❊❊
send me ❊ for a new years eve kiss.
she's thankful, for once, for annabeth's snores behind them. perhaps it's selfish, but acknowledging the silence that has tied itself between them, waving in the wind, is something she intends to postpone until the stars go dark & the oceans run dry, until hell has frozen over & every breath on her tongue died, lost on a wind that shall sweep her up & take her sailing away-- toto, i've a feeling we're not in kansas anymore. tongue darts out to wet frost- hardened lips, numb fingers fiddling with the tab of a coke can, & perhaps the chill of the aluminium ⁽ ᵇᵘʳᶰˢ ⁾ in the harsh winter air, but the capacity for CARING for such a pain has long-since fled; pain must be left for the true wounds, & something ( call it instinct, a logical conclusion, even a warning from her godly father, whoever he may be ) tells her there will be many more of those in the future.
luke's taking slow sips from a can of beer, all fourteen years old & three months, & perhaps it squirms discomfort from her thick skin, the memory of her mother's drunken tumbles down the stairs at three in the morning & the priceless treasure wine had lost thalia all those years ago echoing through her head like a whisper in an empty room. ( mom, where's jason? mom? mom! ) this time last year, she was still listening to those stumblings, & the knowledge lodges beneath her skin like a knife & stays there. she wonders where luke was-- almost asks, changes her mind. if she asks, he'll get that dark, quiet look about him-- the one that makes her chest ache in a way she hadn't fathomed it could. & she loves him, she does, in that weird, slightly twisted way, the only way she knows how, so she will not bear the cross of watching THAT look flicker across his features, not to satiate something as frivolous & meaningless as curiosity.
a sigh whispers from her lips, paper-soft, & almost of its own accord, her raven head finds his bony shoulder, stays. & it's cliche & stupid & they'll laugh about it in the morning, before annabeth wakes up ( & even after, over her head so she can't see them ) & she isn't even sure if it's midnight yet, but somehow her mouth finds his or his mouth finds hers. there's no fireworks, no rush of electricity through her veins. his smile doesn't taste like sunlight, his hand brushing her cheek is not spun from silk. it's not perfect & perhaps that's why she likes it.
