and to those i love, goodnight ━ percy jackson ²

𝟎𝟎𝟎━━ ゼロ.

SECTION ONE: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤.
INTRODUCTION—0000.

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PERCY ALWAYS GRABBED HIS HAND AS IF WISHING HE COULD TEAR IT AWAY. As though harboring a hideous need to flay off the skin of Micah's hand and unravel it entirely, purging it of bone to make space for his own—to lift each ligament and every tendon and interweave Micah's veins with his veins, muscle and sinew melding seamlessly until it was impossible for them to separate without killing one another. He knew Percy was afraid. It was caustic, corroding through the son of Poseidon like maggots devouring filth. He was terrified that they would be forced apart, and his fear conveyed itself in the hushed brutality of his grip and the way his fingers dug into Micah's flesh with a disturbing fervor. He refused to soften his grasp on the possibility that Micah would fall apart like rotten meat off a sun-burnt ribcage, leaving behind nothing of him but a hollowed carcass and a sense of emptiness that would consume them both completely

He couldn't be blamed for his fear.
It was not irrational or ill-founded; Micah was the one who instilled it in him through his actions, after all, so the son of Hypnos will continue to reach out first in penance—even if it means carrying bruises on his knuckles and scratches on his body that reminded him of serrated blades traced on the fat of his palm. It was a small price to pay for the reassurance that they were still connected, still whole, in spite of everything.

Winter yielded to spring, which in turn withered away as well. The scorching summer heat had become insufferable. Micah is still unsure whether or not they won the war.

The sound of construction echoed in the distance; in his ear, Percy's breath lulled him, gentle as his chest rose and fell like the flow of tides. Micah closed his eyes, finding grace in the rhythmic movement in the same way Percy found his in wounded skin.

He shifted; although asleep, the son of Poseidon grew restless in his arms.

"He has grown up well." Phantasos voiced his approval, acknowledging Percy's maturation with a hint of enchantment. His brother's hair resembled coils of polished sterling silver, or perhaps melded stars, blinding white under the light of the moon as it framed his amethyst-colored eyes in gentle curls. An embodiment of hypnotic grace, he draped himself in a flowing, loose-fitting robe of immaculate white with a necklace of celestial metal clasped against his throat, casting a soft glint in the surrounding darkness. He struck Micah as a panther—sleek and powerful, poised to pounce at any given moment.

Leaning forward with an amused demeanor, the god of surreal dreams observed the son of Poseidon; the fabric of his robe slipping off his shoulders, revealing the bronzed glow of his skin beneath.

"The hero of the prophecies," his brother said with a smile, a mocking tone tainting his words. "You know, I used to personally deliver his dreams—just for a while, when he didn't know his heritage and couldn't comprehend our world. They always left him reeling, even as a child. But here he is now, standing before me in the flesh."