marks peppering his chest and neck.

Malcolm swore under his breath and brushed over one experimentally—to an absense of smarting pain. Testing another theory, he scrubbed one vigorously with soapy water, and to his frustrated relief, the mark grew fainter.

He sighed and resigned himself to the task, doing his best not to make a wretched mess of the countertop. Or to think about how much more he was risking corneal infection just because Rhode had practically used him as a lipstick tester.

With 70% of the lipstick stains now a light pink after fifteen minutes of scrubbing, the soap suds and water that ran down his arms and across the countertop were now trickling onto the floor, making his mouth pour out a few too many fucks.

None of this was making any sense. Why he'd ever have to wrestle with lipstick stains on him gods knew what time it was. Why water could drip in water. Why there wasn't a better solution in the fucking first place to simply—

Tucked in the corner of the countertop, smirking at him just out of arm's reach, sat a stack of cotton pads and a bottle of makeup remover.

For a moment, he simply stared, fingers slackening as his jaw clenched.

After allowing himself one mental growl, he took a slow, deep breath, wiped off every bit of red he could find, and launched all his disgruntlement in the soaked mess of tissues that he hurled into the trash.

Prowling for more hygiene supplies, he crouched beneath the sink. Just as Malcolm opened the cupboard, the bathroom door opened, and he fought his flinch and that tightening in his chest, remarkably similar to all the times his grandma caught him dressing his wounds.

"You better not be robbing me," said Rhode.

Malcolm swiveled around in his squat.

She stood in the doorway, tying a bow of a patterned plum robe that might have had some functional purpose were it not for the fact that he could pretty much see through all the lace. His brain protested that there was practically no point to that thing (and thanked her all the same).

Rhode leaned against the door frame. "Looking for something?"

Some time must've passed as Malcolm again processed the reality of the past fifteen hours, because she then said, "You know, I can't help you if you don't answer me."

What was she talking about again?

"A toothbrush!" he said.

Rhode smiled. "There should be some extras deep in the bottom-left corner."

While Malcolm unboxed his new brush, she uncapped her toothpaste and handed it to him. Once more, he barely tried not to touch her.

And they brushed their teeth together. Though Malcolm would've preferred his electric toothbrush and his stannous fluoride toothpaste (and floss and a tongue scraper), the moment nonetheless felt special. That he had the right—

"I can totally get out of here ASAP if you want," he said immediately after spitting out toothpaste. "Although would it be all right if I use your shower? If not, that's fine."

"Go ahead," said Rhode with a mouthful of toothpaste froth. She waved her hand and busied herself with lining up products on the counter.

As she finished brushing her teeth, Malcolm looked around at the lack of rods on the walls and the absence of plush cotton. He would have even taken thin.

"Right," he said. "I noticed last night… you don't have… any… towels?"

"Well, why would I need them? I just step into my clothes," said Rhode, turning to face him. "Do you want me to dry you when you're done?"

"Uh."

"It doesn't have to be weird," she said.

Malcolm flushed nonetheless—before Rhode smiled and made a towel appear and held it out to him.

"Turkish cotton," she offered.

And she wasn't leaving. She wasn't even looking away from his body.

Malcolm took the towel. "Do you mind?"

Rhode gave another playful smile as she left her bathroom.

Under the showerhead, a dopey grin took hold, and he laughed silently at the silliness of it all.

But even alone, a half-dozen Rhodes surrounded him with their bright, blazing eyes on him. The one today from just now, so upfront and unashamed in her appreciation. The one on Annabeth's birthday brunch, unraveling him as his back was turned. The ones yesterday, so welcoming and knowing and wanting and giving. Like when she nodded after he asked if he could kiss her. When she sat on his face and brushed her fingers through his hair. When she crouched over him and rode him to shattering pieces. When she kneeled before him and showed him the definition of carnality.

No. She was making fun of him then, wasn't she? He'd seen that malicious spark in her gaze as she made him thank her like the good boy she said he was? She'd straight up laughed at him and made him beg.

Gods, how pesty she was. How aggravating. How startling. How thrilling.

And how delightfully soothing that for every not-even-two-minutes, there were a dozen gentle pecks, a handful of whispered comforts in his ear, and a half-written English note.

Lathering himself with the silkiest cleansers, Malcolm familiarized himself with Rhode's soap scents and their placements—factoids that he suspected only a few of billions had ever learned.


Malcolm twiddled his thumbs on Rhode's couch as she got ready, happily directing his attention away from his wearing of yesterday's clothes to the show Rhode had put on last night from this very spot.

It wasn't actually a show, he corrected himself. She just hadn't cared if he'd watched her. He hadn't seen much of it anyway. What followed thereafter… Now that was a show, and one he was everloving grateful to have been invited to. Into.

Right there before his eyes was the bed that would forever have seen the two of them fuck.

Right there to his left was the sacred place she'd let him undress her. Where she had spiked his heart rate with roaming hands and kisses on his neck. Where he had gotten distracted by her—

Rhode exited her bathroom in another ridiculously scanty robe.

Totally normal.

"Is it a child-of-Poseidon thing to get a shark tattoo?" he said.

"We," Rhode spoke in a lowered voice, "are actually part of a secret cult of stewards who hunt mortals. Triton also has one. It's above his buttocks."

Huffing a laugh, he let the convo die there and watched her lay a selection of blue dresses on her bed. Whether she'd consider it staring, she either didn't notice or didn't care.

But his curiosity and the unnerving silence forced him to say "How do you pick your outfits?"

Rhode evaluated him for a moment with an amused expression. "I have an informal lunch with some merfolk in the afternoon near the Caribbean. They say it's for my birthday, but everyone presumes they want to discuss the trade agreement.

"So," she continued, "I have to come across as serious, yet not too official, and open to collaboration, yet not a pushover. This type of dress matches that. And I want to wear something from their people as a reminder of their historical relationship with Atlantis. This shade of blue," she said, holding up one of the five options, "was the exact color of the waters in which we last met about strengthening ties to other communities. The blue also means openness. Paired with the gold leaves of the pearls I'll wear, it specifically indicates unity."

