PJO oneshots/ headcannons

31-- il mio soldatino.

Gifts. Tokens. Promises.

Words of praise. Esteemed intellect.

This is how it works.

So first, the words start flowing. They bubble and froth inside your brain and the temperature cooks to a 1000°. They simmer and the heat flickers. It overflows, drips down the side of your mind and tries to fit into the gaps and the cracks and the broken lines. There's too many of them and they roll off in clumps. You're left as a blubbering idiot.

'What do you want to achieve with this?'

She stares him down. Muddy brown eyes. Hard edged and sharp. Her forehead is creased, and it makes her look a hundred years older than she is. Her blazer is pristine and clean. Her hair is a mop of string. She's looking at him with that face of adult pity. She doesn't think he's good enough.

It's obvious.

He fidgets in his seat. His hands are wringing together under the desk. His knee starts bouncing. Involuntarily. This happens. When he's nervous. When there are too many words building in his mind.

'I... I want...' I want. What does he want? There's a poster hanging behind her. It's advertising creativity. 'I want to tell a story.'

She folds her hands over her desk and shifts to the side. Lifts her pen, poses it on blank paper as if to write something and keeps it poised, perfect and still. Her lips twist and there's venom in her voice. 'What story are you trying to tell here?'

Again. He fidgets. Can he not stop fidgeting? Her words are getting louder. His words are getting softer.

'Look. I just don't think this piece is working well together. You need a theme. A concept that holds it in place. I can't find the purpose to this writing.'

He nods and hooks his bag over his shoulder. 'Okay, yeah. I understand.'

Hurry. Hurry. Just get out of here.

And here's how it goes from there. The words have melted to the sides of your brain like sticky, sweetened toffee. It's heavy and its weighing you down. You don't think you can carry it.

But now, you're sitting in the sun. Under the tree. Head lolled back against the bark. Fingers woven into the grass. Nobody is here.

The toffee starts melting. Running thick and smooth. Tracing geographical maps of lakes. Trickling. Racing. The same way raindrops collect and chase each other down car windows.

Words come back to him. Shapes under his hand.

This is the purpose. Attempting to speak in writing when he can't speak for shit.

His friends don't really get it.

Or maybe they know too well.

Hold on, they say. Back up. Wait. You're Nico Christian Allan. What does she mean she doesn't understand the concept? I've read your stories, man. You need more faith in yourself.

But that's not how this game works. He could believe in himself all he wanted. It still won't get him anywhere if he can't write well. And his teacher has a point. He should listen to her and improve himself. But, it's so overwhelming. All he wants is to write. Write from his heart.

Is that such a bad thing?

'I just don't think I can keep up with this course.' That's what he'd said the first time Will had confronted him about it, just a few weeks ago.

Closing and opening and closing his hands, crossing and uncrossing and crossing his legs. He didn't stop until Will rolled his eyes and hung his legs over his to trap him there.