ACHILLES + PATROCLUS [p. jackson]

0.3: TWO GHOSTS AMONG THE LIVING

Here are our favorite ghost kids, here all the way from the underworld.

     "JASON HERCULES GRACE!" Rip proclaims, darting close behind the blond praetor as he ducked in between the crowds of people in the market, the lucky die shining in his fingers.

Quite a few of the veterans watched with amusement, while others watched with annoyance, or downright anger. 'They are the faces of the army,' the whispers of their seniors followed them through the crowd. 'They shouldn't be acting like children.'

That did not stop the boys, not yet adults, as they slipped through the people. Trying their best to not knock anyone over, the boys made their way to the small bakery they spent a lot of their free time at.

Jason halted in front of it first, a confident smile decorating his face. "I win," he grins, having been able to ditch the purple toga and was wearing a casual outfit of a white t-shirt and shorts as the summer had yet to let up its heat despite it being nearly fall.

"Only because you stole my die," Rip huffed, catching the die in his left hand and re-attaching them to his belt. "What would've happened if, in your reckless sprint, you dropped one of them?"

Jason looked down right offended by the very thought he could be so careless. "I would never," he proclaimed dramatically. "I was just trying to get you out of your stuffy library for once."

"Oh, shut up, Jace," Rip huffed as they walked closer to the counter of the bakery, greeted by a joyful yet star-struck older gentleman with twinkling silver eyes.

They placed their orders to the overjoyed man, and they took their seats off to one side to avoid the gaze of their fellow legionares and elders. Jason, of course, was right. Whenever Rip was able to, he would spend a lot of his time in the libraries of Minerva.

Though the Roman goddess had no children to speak off, many legionares would take the title of 'scholars of Minerva', focusing researching and documenting all events and history they can get their hands on. And Rip was quite certain he would join them after his service.

"Jace?" Rip asks, tapping his fingers against the cool metal of the café table. "Can I tell you something?" His voice faltered, and he found one hand fiddling with the die once more, a nervous tick he found comforting.

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in distrust, in the way he would usually do if he was concerned. "Of course you can, Aggie, you always can," he added quickly, taking Rip's hand into his.

Rip's breath hitched in his throat, and he gave a weak smile. Why had he asked? He wasn't ready for this. Jason isn't going to understand.

He opened his mouth, his brain working overtime in trying to find the right thing to say. But that was interrupted rudely by a familiar face shoving through the crowd and stopping at their table, looking as if she had run the length and width of New Rome thrice.

"Oleander," Jason stood up, letting go of my hand and turning on his 'praetor voice'. Rip followed shortly, refusing to acknowledge the fact that they were just having a private moment. "What seems to be the problem?"

Oleander was still trying to catch her breath, but managed to straighten herself up and salute the pair with a serious expression that didn't quite suit her. "Praetor Jason, Centurion Agrippa," she nods to each of them in turn. "Praetor Reyna has sent for you both."