Malcolm's brows flew up.

Rhode cracked a smile. "I'm kidding. I just like the dress. But the pearls I'll be wearing are from them."

He shook his head at her antics. It made her even giddier.

In the long lull that followed as Rhode went about her room, collecting and depositing clothing and other items here and there, Malcolm refrained from reaching for his phone or notebook and he tried to figure out what else to say to her.

Ultimately, his overactive mind wanted to focus on what she was doing and what every foot of this room looked like. He wondered how much of this image he could memorize.

"What are your plans for today?" asked Rhode, taking a seat at her vanity.

Relieved by the end of that painfully awkward silence, Malcolm sank deeper into the couch. "Reading mostly," he said. "Prepping classes for the younger campers. Training. Work-wise, I get to catch up or get ahead."

He provided details upon her questions as he observed her meticulous routine.

"What type of class?" she wanted to know while brushing a skin-colored liquid—foundation?—onto her face. (Making sense of and decisions based on information in daily life, he told her.)

"What kind of training?" she asked, applying lipstick and smacking her lips. (Bouldering and running.)

As he walked her through his New Athenian responsibilities, she moved on to her eyelids, with a sponge and three brushes for one color then another. Then another. Then another.

It took four colors?

"Are you going to keep staring?" Rhode said, continuing her smudging motions.

"Sorry. It's just … fascinating, I guess. Do you do this every day?"

She turned to look at him like he was a weirdo. Maybe he was. Some people had told him his ADHD-induced staring was weird.

"I mean, as a god, can't you magically get ready with a snap of your fingers?" he said.

Rhode faced the mirror again to finish blending the colors on her eyelids.

"Where's the fun in that?" she said. "I do cheat with the hair though. There's only so much you can do to Greek curls with a busy schedule, and they're still a pain to deal with sometimes."

Oh, he could imagine. He'd take it to the grave that his mortal sister's hair was an absolute pain in his ass. But Sadie would never know. Ever. The oiling, dear gods. The endless deep conditioning and oiling. And the spraying and sectioning and detangling—fingers and comb. And the oiling. The drenched T-shirts and wet floors. And the cleaning. And the oiling.

And, of course, he would never say no to Sadie's pouty complaints of achy arms, nor her excited requests to "play chess". Rounds upon rounds of chess. And even purely selfishly, he'd offer because there'd just be more unnecessary T-shirts and spilled hair masks and oily floors otherwise. It had helped that all that chess during hair time had propelled her to become a city champion. At least before she'd lost interest in competing and forced him to draw his pride and motivation solely from achieving longer lengths and less breakage.

So it validated Malcolm beyond belief that Rhode would just cheat with her hair, especially considering how much more manageable it already appeared to be in the first place. And on a Saturday.

And, okay, yes, it irked him, too. Because in the three days—four days now—that he'd seen Rhode, she had sported five different hairstyles. That was just unfair.

Six, counting the momentary ponytail, he then remembered.

He replayed what he could recall from that moment, and just as he was getting to the good part, the sudden clack of Rhode shutting her eyeshadow trays jolted him out of his reverie.

As she began combing her brows, Malcolm fought his dyslexia, trying his hardest to absorb the large letters on the closest of the several palettes Rhode had leaned against the mirror.

AKNED?

ANKED?

NAKED. Probably that.

He usually didn't struggle with such simple words anymore.

Malcolm gave himself patience. And for a greater challenge, he moved on to the small print and took a few moments to finally make out the words: Urban Decay.

Huh. Sounded like a certain city with depopulation, soaring crime, …

Rhode must've caught his frown. "Are you one of those people who'll say I shouldn't wear makeup?" she said, proceeding to make faces at the mirror as she applied her mascara.

Malcolm scoffed. "You can do whatever in Hades you want."

She paused and turned to face him, one eye done, one eye not. "Really," she said.

Like I said last night—

I don't think—

"Screw what I think."

Rhode extended her eyelashes on the opposite side. "And you don't think it's vain," she said, her statement a question.

Putting away her mascara, she tamed her flyways with another mascara device and picked out pearl earrings from the iridescent abalone shells on her vanity.

Malcolm did think. "It's self-expression, isn't it? And it's kind of an art, right? My mother's the goddess of crafts. I think I get it."

It wasn't like Athena didn't care about her own beauty either (*cough* Apple of Discord *cough*).

"Hmm" was all Rhode said.

"Wouldn't…" he tried. "Well, wouldn't makeup-shaming be worse, since it enforces even more impossible standards?"

"How do we win in this world?" she said as she floofed her hair and positioned strands to fall just so with her earrings.

"Well, how do you? " he said.

Rhode smiled but didn't answer, and he felt too weird to mention it hadn't actually been a rhetorical question.

Looking around her vanity, Rhode directed her attention to his vicinity. "Do you mind passing me the pearl necklace from that cupboard next to you? Third drawer."

There were at least seven.

"The one with the gold leaves, you said," Malcolm tried to clarify.

But that only narrowed it down to three.

"The big leaves one?" he asked. "Or the wreath-looking one? Or the, like, hanging one?"

"The wreath-looking one, please."

Picking up her selection gently, Malcolm brought it to her. It was a sizeable yet delicate piece, and he wondered how old it was and how much it cost.

As Rhode struggled to put it on, he merely flitted glances yet fidgeted nonetheless.

"Do you want me to help?" he said.

Her eyes found his in the mirror. "It's okay, I can do it."

As it turned out, she couldn't. The loop for the hook had come loose.

"I have some mini pliers in my pocket knife," he offered.

Thank you, Leo.

At her nod, Malcolm kneeled next to her and, under Rhode's observation, very carefully bent the metal clasp.

Just inches away, he felt the heavy weight of her scrutiny. The only other time she had been this close for this long was the night before.

"He's a handyman," she said. "You're quite talented with your hands, aren't you?"

"Wow. An actual compliment from you."

He patted himself on the back for managing to speak so nonchalantly in this proximity.

