Prophesied Powder, PJO

5.0

╔════⁎⋯☽✧✦✧☾⋯⁎════╗

Chapter 45
My Junior Year

Volume 5: The Last Olympian

╚════⁎⋯☽✧✦✧☾⋯⁎════╝

Pat's junior year was strange.

When school started in late August, after Hera threatened his friends and Pallas promised to call, Greg never showed up. It wasn't necessarily that Pat had expected him to since he doubted the Titan army functioned like a summer camp, but he hadn't been able to squash the small amount of hope he'd had that he would have another chance to talk to Greg.

In many ways, Greg not showing up was better for Pat. He'd forced himself to come to terms with the Battle of the Labyrinth and everything that had occurred; the death toll had been taxing on Camp Half-Blood, and along with it, Pat had to stay firm in his anger toward Greg. He didn't want to be like Annabeth, always holding out hope for someone who would crush him senselessly. (But, with that said, he didn't want Greg to be Luke either.)

Even if Greg had shown up, Pat wasn't sure what he would've done. He didn't like to think of the what-if scenario either way. Mindless begging was stupid.

Denial was also stupid, however, and Pat knew the war was building. Chiron liked to keep secrets from Percy, and to even some extent, Pallas or Clarisse or the Stolls, any of the camp figureheads. It was the stubborn and bull-headed demigods of Chiron's that weaseled their way into knowing the most about the outside world, namely Annabeth and Pat, who seemed to be in constant correspondence these days.

Since Kronos rose, the Greek world was silent, like a building hurricane. When shit hit the fan, and eventually, it would, it would be deadly.

And when the war hit, Pat knew that's when he'd most likely see Greg again — on the battlefield, just like last time, only so much worse.

With all of that on his mind, and all that continued to worsen in his world, Pat went to school. What else was he supposed to do? It was all he could do to remember Clarisse's advice and keep his head held high. He got up each day, did his best to accessorize a preppy private school uniform and put on his best sneakers.

To some extent, Pat thought he unnerved his father with the appearance of togetherness that he carried for the first few months into tenth grade. There always seemed to be a question on the tip of Warren's tongue, some kind of 'Are you okay?' waiting to be asked when Pat combed his hair or ghosted through the house halls. It never came, and Pat figured it came out of a good place, waiting for him to open up on his own. He didn't plan on it any time soon.

It was October when Pallas called the home phone in the kitchen. Harley had been cutting the edges off of David's PB&J when it rang, and Pat had shot through the living room in three seconds once he'd heard her motherly shrill of "Oh, hello, Pallas!".

"Give it!" Pat slid into the kitchen counter with a bang. He winced.

Harley jumped, "Oh my god, Pat, are you okay?"

He made a grabbing gesture, "Give it, give it, give it." He chanted, waving off the concern. He could definitely feel the way Harley furrowed her brows, but he didn't much mind it once she'd handed him the phone. Without so much as a goodbye, he'd thrown himself out of the room again and back into the living room, where Lilly lay on the floor in front of her children's show.