routine doesn’t happen immediately. being back at camp, back home feels like a strange concept when he only came along a week or so before heading to hawaii. it feels like a lifetime between those two moments, a new person forged in the heat of battle, in the wake of death.
his fingers tremble as he stands at the threshold of cabin one, dedicated to the son of zeus. andrew’s gone, a memory burned behind closed eyes, a flash of lightning, a spiderwebbing scar. he inhales and holds his breath while he brings a hand to knock on the cabin door. he waits, rocking on his heels—a familiar habit that sends phantom pains shooting through his back—until the door opens for him.
@titusyoung