Rhode erupted in an instant. "I complimented you in many ways last night!"

In a sense, he supposed. He thought back to her many ways, flushing at the thought that they were compliments.

"Well, then, thank you," he said, just over a mumble.

Rhode inspected the necklace. "You know how to weave," she said. "Do you know how to sew, too?" she asked.

"Yeah? And my grandmother taught me how to crochet and knit." His smile grew at the memory of his gran trying to entertain him with activity after activity when his ADHD drove her wild.

"Then you could be helpful with my clothing," Rhode said. "Maybe I could just keep you here as my personal concubine. Perhaps 'gigolo' would be a more appropriate term."

Because the most important part of that suggestion was semantics.

Her eyes roamed his face. She felt even closer to him now. Too close to be… appropriate—particularly considering her bathrobe attire—and too far to tame his anticipatory exhilaration.

Content with just breathing in that flowery scent (Second to the left, Malcolm remembered. He'd used the one just right of that this morning.), he nonetheless had the temerity to think they probably would have made out again if she weren't already wearing lipstick.

"No, I'll take pity on you," she said quietly, while his eyes told his brain that wow, her mascaraed lashes really made her green eyes pop. "You did enough begging last night."

Rhode smiled as Malcolm's face reddened.

"Do you threaten to imprison everyone you sleep with?" he said.

"I would employ you, not imprison you," she said. "And I never actually allow them to stay over. Boundaries. Security."

"Lucky me."

Mirth turned to gravitas. Gravitas turned to remorse. "That shouldn't have happened," she said, reaching for his wrist.

It took Malcolm some effort to process that she'd asked how he was feeling and had offered to have a doctor look at him.

"Well, I'm not dead," he said.

No, he'd felt very much alive last night. Kind of like the amount of aliveness sucked up whatever he could feel and led him closer to death.

Malcolm imagined merpeople hauling his dead body out of her room. He saw his funeral being conducted in Camp Half-Blood or Chicago. Cause of death? Sex with sea goddess. He snorted on the inside at the thought.

Rhode's brows twitched. "I should have given you more of the nectar beforehand. I really didn't mean for the both of us to fall asleep."

"That was on me, too. I should've remembered," Malcolm said. "But who knew it'd be that good, right?" he dared to add.

Her jaw dropped for a moment. "Excuse me? I did the work," she said.

"Mmm, not all of it," he said, turning away as she began putting on her dress. "There was this part where you were yelling and cursing and thrashing uncontrollably." He grinned at the memory.

Yeah, he would definitely be storing that in his most treasured memories of proud moments. Her prized scream was like his own reward of a mission accomplished.

Which he wasn't going to think about right now. Nope. As she was changing in his presence, no less.

Hearing a long zip, he figured he could look now.

And Rhode, thankfully, was too preoccupied trying to color-match different heels to her dress to notice he'd resorted to clenching his thighs to redirect his blood flow.

"I suppose that's what I get for bedding an overachiever," she said, deciding on a pair of white heels.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Rhode eyed him intently. "You're okay, though? We do have a doctor on staff. It really would be so easy and quick to have her see you."

"Really, I'm good," he said. "Thanks. And I'm not just saying that because guys don't like going to doctors… which helps decrease their life expectancy…."

Why was he saying this?

"Maybe if I'd… paced myself…" she said on the verge of a grin.

That was new. And not a bad one. Malcolm already wanted her to say it again.

"Oh, I think you did," he said. "Four times, if I counted correctly. Or maybe five?"

He hadn't at all counted four. It was for the margin of error.

Rhode laughed—until his stomach grumbled loudly.

Wow. Because that wasn't awkward.

"I guess we worked up quite an appetite," he managed with a grimace.

"I'll take you to the dining room," she said. "I'm sure we have leftovers."

Malcolm smiled at her. "That's nice of you."

Following her to the doorway, he realized he wasn't being the nicest he could be.

"This might be weird to say," he began, "but it'd probably be rude not to…" Already shriveling under her expectant gaze, he cursed himself for a sec for not having thought this through before blabbering. Last night… You should know… "You're very—like, amazingly—" What was the most fitting word here? "—thorough."

A smile spread across Rhode's face. She waggled her brows once at him. "I'm good at what I do."

"And who?" he blurted out in response.

Whom, his mind yelled.

He ignored it and reveled in her chuckle. And the once-over that followed it.

Stepping through the doorway out her room, Malcolm gained a bounce in his step. He probably couldn't run at his usual speeds now, but he at least felt an urge and an ability to do a decent jog. Perhaps it was the deadline they were physically walking to that propelled him to overcome his jitters and flood Rhode with inquiries.

As she walked with him out of her wing towards the main palace building, it seemed easy to ask about Atlantis's trade agreement and ocean de-acidification proposals. He didn't even make any pretense about how he had happened to hear about so-and-so or how he had presumed this-and-that would be the case.

She walked slowly (half his typical strides) and talked rapidly (twice his usual speed), delighting Malcolm in her answers. He got an extra kick out of seeing her light up at his questions about how the current deal she was handling related to the ones she negotiated during the early days of her island and what it was like to codify the first maritime laws.

Heading into another hallway, Rhode momentarily greeted Timaeus, on duty again, and was practically walking sideways at this point as she talked with her hands and told Malcolm about the expansions and rewrites of those codes.

"I can show you this diagram on how sea laws generally developed over the years," she said. She came to a halt and patted around her hips, only to realize she'd forgotten her bag.

Malcolm stopped walking and faced her head on. "I did actually see it," he volunteered. "At least I think it's the same one. The circular one that branches out with the segments on the different areas? It was also in Galene's textbook."

Also. There was a lot he said through those two syllables.

For a long while, Rhode simply looked at him intently. Saying or evaluating what, he couldn't tell. But her stormy irises, fixed solely on him, were stirring up something inside him and heating his loins in the same way they had when she'd asked to rip his shirt off.

She wasn't even touching him, but his skin remembered how she had reached beneath his shirt to brush her thumbs at his sides.

Malcolm waited. Malcolm swallowed. Malcolm held his breath as he looked back at her.

