Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 He was dead. Long dead. And, yet, here he was; staring Percy down with a smile that made him sick to his stomach, the scar across his face moving with his mouth.

 “Percy.” It wasn't Luke, he knew this by now— it was Kronos. It wasn't anybody, actually. This was a dream. It wasn't really Luke and it wasn’t really Kronos. But it was the memory of him. And Percy already had a bad time with memories. 

 He hadn't had a nightmare about Luke in years.

 No, nevermind. That was a lie.

 It had only been months. Four, to be exact.

 Because, instead, they were replaced with visions and flickering images of Jason. Like an Iris Message with telephone static; like he'd been going under a tunnel. But Jason wasn't going anywhere. He’d been as dead as Luke was. 

 Didn't help how closely they looked alike. It was something Percy struggled to get over when their quest first began— what fueled his combatant energy towards him, aside from their fathers and them both fighting to assume leadership. But, eventually, things became easier. Luke faded to the back of his mind because, well, they had more important things to worry about.

 And then Percy left Camp-Half Blood. And started college. And haunting his dreams, another blonde, blue-eyed, scarred, mystified figure reaching out to him, only for him to jump awake in his empty dorm to the oppressing silence crowding him. And Percy didn't sleep much anymore— even less than what he already lacked.

 He couldn't look at any tall man with short blonde hair and blue eyes and not hear a cursed amalgamation of three separate voices, spliced conversations he'd been apart of ranging from when he was a young child to only a year ago. Gods, it wasn't even confined to just one type; any blue eyes, any blonde hair, scarred face, above-average height, and it'd be like they were right there before him.

 Except one was more than welcome. The other triggered his fight or flight, in which his flight was thoroughly trained and traumatized out of him. So, he would admit, he had thrown a few unnecessary punches without thinking when there was something just…too familiar. 

 Other times it had resulted in a sudden onset flood of salty, stinging tears. And still, it was a toss up between which memory of who had triggered it. 

 The annual reunions of the seven were of no help, as much as Percy tried to pretend they were. He wouldn't lie, it was nice to see all the people who had witnessed all the horrors he had at the same time. But there always came a time where someone would bring up something far too specific, and everyone would fall quiet. And it would stop feeling like Annabeth was the only blonde in the room.

 But no one would mention it for fear of ruining the carefully curated “mood” that had already started so heavily artificial, and by the end of the reunion, it'd all be ignored. “Forgotten,” they'd claim. There was no forgetting. 

 And Percy would fall asleep, and end up here. In the forest of Camp Half-Blood. Riptide nowhere to be found. And his mind could never choose who to show for this night’s terror. 

 “Percy.” The blonde repeated. Jason? Luke? Kronos? He couldn't tell at this point. There were three voices all ringing in his ears and yes, it hurt. And yes, all Percy wanted to do was run forward, arms open like he'd run to cling to his mother as a child. And yes, that was Jason. But it was also Luke. But neither had a golden eye and he knew neither had a smile so repulsive and haunting in the way that made his skin crawl. 

 He'd just have to make a guess. 

 “Jason?” was what he wanted. The safest option. It comes with the same pain and guilt, but without the whisperings in his soul that he could've done something. Because in the case of Jason Grace, Percy couldn't have done anything to stop it. And he'd come to terms with that. 

 The other two— or one, Percy still has trouble differentiating, despite everything— double out like he's crossed his eyes and fade, leaving just the familiar face blurred by the fuzziness of Percy's vision in his dreams standing a foot or two before him. An entire world away. And Jason smiles, soft and polite and kind and genuine, nothing like a soldier would have, and the scar on his lips has quickly become Percy's favourite feature of his because seeing it means it's him.

 And Jason does nothing but stand there and smile; he does not speak, or move, because Percy cannot trust his own mind to remember Jason’s pattern of speech or body language. But it's Jason and he's there and the fear in his lungs and in his veins dissipates. Because it's Jason, and Percy misses him so much. More than he thought he would, but that happens a lot. He loves and he misses and he feels guilt and so much of it, too. 

 Because all of it should have been him. 

Chapter Text

     Dreams of Luke were not as kind as Jason's. They'd start out with that same glitchy appearance, deciding whether or not it'd be the strong but gentle son of Jupiter or the violent and helpless son of Hermes. There wouldn't be much shifting of their appearances, still. Even as they both let their hair grow out from the first time Percy had met them, they never managed to look too different in Percy's mind.

    And Percy felt guilty, yes. But when did he not? His entire life had been built upon regret and apologies for something he had no control over, and it had only ever gotten worse. 

     But tonight, when Percy laid down for bed— earlier than what he'd wished, because he'd just had to talk to a demigod too blonde and too tall and too facially scarred and had run out of the campus café where he had been planning to get himself and Annabeth a few small treats for their study session together. He'd canceled on her last minute, like the awful boyfriend he is, and beelined it for his dorm room.

    He still wasn't that big on sleep, especially not with the dreams plaguing his memory, waking and not. But he'd decided to lay on his bed, curled under the sheets, pretending he was back at home with his mom and Paul and Estelle, or at Camp Half-Blood— but that was a lonelier thought, because he'd only gotten about a month inside the Hermes cabin before ushered off into the empty expanse that had been Cabin 3. But then he could pretend Tyson was there, snoring in the bunk above him, and maybe it wasn’t as lonely but was a memory so far but so close after a betrayal that left Percy reeling and nauseous that those thoughts only brought with them the low, threatening beat of a laugh that echoed in Percy's ears for over half a decade now.

