percy is so brave for standing up to his mom at the end of season 2 bc if sally jackson turned and looked at me and said with a tone that implied Great Consequences “I wasn’t asking” i would’ve been like yes ma’am whatever you say ma’am
BIANCA ( @altruprism ) said, you taught me this. / accepting
𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇. 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃. regrettably, verso DID teach bianca to be - in layman’s terms - as much of a rat as possible. screw everybody else. keep yourself alive. you’ll avoid cigarettes and watch your tongue, and you won’t do anything TOO risky - these were his lessons, coupled paradoxically with notions that she should never push herself too hard, that she should try and RELAX here and there. be a kid. a dead kid, sure, but be a kid.
verso clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. his right hand strays to run through his hair, then loiters on the nape of his neck. he drums his nails against the soft skin until the sensation grows boring. then and only then does he turn his gaze from the ceiling to bianca.
❝ yeah, well, i didn’t think you were paying ATTENTION. ❞ it’s a jest, a quick jab, but there’s still an air of caution about the matter at hand wafting around him. ❝ you ever hear the phrase DO AS I SAY, not as i do ?? this is one of those times. probably should’ve given you THAT disclaimer at the start. ❞
he’s already running options through his head. he can mitigate the damage from this well enough: his grandfather likes him, castellan allegedly tolerates him… yeah, this won’t be the end of the world. reason enough for a lecture on both of their ends maybe (not to say that he’ll pay ATTENTION to it), but nothing that would bring either of them to ruin. nothing that would lose kronos’ favor - which, verso realizes, might be worse for the girl time brought back rather than the man time freed.
what’s he gonna do, verso thinks, send me back?
the thought drives a nail of paranoia into the back of his mind. YES, actually, the titan could. YES, actually, his grandfather might find such an idea tempting. YES, he might go back down there-
verso diverts that train of thought with a cigarette between his lips before it can grow too loud. the kid doesn’t need to see him break the cool facade. not now, anyways.
❝ don’t worry about it, yeah ?? just don’t do it again. remember: do as i say, not as i do. ❞
Bianca has spent weeks upon weeks trying to acclimate herself to life outside of herself. The life she holds is alien to her now, and may never be familiar again, but she can at least practice at understanding others. She studies the birds on the top deck and listens to the conversations that pass her by. She inches closer to the crowded areas every day.
She forgot-- almost entirely-- that people don't really like her, either. That for most, death is a fear and not a comfort.
The friction burns on her palms and fingers are enough to keep her eyes occupied. Bianca doesn't want to look at him, even if he doesn't seem too angry. Hated fingers press at the shining flesh and she watches it turn white, then red again. She's pretty sure she still has blood at the corner of her mouth. It isn't hers.
The apology she was gearing up for seems a bit moot now. Her original words were thrown in preemptive defense, but anybody with sense would know that this is too messy to claim innocence. Although, to be fair, the other kid did start it. And he was older.
"I'm screwed, aren't I?" Verso hates when she says things like that, but she says it anyway. All that work for nothing. All that talk about a common cause, and she dashes it on the rocks.
ᯓ☆ one book pulled, then two, then three. NONE of these are what she wants if the steep furrowing of her brow is any indication. her free hand rises to tug her beanie down snug over her temple (over her horns which, as a result of the LAST bit of magic, haven’t exactly SHRUNK BACK DOWN completely yet) then raises by her side and waves from left to right, hoping to snag the attention of a passing ATTENDANT.
Moira has passed by Lavender thrice already, waiting for it to be exasperated enough to ask for help. When it finally happens, she laughs, joyful and friendly and entirely artificial. People always seem to think that she's being snide or insincere when she uses her real laugh.
"I'm actually a bit of an expert," She says. "I have information on innate precognition, ritual clairvoyance, spoken and written prophecy, anything you could need."
Her hands press together behind her back, palm to palm. The stretch gives her something to focus on. Etiquette is necessary-- she hates to be impolite-- but she's always struggled with socializing.
She's all smiles and flustered pride until he asks about her opponent. Bianca's expression flickers once, twice, before she schools it into something that could be seen as casual.
"You can swear, I don't care about that stuff." It's a poor excuse for a change in subject, but it's all she has.
Moira already has a box of tissues extended, waiting for him to take one. Or a few. He may need several.
"It's not that I don't care," She clarifies, a bit defensively. "But I know everything that's going to happen. Imagine the whole movie got spoiled for you beforehand, and then when you did watch it, the person next to you kept telling you the lines before they happened."