And then that pressure in his chest that blocked his airways let up when Rhode's intense stare finally softened.

"I have to get my purse," she said with a hint of a pout.

He nodded, his smile building at the cute expression.

When another grumble of his stomach resounded in the empty hallway, Malcolm let out a chuckle.

Rhode smiled. "Timaeus can take you to the dining room," she said. "I'll see you there."

Malcolm nodded again, twitching his lips when she brushed against him to head back to her room.

Rocking on the balls of his feet, he gave his companion what he could make of a smile. "Hi, Timaeus."

Timaeus gripped his spear tighter. "Follow me," he said.

"Did you end up having cake?" Malcolm said.

Timaeus said nothing as he led Malcolm into one of the hallways Malcolm and Rhode had whizzed past the night before.

Malcolm took in what he could of the hall's landscapes and pottery and tried again as they approached the end of the hall. "Do you have both the night and morning shifts?"

"What concerns you about my shifts?" said Timaeus, peering at him with narrowed eyes.

Malcolm shrugged. "Just making conversation."

"Malcolm?" he heard a familiar deep voice far ahead of him.

Oh! Outside world? Had there been an outside world all this time?

Don't freak out.

Forcing his feet to move, he placed his thumbs in his pockets and turned his head. "Percy. What're you doing here?"

After a gape and a long blink, Percy said, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Each of the demigods stared at the other. Neither knew what to say. Neither of them moved. It really would have been comical had the Fates chosen anyone else to suffer through this.

Break the silence, dammit. Say something.

"You never mentioned you and Rhode had matching tattoos" happened to be the words that flew out of his mouth.

Shit. Not that.

Percy's eyes widened even more if it were possible. "And how would you know that?" he said with a knowing look. Looking at maps?

She wasn't wearing anything. No. She… told me. Yes. It was only her shoulder.

"You'll get it when you're older, Percy," came Rhode's voice behind him with the clacking of heels.

Damn, he'd had that!

Rhode offered Malcolm an object wrapped in tissue. "Your toothbrush," she said.

Under Percy's and Timaeus's stares, Malcolm's heart managed to keep beating. He focused instead on Rhode, who took his shy thanks in exchange for a kind smile.

Percy did another obnoxiously long blink as Malcolm pocketed the toothbrush.

"Can you accompany him while I help get the leftovers?" Rhode asked her brother.

"You don't have to," Malcolm muttered, still unable to look at Percy.

"Your siblings might want some. Zeke seemed to really like the cake," she said with a touch of his arm.

The nerves in his arm were even tinglier in Percy and Timaeus's presence.

"Ohhh-kaay," said Percy, still wide-eyed once Rhode set off to the kitchens.

Malcolm wanted to say something to him. Just something. But as he followed Percy and Timaeus into another hallway, he couldn't figure out what in Hades would be appropriate.

It didn't help that he was distracted by all the artifacts in that hallway that he hadn't had the opportunity to study sufficiently the night before.

And with that tapestry of Rhode unfurled for all to see, it was as though there was a spotlight the person who'd drawn her. What other evidence would have been more blatant of his worship?

Thankfully, Percy had mercy. "Plans for today?" he said, with merely a glance at the piece. "Just reading, training…?"

Malcolm's yeah turned into a near squeak as they turned a corner. He swore his heart nearly stopped.

Right then and there, he decided that if he'd ever again doubted his bisexuality, he'd think to this moment.

Because hardly a meter away stood the most gorgeous specimen of man with the perfect tan and the twinkliest eyes and the softest, shiniest fluff of the darkest hair. His unbuttoned red Hawaiian shirt did all the right things to show off his bear-like qualities, from his broad shoulders to his abundant chest hair. And Malcolm was no twig, but this guy was a true husky.

"I'm giving Alicia a swimming lesson before taking Annabeth out to dinner," came Percy's voice in the distance. "Where should I— Morning, Dad. Where should I drop her off?"

Malcolm's brain was too busy trying to comprehend why his instincts were drumming a staccato of warnings.

"Malcolm?" Percy said.

"Um."

In the smokiest voice he'd ever heard—Smoky? Could voices sound smoky? And how could it sound so smoky if it was so clear, too?—Poseidon greeted his son before addressing their guest. "Ah, Malcolm Pace, isn't it? We finally meet."

"Uh," Malcolm said.

Poseidon was staring him down.

Malcolm made another attempt. "Um. Lord Poseidon."

He could almost sense his heart rate speeding, as if being underwater amplified the beats.

As he bowed, the pieces were fitting together. That this was not only the father of the woman he had just *ahem* done some genital exercise with. This was the God of Too Many Natural Disasters. This was his mother's archenemy. This was the largest investor of his life's work.

How the FUCK had that slipped his mind?

Now it was his instincts—focused on the scent of sandalwood and beach and man—that struggled to catch up to his mind.

Poseidon was studying him with a frown. "Yet another of Athena's children who decided it would be a splendid idea to commit sacrilege in my domain."

Shiiiit. He knows? How does he know?

Beside them, a dolphin glided into the dining room. "It's like all the sex Athena doesn't have balances out with all the sex her children have," the dolphin said. "And with yours, it seems."

That's it. Malcolm was really going to die.

Was it worth it? a voice in his head asked again.

He wasn't sure this time. He really should have reevaluated his options last night.

"Shut it, Delphin," said Rhode, who had come back with Triton, each with two trays of food.

Her presence barely cleared the foggy panic settling in him under Poseidon's menacing stare. But it was enough to make Malcolm realize he still hadn't spoken.

His heart was thundering at faster speeds. All he had accomplished so far felt on the verge of destruction.

He swallowed as he faced Poseidon. "I'm so sorry," he tried. "I really hadn't meant to."

Rhode suddenly rounded on him. "You're sorry?!" she fumed. "You didn't mean to?!"

"No!" he said. "I'm not. I did."

"Ah, so you thought you could lie to me," Poseidon said, with a look nearly as piercing as the spikes of the glowing trident in his hand.

