𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 [Jason Grace]

83

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 in sweat when he woke up from a nightmare.

The dreams were more realistic and terrifying ever since he had gotten back from Tartarus. None of them were actual memories, just... a vague sense of helplessness.

Dante would be trying to run away from the god of the pit, while he laughed behind him. He'd try to escape, but get pulled back into the vortex, his essence shredding in front of him.

Or Dante would be staring at Jason limp in his arms, overridden by a thousand curses. The blond would grasp his hand weakly, "I shouldn't have come after you. You should die instead of me."

And then Jason would go completely still like Dante's heart in his ribs.

Or like the one he had that night, Dante was watching Hipp and Damasen fighting against Tartarus. They were obviously losing and there was nothing Dante could do about it. This wasn't something he could run from or be mean to— his two go to methods to dealing with things.

He sat upright in his bed, his chest heaving. He couldn't breathe. His lungs just didn't feel right. His throat felt far too dry.

He felt disconnected from his surroundings, like his consciousness was a helium balloon and he was floating away.

And there was no one who could help him.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Sometimes his mind got too loud for him.

He was barely aware of getting out of bed, still in his stupid fluffy blue pajamas with clouds on them. He looked like a cartoon character.

The room was spinning, the world was spinning, Dante's head was spinning.

He held onto the walls of his room to steady himself but it didn't seem to help.

He could do this. He didn't need anyone's help. But he wanted it so bad.

He wanted someone to take care of him, he wanted a mother to pull him closer, he wanted a father to tuck him into bed, he wanted his brother to hug him, he wanted his friends to care for him. But he just had trouble accepting the help.

Why couldn't people just read his mind?

He stumbled through the darkness. Usually, he liked going on the deck and just breathing in the night air until he calmed down. But tonight was different.

He could tell he wouldn't be able to sleep again.

He passed the Mess Hall. The clock read 2 am.

Somehow he found himself in the boys' bathroom. He had begged, threatened and even thrown a temper tantrum to the other guys to keep their stuff neat and tidy. Of course none of them listened. There were towels strewn everywhere, the air was more humid, and the sink was so cluttered, Dante almost knocked over several things as he caught himself from falling.

He steadied himself with his hands on the porcelain sink and forced himself to look in the mirror.

There was a dim light, coming from somewhere outside.

The darkness made Dante look like his brother. He felt so small, just ten years old.

He was shaking, he noticed. And he was cold. He blinked and he almost fell down.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" He was sobbing now. Breaking down, not caring if someone found him in that state.

He just wanted to go home. He didn't even know where home was anymore. Camp Jupiter, the place he had spent his past seven years, hated him, they called him a traitor. Dorian's house had never really felt like home either. It was always his. Their mother had always been more of Dorian's mother and Dorian's father had been only his.