A pause. "Besides, it's all bit gruesome to be sad. I'd be more angry than anything."
hands tangle in sullied blond hair. nails scrape at a scalp once scorched by the midday sun. lungs shudder as a too-deep breath is taken; they flatten ‘gainst the ribs from the inside out. the ensuing exhale is harsh through gritted teeth. it carries the taste of stomach acid back against the flat of a useless tongue, the scent of last night’s madness-made mistakes smothered by artificial orange.
❛ me too, ❜ comes the host’s response, aching and tired. hands drag themselves down his face, fingers briefly snagging on the bottoms of his eyes and pull until the soft pink of the muscle underneath is visible. they relinquish when the library’s air starts to sting, and the hands rest under his chin. they are a more comfortable pillow than the bare of the library desk, but only slightly.
❛ i saw everything’s everything. the idea of it. what everything feels like, i saw that. ❜ the head turns from her, mouth hidden ‘gainst the inside of his crossed arms. eyes fix on a shelf on the other side of the room.
❛ i wish i just saw a part of everything. maybe i could’ve handled that better. ❜ a pause. his eyes return to her. ❛ how did you handle it ?? ❜
Moira is sympathetic at the best of times, at the worst of times-- she's been told she even worries aloud in her sleep. Here sits a creature bound together by empathy. She's not quite sure yet how helpful that will be.
Still, needs must; the redhead untangles her fingers from where they play anxiously in her hair so that she can card them through straw-colored strands. It's almost matronly in its motion as she settles flyaways and sets him looking far more put together on the outside than he is underneath. It's a bit too much for a first meeting, she realizes, so Moira moves the hand to rest on his arm.
"Me? I spent a long time trying to ignore it. Things would always end up pushing through eventually, and it never stopped hurting. My family..." She searches for the right phrasing, a thumb rubbing soothingly at his arm. "Everybody has their way of dealing with things. I decided I couldn't take it anymore and I jumped in with my arms open. It still hurts, but there's more freedom in it. There'll be a way to sort this out, you'll see."
@altruprism [ bianca ] said, " what happens if you don't come back? "
charles is gonna come back. he knows it same as he knows that the sun is gonna rise and the wind's gonna blow and the buses are gonna be late just when you need them to be on time. he knows it because he has been in a fight as hard as this one before, and come out hurt, but breathing ( so long as he's breathing, then he's okay ) but also : because there is no piece of him, no bone or scrap of flesh, that won't fight, fight, fight until it is obliterated. he wants to live. today is no different.
and even so, the worry in bianca's question makes his heart ache. mismatched eyes land upon her, not soft ( he doesn't do soft very well ) but understanding, even so. not because he has ever felt the same, defender that he has always been, when violence darkened his doorstep, but because he's sure he's heard this question before. his sister had asked it ---- he's been trying for years to meet the promise that he'd come back for her ---- and then, so many scared kids whom he'd tucked beneath his wing. someone had to.
that's what it is ---- charles doesn't venture out to kill tartarus - spawn for glamor or heroism or whatever camp half blood says about throwing oneself into death's maw. he does it when no one else will ; he does it because someone must.
" you don't gotta worry about that. i'll be back sooner or later. " there, the same answer he has given in the past as well, in a voice that isn't confident, really, but firm, a promise that it'd be wasted on him. he wishes people would listen, when he said such things ---- wishes no one bothered be scared for his life, when he wasn't worth the concern. death is the one who should be worried, dare he try and touch me! " 'm not gonna leave you hanging. wouldn't dream of it. "
Oh, people say they'll come back. People will make all sorts of promises once they have what they want. Bianca knows this, and knows that Charles is no different-- so why is it so difficult to let go?
This is the point where apathy should wash over her, to bring her to distant shores of nothingness and lost memory. Instead, she is stuck firmly with her feet on the ground. It's terribly annoying.
"Sooner or later isn't good enough," She says. Regret pierces her tongue immediately. This is not the right way to get what she wants, even if she hates that she wants it. Everything would be so much easier if she didn't want it. Nico would be okay if she didn't want it. But she wants it, desperately, and whining about it won't do much good.
"I didn't-- I didn't mean it." She's staring at her shoes now, the grooves they've been carving in the earth as she shuffles back and forth in her anxiety. It's embarrassing to backtrack, but what good has her ego ever done her? "I'm sorry. Just-- I'll come with you. Or something. Please."
She reaches for him, then, wanting comfort, and immediately snaps her hand back to her side. She's still angry. He doesn't need her clinging to him. Bianca stuffs her hands in her sweatshirt pockets to avoid being tempted again.