"No, I meant—"

What did he mean? That he hadn't planned it? What did that matter if he'd still done it? More than once, no less. He'd had hours to have at least realized.

And there was something else to it he couldn't manage to word.

Two pairs of green eyes—one blacker, one bluer—chained him to the spot. Poseidon was scowling at him. Rhode looked fierce, furious, and inhuman. Either of them could turn him into a puddle of seawater.

"Please don't turn me into a fish," Malcolm said in a voice he barely recognized.

Poseidon shot him a dirty look. "I thought Athena's children were quicker on their feet."

Malcolm had the brain capacity to be offended.

"In his defense, I've never seen him like this," Percy said, snacking on nori chips. He looked like he was watching prime entertainment. "What happened to you? It's like your brain's short-circuited."

Rhode happened.

Fortunately, his brain could process that that would have been a very unwise thing to say.

But it was so hard to think under the barrage of all these bad emotions he couldn't even parse at this instant.

He had to find a way out before more trouble brewed. He needed someone's help, and he wasn't sure who would come to his aid. Unless…

Malcolm faced Poseidon. "Lord Poseidon, I am sorry I probably—very likely—crossed a professional line. I was requested to visit and to stay. I'd, of course, assumed—and respected that—Princess Rhode had enough of a say in her life to do whatever she wanted. So I obviously didn't think to question her invitation. Nor would I. And who would I have been to decline Her Highness's… propositions when I could be of service, especially on her birthday?"

Gods damn gigolo he was.

Poseidon's trident glowed brighter as he glared.

Okay, Malcolm was really pushing it.

But Poseidon was no longer staring him down. Instead, the lord of the seas faced his daughter. "I think you need to reevaluate your choices."

Rhode rolled her eyes.

("One to talk," muttered Triton.)

Poseidon then turned to Malcolm. "And as for you—"

"Poseidon, leave him alone," Rhode drawled, way more concerned about spreading feta on crackers.

("Poseidon," Triton repeated just over his breath.)

"This is my home as well," Rhode said, "and I shouldn't have to remind you that I don't need your permission." She dressed another cracker. "What would Mother say?" she then hissed at him, with a momentary glance away from the snack in her hand.

("Likely that she still doesn't understand the appeal of casual sex," Triton supplied.)

But then Rhode redirected her glare to Malcolm, slinking towards him as he was hit with regret and guilt. He couldn't fault her, really, for whatever came next.

Lay it on me.

Her gaze fixed on him like daggers pinning him in his place. Malcolm braced himself.

"And it's not his fault I tied him up to my bed," she said. "Although he did consent to that."

Rhode ended her retort with a crunch of her cracker and the smuggest, most satisfying smirk Malcolm had ever witnessed.

Fucking shit. Oh, what a…

In Malcolm's purview, Percy choked on a bite of spanakopita. Poseidon huffed. Delphin blew a puff of bubbles out his blowhole. And Triton tutted and before flipping a page of his newspaper.

Malcolm's face was burning as he stood there stupidly, just watching Rhode chew.

Her eyes didn't even dare him to come at her. They didn't need to. Not when she already knew she won.

With as much confidence as he could muster, Malcolm spread his arms and said, "Special birthday treat. Happy birthday, Princess." He sent a wink her way.

Rhode swallowed her bite. "You know, you even didn't turn this red when I was on my—"

"That is enough, thank you, Rhódē," Poseidon cut in.

"I don't know whether to laugh or puke," Percy muttered. "And Dad, you've never complained about Annabeth, so I don't think you can say this has to do with Athena."

"Plus, it seems you have even more leverage against her now," Delphin remarked.

As Delphin horsed around, Malcolm tried to snap out of his slowness. But there was a cloudiness around him he couldn't quite shake.

A silence persisted until Percy and Delphin struck up a conversation about the food and tried to get Poseidon to join in.

When Rhode leveled her father with a look, Poseidon resigned to offer Malcolm a seat. Which Malcolm was actually pleased about.

Slowly trying to figure out where to sit, he figured a seat next to just Delphin was the best option. Except Delphin wasn't claiming a spot. Just as Malcolm decided he'd sit next to Percy, Rhode got up from her seat across him to greet her mother with pressed cheeks.

In the doorway beside Amphitrite stood Annabeth, who inconspicuously mouthed a what to him. Malcolm wanted to hide.

"Good morning, Lady Amphitrite," boomed Poseidon with a small grin and bright eyes.

The queen kissed her husband.

"My lady," said Delphin, "this is a son of Athena."

Amphitrite nodded at Malcolm. "Malcolm Pace, yes. We met yesterday. Thank you again for your painting. Pherousa told me it's hanging at the gallery now."

Even after reading the room—gratefully, something she did with simply a smile—she had the grace not to express even the slightest shock.

"He's apparently here as Rhode's guest," Delphin added.

Malcolm couldn't bear to face her; he instead kept his eyes on Delphin, who clearly could've just said, 'This dude bumped uglies with your dear daughter.'

But aside from an discreet look—if any—at her daughter, the matriarch of the Atlantian family graciously acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Amphitrite laid a hand on Malcolm's arm and said, "It'd be a pleasure to have you join us for breakfast."

As Malcolm finally faced her, every sordid thing he'd done with Rhode flashed before his eyes. (Gods, why couldn't he just disappear right now?)

"Thank you," he said. "But I was thinking I should probably get going actually."

As Tyson filed in and the dining room filled up, Malcolm squirmed at the reminder that he was the only one wearing evening wear.

"We don't kick out guests during breakfast. It's rude. And it is particularly rude to leave upon being offered a meal by the Queen." The unexpected comment came from Rhode, still looking victorious.

Stop torturing me, dammit.

"Okay," Malcolm said. With all his might, he faced Amphitrite once more. "Sorry." He packed everything into that for as long as he could look her in the eyes: Sorry for refusing your offer. Sorry for intruding. Sorry we had a great chat yesterday only for you to find out I hooked up with your daughter.

Still, he tried not to sound sorry enough to offend Rhode, who shot him another glare.

