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It’s a tell he has. Something he never quite managed to work through or tame, blame it on the years spent running towards certain death. You don’t really bother trying to learn how to conceal your emotions when a Titan is on your ass 24/7.
He has broken a few pitchers, numerous water fountains, his mom’s bird feeder one time. Messed with the camp’s plumbing enough to be persona non grata around the shower area and has been steering clear of sewer grates, just in case. It’s fine, really. Nothing he can’t handle.
But when Annabeth takes a seat next to him with what looks like a brick but really is a cake—thanks, Tyson— Percy suddenly wishes he’d taken the time to try.
“Hey, Happy Birthday,” she says, voice as warm as the weather.
His heart jumps a little, and so does the water. He’d decided to avoid the busier areas of camp, preferring the quiet company of the docks instead. Not really in plain sight, not exactly hiding, either.
He turns sixteen, today. Many of his friends haven’t been so lucky.
He blinks, trying to simmer down, watches her carefully instead. There is almost no visible trace of the war on Annabeth. Her eyes are still the same shade of brown, her braids rest in the same spot on the small of her back, her matching gray strand tucked behind her ear. There is no scarring, unless you’re willing to go beneath the surface. She’d be marred with them, then.
He lets out a heavy breath.
She looks exactly the way she did when she pulled him out of the Styx. Stronger than Ares, more beautiful than Aphrodite, sharper than Athena.
Annabeth Chase is a pantheon by herself as far as Percy is concerned.
Beneath them, water whirls and sloshes, and he kicks the surface with a nervous foot. It’s hard to keep calm when the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent five years building finally slides into place.
“Make a wish,” she smiles—and how to tell her that he doesn’t want to get greedy, birthday or not?
He has spent the better part of the last three years ignoring the pit of want at his core. Forgive him for taking a moment to readjust to his new reality.
You’re a coward, Percy Jackson, he thinks as he focuses on the slice of cake instead. Annabeth hadn’t been wrong about that, either.
Candles are blown, the brick is edible. Her shoes are off now, one foot lazily grazing the surface, circling it gracefully. It’s the most relaxed he has ever seen her. Above them, the sun is turning everything gold. He never thought he’d see it again. Never thought he’d see her again, either.
His heart skips another beat—or ten. They should have picked a different spot.
“You know, when I was in the Styx,” he starts after an inordinate amount of time wrestling with himself, unsure of the direction he’s leading them to. “Nico said I should focus on something, like—like a tether. A reason for me to stay mortal.”
Annabeth nods, weirdly quiet. Her finger is pressed to the side of his, her skin warm, its own solar system. Water’s definitely licking the soles of their feet.
He takes a big breath. Rubs his nose—another tell.
“Then, on Olympus, when they wanted to make me a God, I thought—”
Come on, Percy. You’ve survived a war.
“Yeah?”
He swallows. “I don’t want things to stay the same for eternity.”
Gods, he’s so lame. He’s gonna have to do better. Annabeth may have beaten a Sphinx or two, but this might be on par with the Oracle’s prophecies. He rubs his face with his hands, despair and unrest clinging to his chest.
“Percy,” she calls, kinder than he has any right to ask for.
“Annabeth,” he starts over. He sits up, torturing his hands, ignoring the whirlpools that are starting to form (did she notice? Gods, please let her not have noticed). He stares straight ahead. Another deep breath.
“Percy,” she calls again, softly tilting his chin towards her.
It’s only then that he realizes water isn’t just agitated below them. Some of it has taken a life of its own, serpentine and curling around Annabeth’s fingers, her collarbones, her cheek. Little touches, tenderly ghosting across her skin. Places he’s wanted to hold, to kiss, or heal over the years.
He flushes bright red.
She knows. She’s the smartest girl alive, she must know, right?
He stares at her, heart hammering against his chest at the gentle tendrils and dew drops still caressing her face. She hasn’t moved away. He’s always been bad with words where she’s concerned. Too many when they were younger, not enough now. He’s also a poor excuse of a dancer. Thankfully, the ocean is showing him the lead this time.
His gaze follows a bead to her lips, back to her eyes.
His smile grows, hers soften.
In the small of his back, something burns bright.
“You know you’re not making this easy on me, right?” he says, voice hoarse as his hand reaches across to swipe at the swirl by her cheek. His thumb trembles as he does so. Annabeth’s smile has never been wider.
Annabeth’s laugh echoes through his ribs like a song. “I’m never going to make things easy for you, seaweed brain,” she whispers, close, so close. “Get used to it.”
When he kisses her, it’s with water gently holding them and the scent of sea breeze on her skin.
Clarisse tosses them into the waves not long after that, and he can’t say he minds.