⌗ 𝒜nd then he lost you ... ⸝⸝ with Percy Jackson
angst ˗ˏˋ ꒰ heavy topics . death , wounds , blood . a little too descriptive, so pls beware . night terror . ptsd aftermath , panic attack , mild mention of possibly throwing up . angst obviously & tiny comfort at the end
His ash ridden fingers — rough and dirty from fighting — carefully threaded through your hair, a matted mess at the back of your head, yet so soft… Percy held you like he couldn’t believe it was finally over. His hands still trembled, ready to reach for riptide if there was even the slightest shift in the air, and his lips twitched in need to say something, anything. But for now, he just breathed — with you within arms reach, he felt like he could finally allow himself a moment to breathe. And you smiled at him, exhausted but calm. It was almost irritating how indifferent you appeared to the surrounding chaos ... but Percy was just so glad about you both being alive, that he didn't comment on it.
It takes only a moment, a mere minute, ... his hands settle against your face, he exhales fully, and then he hears it clearly ... a sharp 'swish' in the air, then a soft 'thunk'. It's the sound of something colliding with flesh — with bone. And it takes Percy too long to realize. It takes him too long to notice how your weight shifts — how you're only standing upwards because you're completely leaned against him, being held by his arms. And that his shirt feels warm... wet, sticky.
"No... no, hey..." his dread settles fast when he slowly brings your body down with his, settling on the soft grass and turning your body as to see ... an arrow, lodged between your still ribcage. The air turns to something more suffocating and Percy is quick to press his palm against the bleeding wound ― there is just so much of it. It's coating his clothes, his shaking hands and the ground below you ... and his eyes are wide, pleading, he begs to whatever god will listen that this is not his reality. "Don't close your eyes, don't close your eyes ― damn it!" What's an attempt to keep you awake and coherent only leads to frustrated tears on his end... You can't close your eyes ― you're dead.
"Please... no, no, no..." His bloodied hands cradle your face, empty of their lively color and usual warmth. You're dead, and Percy feels utterly sick. He didn't get to kiss you, couldn't say 'I love you' one last time. He screams ― raw, unapologetic, mourning. His hands feel wrong on your skin, and yet he can't let go, his eyes sting from staring, but he can't look anywhere else. You're dead... you're dead ― he let you die!
"Perce..." He feels his body being shifted by what he assumes to be Annabeth ― she's gentle when she brushes her fingers through his dark hair, careful when he tries to stay. He doesn't want to part ― he can't. He loves you... you'll be alone when he leaves, you'll be scared... he can't, he can't, you're dead... "No, no... please no, no, no..."
"Shh... it's okay..." It's not Annabeth. It's you. "You're okay, Percy. Just breathe..." And he is not on a battlefield, but in his bed, back at camp half blood. Tangled in his sheets ― a mess, certainly ― and not breathing right. He is not breathing right..., his shirt is drenched with sweat, hair tousled from turning so much in his sleep and his fingers feel sore ― clenched into your shirt just like they were in his nightmare. But you're not in danger, you're not bleeding, you're not dead. It takes your boyfriend a moment to relax under your gentle hands... and when he does, he's shaking.
It takes patience ― it always does. But you don't mind. Your fingers are careful when they slip into his hair, your voice soft and caring, helping him out of his shirt so that he doesn't feel trapped. His skin is covered in sweat… but you don’t shy away from holding him. You never do. When he chokes on whatever bile is raising up his throat ― the memory of your blood on his hand too much to bare ― you're quick to blow some air against his face, reminding him to breathe.
It's nothing unusual. Some nights he even wakes up screaming, reaching for riptide without being fully awake... i mean, he was just a kid. You were all just kids, thrusted into a war that had nothing to do with any of you. Not really...
And the many deaths must weigh heavily on him…, even if he doesn’t like talking about it. Not even with you. And so you're just here to hold him, to guide him… in hopes that some day, his mind will be kinder to him, and his nights no longer spent with terror. God's know he deserves it more than anyone…