Malcolm was treated to an Atlantian breakfast, with complimentary servings of Poseidon's obvious disregard for him (better than threats at least), Delphin's endless amusement (although his jokes did calm the heightened mood), Percy's second-hand embarrassment (which just made Malcolm more shamefaced), Annabeth's immediate aid (so obvious and a little too desperate that it was probably backfiring on him), Triton's needless commentary (at times ruining Annabeth and Percy's attempts to occupy Poseidon), Tyson's stunned blinks (after Triton felt the need to update him on today's happenings), Amphitrite's generous compliments (the only nice thing Malcolm had going for him right now, though she really should've directed everyone's attention elsewhere), and Rhode's incessant jabs (what else could he have expected?).

"Do you not like my mother's recipes?" Rhode asked when he tried to decline a helping of taramasalata, the seventh dish Amphitrite offered, after soft-shell crab, salmon tartare, jellyfish tempura in a gochujang sauce, apple tuna salad, oysters, and caviar in watermelon with buttermilk-something.

Malcolm couldn't keep up in any sense.

"I'm sure they're fantastic. I'm just not really hungry," he told Amphitrite.

"Didn't you tell me you were?" said Rhode, helping herself to a third serving of tartare. "That we worked up quite the appetite? I for one am starving."

"I'm alright," he said through clenched jaws. His cheeks were warm again.

Will you fucking stop?

Rhode didn't. "Oh. Well, maybe had you put in more effort last night…."

"I wasn't aware, Rhode," Malcolm said. "People like different things, and, you know, I'm always open to immediate feedback. Far be it from me to want to leave someone displeased."

Throughout brunch, Rhode kept at it. But in front of Amphitrite, Malcolm shut up and tried not to glower. He just took while they continued the stupid game of civility he had figured they'd play during Annabeth's birthday.

As Malcolm slowly chewed his food, chatter and clatters filled the room, until Triton finally set down the morning's paper and said, "So… Kymopoleia didn't visit?"

Rhode huffed as she dipped a huge piece of pita in olive oil. "What did we expect?" she said before tearing a bite off the pita with her teeth.

"She still hasn't returned my messages," Poseidon said, picking out a black seed from his watermelon juice.

Amphitrite helped herself to another oyster. "When was the last time she listened to us? Truly, ever since she beheaded Rhode's dolls, that girl has been totally uncontrollable."

"You know, I still remember she stuck an octopus to my back," said Delphin with a faraway look. "It was there for days. I can still feel it sometimes."

Rhode scrunched her face. "Oh, I was actually a part of that. Sorry, Delphin." She snickered nonetheless.

"At least you have capacity for remorse," Triton said, "And you'd never kill an ally in petty rage, much less terrorize this realm the way she did."

Rhode opened her mouth and closed it, ultimately settling on saying, "She's not a monster, Triton. She's our sibling."

Triton shrugged. "Happens to be. Like some other monsters." He side-eyed his father and helped himself to some calamari.

"Give her time," said Poseidon.

Rhode sighed. "It's been over two millennia. Mother, have you reached out to her?"

"I agree with Lord Poseidon," said Amphitrite, paying more attention to her stack of mail. "We can give her time."

Malcolm didn't miss the way Rhode's stiffened.

But before Rhode could say anything, Amphitrite waved the letter in her hand. "There's a letter from Yiorg. He says happy birthday."

As Rhode reached for it, Amphitrite took it back. "It isn't addressed to you," she said with raised brows.

Beside her, Rhode's face fell.

Amphitrite scanned the letter. "He would like to meet on… ah, the 4th of August at 3. I will be away then. There's that summit on fishery collapse with Glaukos and the rest."

"I suppose it will be me then," Triton said with a sigh. "Didn't I meet him last time, too?"

Rhode looked around the table. "He wasn't here yesterday, was he?"

"Why would he have been?" said Triton. "Everyone knows banks are still strained from the wars."

"Only a few," Rhode said.

It still made fundraising for New Athens difficult, as Malcolm knew.

"It was still a few," Poseidon interjected, covering his mouth mid-chew.

"We already decided six years ago," Amphitrite said, "and in 2008 and during our own crisis in the 90s, that we would not possibly give any of them more rescue funds."

"But it is a good thing the wars ended so quickly," Poseidon said.

"And it is their own problem they made all those reckless bets," argued Amphitrite. "Yiorg would have our skins if we reward them for that."

Poseidon commendably held in his obvious exasperation. "Or if we excuse those wanting to profit from Olympus's losses. I know. But their depositors suffered, and we could've done more. That is all I have been saying."

"And the regulators already handled it, because Yiorg knows all their nasty tricks, and no bank of ours failed. That calls for celebration," Rhode concluded to Triton.

"Celebration!" Triton scoffed. "All this debt already, and still all this exuberance. Spend, spend, spend! Live for the moment! Because we're Greek! We don't understand the concept of savings!"

"I have savings, thank you!" said Rhode as gracefully as she could over a mouthful of jellyfish tempura.

"What is it to the people that you do?" Triton said. "And you still ask me when I'm going to make another holiday. Another party. I am not going to contribute to the overheating of this already overleveraged economy, no thank you!"

"As though you would even do it otherwise," Delphin said, which Amphitrite noted was beside the point.

Poseidon turned to Rhode. "It was a wonderful party. It is never unwelcome to unite and celebrate all of Atlantis, and neither is it your fault some people have no soul."

"No soul," remarked Triton. "And yet you sle—?"

"That wasn't him," Poseidon said. "For that, you'd have to ask Rhódē, because I do not understand the appeal now either."

Delphin snorted out of his blowhole and shook his head at Rhode. "Oh, you are truly never living that down," he said.

"He was completely unrecognizable!" Rhode yelled over the snickers around the table.

"Exactly!" said Poseidon. "When I met him—well, her—she wasn't a bank regulator."

"No, he was worse then. He was a financial engineer." Rhode said, forcing Malcolm to reign in a snuff.

Malcolm was totally going to look up who this Yiorg—most likely a Yiorgos—was to figure out who it was who managed to bag both King and Princess.

