#this was in the scenario wherein poseidon was there. when percy arrived home. but now its js weird cause he Wasnt There. so i had 2 scrap t

[drewlover]

chinese satellite (cut scene)

III. hunger.

He dreams of Annabeth.

Fear is a crippling feeling– stronger than love, stronger than power. He thinks about how the emptiness always leaves his dreams blank, a monochrome silence he’s grown familiar with. A dream that isn’t a dream and a ghost that isn’t a ghost.

Hunger is not a feeling that Percy is familiar with.

Hunger for food, that is.

No matter how bad things had gotten during his childhood, his mother made sure that there would always be food on the table, always a warmth in his belly. Hunger had never clawed at his stomach and chest.

Hunger for love, however, is a completely different story. It is a longing that scratches at the soul, at the bones, at the very foundations of a human being, bringing them to their knees.

A hunger for a father’s love is a burden Percy has always had to carry. It weighs on him even now, as he wakes up on the floor again, blinking tiredly at the ceiling and wondering how the hell he got there, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stickers of dinosaurs. He turns and sees Poseidon at the door, green eyes wide and unsure.

Something sad and younger reaches out inside of him. Something older and angrier pushes it down and bares its teeth.

“Perseus– Percy. Breakfast is– there are pancakes downstairs, if you want,” he says and he pauses by the doorframe, and it’s the smallest kind of hesitation, and Percy doesn’t know if he’s longing or dreading for words to come out of his father’s mouth.

But all he says is, “They’re blue.”

The emptiness left behind sends a dagger stabbing through his heart. He hears Poseidon – never dad, never father – call for Estelle, and Percy doesn’t know if it’s his imagination (he wishes it was, God he does) but his voice is bright and there’s laughter ringing through the halls.

The tears threaten to drown him but he can’t bring himself to get up and swallow the salt in his throat, and he stares up at the dinosaurs he and his mother had placed when he was five years old and happy.

He thinks of Estelle and her many stars and the moon and the sun, all done with her on her dad’s shoulders and her mother laughing and telling them to be careful and pointing out all the best places to put the stars and his insides twist with– anger? Discomfort?

No, those weren’t the words.

It was jealousy.

God. His insides twist and his lungs burn with the effort of keeping his tears in because he has no right, no right to feel this way and the guilt sits on his chest, heavy and unforgiving, and he lets out a strangled sort-of sob and having ruined another memory with his mother. 

So much your father’s son, the voice says again, the tone so cold and cruel it takes away some of the warmth and magic embedded in the walls of his bedroom. 

He doesn’t answer it. The silence is near-deafening.

Maybe he shouldn’t have woken up.