     Eventually, his body gave in to the temptation of slumber, if only to escape his racing heart as the flashes of that poor, confused barista flickered behind his eyes. 

     He was in the forests of Camp Half-Blood. Again. Weighted down to the spot with heavy bronze armor that in the time-frame of his dream he hadn't yet grown into, spinning a capped Riptide nervously around his fingers. At least, now, he had it. There was muffled shouting, off in the distance; disgruntled shouts and defeated cries. Laughter, some. Triumphant cheers growing further and further away. And Percy remembered it all. Capture the flag. And there was a boom, like a bomb exploding off closer to the camp itself. The war, too. 

     Though, he found himself uninterested in both— instead, staring, blanched, as the figure(s) before him blended and separated and looked so in pain he felt like a spectator to a private torture. His stomach pulled downward, not quite sinking, but inching ever so slowly the longer he watched; twisting uncomfortably as their muddled voices groaned and pleaded to be away from each other. Would Jason have hated Luke? Surely, from his betrayal of not only one but an entire camp of people considered to be family. Jason was loyal like that, and strong in his morals. 

     Percy wasn't. He tried to be. But every so often there'd be an itch at the base of his neck. What did the gods ever do for you? It'd ask. Drop all their shit and problems on you, that's what. To carry out their bidding like a dog. And you try to help, but what good does that do you? Any of you? Are you a dog, Percy? Speak, boy. 

     Luke was right. You were just too much of a bitch to go against their orders. And see who suffers the most from it? Your friends. Family. Innocent people.

     It's all your fucking fault. And you have the nerve to live your life in peace while there are others still dealing with the consequences? You selfish, spineless loser.

     He'd pushed those thoughts down. Deep, deep down. And now they were screaming in his mind the moment he laid his eyes on the merging figures before him. 

     “Luke,” Percy muttered with all the strength he could muster, his voice sounding like he was speaking under water through a mouthful of cotton. “Stop. Please.”

      The figures merged and glowed and separated in a harsh flash of light. Singular, Luke stood with his head tilted the smallest bit to the side. Like he was sizing Percy up; inspecting him like a bug.

     His face was soft, though. Younger than it had been when he had died, scar only reaching halfway across his cheek. He looked like he was about to sit Percy down and explain to him all the ropes of being a demigod. But those times were long since gone now. 

     Still, he smiled. Warm and welcoming and so chilling to the bone Percy’s stomach finally did the full nose-dive, like a sack full of rocks. “Hey, man. Good going on capture the flag, huh?” Luke laughed far too kindly as he stepped forward and Percy flinched back. Luke didn't step further.

     “Dude, hey, I'm not mad.” Luke reassured, his voice dropping to a hushed soothe that made Percy want to reel back and suckerpunch him in the jaw. “I'm not scared because you're one of the Big Three. You're still my pal.”

     Tears, again, clogged Percy's throat. He felt like he was 12 again, scared and lonely, hiding away in his cavernous cabin far too big for a kid his size and too empty compared to the Hermes cabin, every breath echoing back to him. “Why couldn't you have stayed like this?” were the words that came out sharp and wobbly from his lips. 

     Luke's kind expression shifted as his body changed ever so slightly. He looked more like the Luke Percy had seen in the Labyrinth, now; scar stretched all the way over to his right brow, eyes set in a menacing glare, and lips downturned in a scowl. His hair was longer, but that wasn't saying much compared to his hair when they had met. His scar was pulsing gold, like every breath sent a wave of liquid sun beneath his skin. Yet, this is what made Percy's anxiety lessen. This is the Luke he had grown to remember— the cautionary tale. 

     All he was missing were golden eyes and a scythe clutched in hand. But, no, he wasn’t Kronos here. This was Luke. Scared and angry and restless and wondering why, just why, the gods cared so little for their own offspring, and yet made it a point to make them suffer as much as possible. And Percy wished, oh how he wished he could give him the answers he wanted to hear. But that's all it was; they were gods. Their children? Too mortal for their love, and too godly to just be ignored, though they tried. 

     He had a feeling Luke already knew that, of course. But there was something in Percy, the kindness his mother had instilled in him, that just…wanted to make it all go away. And he knew that was what Luke wanted to do too, but he had taken the most drastic of measures. And that was the whole promise he'd made. The promise he had taken every precaution to make sure was stuck to— no demigod would ever be left unclaimed, wondering who they belonged to, ever again. 

     “I'm going to raise Kronos,” Luke stated. “And you can't stop me, Percy. The gods will pay for what they've done— to all of us. It isn't too late to join me now.”

     Sometimes, Percy wished he had.

     “I know you will,” Percy said, saddened. “And, Luke?” 

     Luke raised a brow, questioning and no doubt planning on mercilessly slicing him through the stomach with his blade. But Percy uncapped his, first. “I'm sorry.” And Luke was gone, again. Dissipated into golden sand that blew away in the wind. But he'd be back. Percy knew he would. 

    He hoped, though, that tomorrow would at least bring a gentle memory of Jason…and maybe, this time, it would hurt less.