"Isn't it also on him?" Percy said after finally managing to wipe off the disturbed look on his face, "I mean, it sounds like he's ticking you off one by one."

"For all we know," Delphin said as Poseidon served him another large, spiced octopus leg, "maybe all the letters to Lord Triton and Lady Amphitrite aren't to express his disapproval. Maybe he simply wants a night with you, too."

As Amphitrite pursed her lips and Triton pulled a face, Poseidon and Rhode cackled.

Over more rounds of food, the Atlantian family began sharing gossip regarding people who showed up with whom, halted any political conversations with pointed looks at the Athenians, and, to Malcolm's delight, regaled Annabeth with the comments they'd heard on her palace designs. Until finally, breakfast was ending. Which was great. Or not.

As Malcolm helped them all clear the table with the palace staff, Poseidon approached him head-on. He was only slightly taller than Malcolm, but his shoulders spanned wider, and that was seemingly enough to make Malcolm feel like being towered over.

"Malcolm Pace," Poseidon said. "See to it that you are not like one of those bankers."

"Of course," Malcolm said with a bow. He looked up to Poseidon's sea green eyes. "And I would like to thank you—in person—for all the funds you've contributed to the city."

Poseidon gave him a long, hard glare and what Malcolm could've sworn was a nod.

At that, Rhode finally lost her prolonged politesse and shot Malcolm a pissy look.

And as Rhode, Amphitrite, and the demigods made their way to the gates of the palace, Rhode didn't once look at him. Maybe it was worse than her rage-filled stare.

In their silence over Annabeth's explanations to Amphitrite of some design details of the illuminated pathways that even Malcolm hadn't known, Rhode's words rang loudly in his ears: 'You're sorry? You didn't mean to?'

If she was trying to guilt-trip him right now by completely ignoring him, it was totally working. Because he was more sorry now, and what he had meant less to do was to offend her in any capacity.

But surely, Malcolm thought as he took in the palace entrance for what was certainly the last time, surely, she should've at least understood his predicament. How self-absorbed would she have to have been to care less about the danger he was put in than any little lies that he hadn't wanted to sleep with her? Or that he would regret it.

That was what that itchy feeling in him and that gnawing in his head were saying, right? That he just shouldn't have shared last night with Rhode? That none of those wondrous things had been worth it?

Or was it that he regretted them going back to square one? Was that even something he could regret if he had just been momentarily delusional in thinking they wouldn't come to this again?

As Amphitrite nodded at Malcolm and Annabeth and wished them well, Rhode handed three pearls to Percy and gave him and Annabeth a big hug each.

Her hugs came with a squeeze, Malcolm remembered. Accompanied by that delightful floral scent. And presses of her cheeks.

It felt like a shame to leave like this—not completely because he'd totally lost their battle of wits. When was it they would have met next? The wedding?

"Rhode," Annabeth said, leaning into her for another half-hug, "can you visit camp again next week? There'll be a campfire on Friday. It'll be fun. We also would like your input on our wedding plans, because we really value your opinion. Right, Percy?"

"Right," Percy said. "You can't say no to that."

Behind them, Malcolm's eyes bored holes into the stone floor. Deep, deep down, he wanted to throttle the both of them. Ultimately, he decided, no, he wasn't going to be an ass to them. If Annabeth and Percy wanted Rhode to visit camp and hang out, that was within their right. To them, she was family.

So, how was he to say goodbye? There was no way he'd let himself just give in. At the same time, any pretend seemed dumb, considering they both had admitted they'd enjoyed themselves. And not saying anything would've been rude. And Amphitrite was here.

Malcolm swallowed all his pride and faced Rhode. "Good luck on the meeting," he said.

Turning away before Rhode could respond, he thanked Amphitrite with a small bow and passed Percy whispering to Annabeth. "—do everything for them?"

Malcolm ignored them and headed for the gates to let the pearl whisk him back to camp.


As Annabeth and Percy made their way to Cabin Three with the leftovers Malcolm insisted they keep or deal with however they wanted, Malcolm ignored every camper in his sight and speedily walked as casually as he could to the Athena Cabin.

"There he is!" he heard Claire say through the cabin window.

Malcolm disregarded his urge to turn around and stayed on course.

The door opened as he reached for the handle.

Mid-quad stretch, Conrad stood aside to let him in. "Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm," he said with a shake of his head.

Fuck.

The cabin, which could house a full ten, had never felt so cramped. Malcolm side-stepped Conrad and dodged Claire's elbows as she bunned her hair. Ignoring how the pair of them swiveled their heads his direction, he headed to his side of the cabin.

"You weren't here in the morning," said Conrad.

"Early morning," he said in reflex.

They simply looked at him.

As Malcolm emptied his pockets onto his bed, the wrapped-up toothbrush fell onto the covers. He stared at it for a millisecond and immediately hid it on his shelf, pretending to set aside and tiny up his books.

"Don't I always wake up before everyone?" he said.

"We didn't see you here last night either," Claire said.

"Long night," he replied.

"Probably. I mean, you're wearing the same clothes," Conrad said.

Right.

He flashed back to his walk from the beach to the cabin. If the other campers who'd seen him hadn't automatically thought he had met with city funders or some shit—which was technically true—he now swore every wrinkle in his dress shirt had been magnified for the whole camp to have witnessed.

"And you missed breakfast," Claire said.

Yup. He faced it all today: death by sex, death by wrath, death by mortification.

His prior two successes at least gave him hope for surviving the third threat.

"Out and about, sneaking around, so conveniently on the day Cabin Six isn't following curfew and no one's keeping tabs?" Conrad said. "What'd you do? Get held up meeting up with someone last night on the way to the cabin?"

They assumed he'd gotten out of Atlantis? Sure, he could let them think that. Instead of…

Claire's jaw dropped. "Oh my gods. You didn't. Mal. You're kidding."

"I didn't even say anything!"

"You didn't need to!" she said, eyes as wide as saucers. "You're as red as Apollo's cows!"

Conrad had to hold the door frame to keep himself from keeling over in hysterics. "I thought you just fell asleep working, like that other time."

Malcolm turned away and did his best not to mind them as he took off his jacket. He really just wanted to be alone right now.

Conrad was laughing his way out the cabin. But Claire wasn't leaving.

"O-Oh my gods!" she squealed.

"Screw this," Malcolm said. "I'm outta here." In a fit, he swiped up some clean clothes to change into.

"Oh, you've definitely been doing some screwing," Claire said, unable to help herself. "Goldie, save me a spot!" she called to her twin outside.

Malcolm headed to the bathroom.

"No, Mal, wait! Hold up."

"No, I'm gone."

"No, seriously!"

Before he could reach the door, Claire lunged on him and dragged him back.

"What the hell, Claire?"

"Sit here. Let me help," she said, pulling out the chair they'd use to read to Alicia. Her voice dropped. "You have…" Her eyes then focused on the corner of the cabin. "You have… you have what looks like a suggestive mark on the side of your neck."

His eyes shut. Gods kill me.

Had he sat through the entire brunch with the entire Atlantian Monarchy like that? Had Poseidon seen? Fuck, had Amphitrite?

Wait. It would've been covered by the collar of his dress shirt, right? Actually, he wasn't 100% sure.

Claire dragged him to her side of the cabin once he stopped resisting. "Sit down." She nodded to the chair.

He plopped down and avoided the nearby mirror.

"I'm not judging," Claire said. "Although, seriously, are we in high school?"

Didn't do any of this in high school.

"I'm kidding, she said. "Just tell me who you met up with." She grinned exuberantly as she got out supplies from her makeup kit.

Malcolm responded with a glare.

"I'm helping you!" Claire insisted. "I should be heading to my Games training now. But here I am, helping my big brother cover up—" She shut her mouth, lips quivering big time to cover a smirk.

"You can't tell Conrad," he said, trying his best to tune out her words.

"Oooh." Claire paused in contemplation. "But we're practically the same person. I can't not tell my twin."

"This is blackmail."

"Sorry." Claire proceeded to feather some green stuff on him. "Let's hope our skin tones match." She sighed. "Okay, don't tell me. So, clearly this whole thing wasn't planned. But for how long have you been hanging with this person? I mean, if you could get this carried away…"

"It's not like that."

"So it was, what, a one-time thing?" she said. "Malcolm Pace-Robinson does random… whatever-it-was? Who knew?"

He kept quiet. Yeah, this was definitely a first. Though it wasn't exactly random.

"Give me a hint?" Claire said.

A part of him wanted to let out the secret.

But why?

Right as he zoned out, Claire stopped her color correcting and inspected his neck. She cocked her head. "Oh."

He didn't know what that meant.

"Is this person a she?" Claire prodded as she put down her brush.

"What makes you think that?"

Could he not narrow down the possibilities to half the population?

"It seems more probable," Claire said, "considering this isn't a hickey. It's a lipstick stain."

Right. All that nectar he'd drunk would've dealt with any… injuries.

She dabbed an alcoholic liquid onto a cotton pad and handed it to him.

"So, is this person a she?" she asked again, watching him smear the pad over his neck.

"Uh-huh."

"Does she have an Olympian parent?"

Claire took the cotton pad from him and spread it over a spot further back, where he hadn't yet reached.

Malcolm's eyes drilled a spot on the floor. "Uh-huh."

"Do I know her?" Claire said.

He debated how to respond.

"So I've met her," she deduced.

"Uh-huh."

With a final wipe, she lobbed the cotton pad into the trash and organized her tools. Malcolm was ever so glad to retreat into the bathroom to change.

"She's not one of my friends, is she?" Claire said on the other side of the door.

Malcolm ran his tongue over his teeth, halting with one leg through a pant.

There had been too long a silence before her question. Which made him suspect she was only asking for his benefit. It was just too blatant. Or perhaps it was still for her own confirmation?

He scrunched his eyes and gave up, trying not to think about anything more than changing into his clothes.

"Who do you call your friends?" he played along.

"Alice, Mariana, Kayla," she said, listing daughters of Hermes, Aphrodite, and Apollo.

"Then no."

Once he opened the bathroom door, he immediately, he shot her a look. "Isn't Kayla fresh out of high school? Why would I—? Gods, Claire."

"You're 23, Mal," Claire said. "You're not that old."

"Yeah, but relatively? And she's basically a kid."

"Okay, good. That would be creepy and weird and awkward," she said.

And so unnecessary to ask.

As Claire finished putting away her equipment, he gave her the most shameful "thank you" of his life. Still, he felt way better it had only been lipstick.

"Coconut oil would've also gotten rid of it. Or an exfoliator," she said breezily. If it happens again, he heard.

"Okay."

It hurt his pride, but acting dumb was surely less humiliating than admitting that he'd just missed a spot.

"You're gonna hold this over me, aren't you?" he said.

Claire looked away into space. "Well," she said quietly, "you helped once when my pre-abortion leaked, so…"

For the first time that day, Malcolm burst into a hearty laugh. "Never heard it called that."

"My bloody buddy?" she said. "Conforming to gender norms?"

With a chuckle herself, Claire looped her arm through his as they made their way to the arena.

"And, ya know…" She shrugged and almost mumbled, "you skipped a whole bunch of classes and wrecked your average for me."

"Because going to some econ and poli sci classes was so much more important than helping my sister deal with a chronic, agonizing, debilitating, incurable disease."

"Yeah, and this can be a tiny payback," Claire said.

Her training get-up provided a reminder of the remains in those small scars on her abdomen—like on his. He still selfishly found a comfort in that, but he knew she did, too.

And thank Apollo for his blessed children that it had taken months—and only months—for a diagnosis, but there had still been too many trials and combos of hormonal therapy and expensive-ass rings and laparoscopies… before she went back training and eventually managed to smash her old records. That was Claire.

"How is it these days?" he said.

Claire nodded her trademark Claire nod: with closed eyes and a smile.

"Good." Malcolm nodded towards the arena. "Now go kick their asses."