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phykios · 3 years

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honesty and promise me part 6 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

Ah, the age old question: what to get for the guy who has everything and also when you’re trying make up for the fact that you actually missed his birthday entirely while spending as little money as possible?

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Percy asks as they wait their turn to disembark. “I haven’t been to Staten Island in ages.”

Annabeth has never been at all. She knows there’s a handful of Greek revival buildings in the Historic District, but she’s never had a car to get there, or the stomach to get on the ferry. Percy had practically climbed onto the bow, his own personal reenactment of Titanic, arms thrown out to the wind, while Annabeth attempted to keep her breakfast down.

Having spectacularly flamed out last week in Philadelphia, she can’t let Percy’s birthday go without some sort of commemoration. The Staten Island Ferry is just part one. “All in due time,” she says, checking her phone for directions. They still have a bus they need to board, and Annabeth is getting sweaty in her leather jacket. Thank God Percy volunteered to carry the backpack with all their gear; otherwise, when this jacket comes off, it’s going to smell worse than his tights at the end of a long day.

Like a magnet, his gaze is glued to the strips of the bay he can spot through the bus windows, his head resting on his chin, a soft, serene smile lifting his lips. All the tightness, all the stress he’s held in his shoulders the last few times she’s seen him, it melts away at the sharp, salty tang of rust and sea air which suffuses every corner. She doesn’t even mind that he isn’t looking at her.

Hand in hand, finally, they get off the bus, and walk to the overlook. Slinging the backpack off his shoulder, he sets it down at his feet, eyes fixed on the strip of shoreline which can be seen, even all the way over here. “What is that?” he breathes, shielding his eyes against the glint of the sun on the water.

“That,” says Annabeth, “is the Staten Island ship graveyard.”

Still stewing in her guilt over how she missed his birthday--despite the fact that he didn’t even tell her--Annabeth decided to swallow her pride and ask for help. It took an inordinate number of coffee orders and one instance of her actually getting down on her knees and begging, pleading to their long friendship together and swearing that Annabeth would never use this information for evil, but she had finally wheedled the secret out of Thalia: Percy’s greatest love, after the ballet, was sailing. Ship construction, naval battles, maritime history, they were, according to Thalia, the only things which could entice Percy to actually set down the tights and “get some frickin’ sunshine for once in his life.” Annabeth hadn’t believed her, until Thalia had dug up an old photo which had never been posted to his socials--and Annabeth had certainly scoured them for long enough, she would have recognized it had she seen it before--of Percy, on a glittering, jewel-like sea, a rope wrapped around his fist as he leaned over the side of a sailboat, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide in a graceless, unrestrained joy.

“Back in the eighties, there used to be over four hundred ships down there,” Annabeth says, coming up beside him. “A lot of it’s been scrapped or sold, but there are still maybe a hundred or so boats, including the USS PC-1264, one of the--”

“One of the two predominantly African American crewed Navy ships from World War II,” he interrupts, eyes light. “No way!”

“Yes way,” Annabeth grins, unzipping her jacket. The midday sun beats down on them, the air sticky and heavy, and she needs this thing off, pronto. “And, there’s a ship that was supposedly the command post for the General Slocum disaster.” Not that she really knows what that is.

He whirls around. “The Abram S. Hewitt is there? Holy sh--”

His jaw drops. His eyes bug out.

Part two of his present was the ship graveyard. Part three is the outfit.

Annabeth, one hand on her hip, slings her jacket over her shoulder with the other, the leather hot against her bare skin. She has chosen to forgo a shirt entirely, wearing nothing but her nicest pair of black jeans with the thick suspenders and a shiny, red bra. And yes, she had Thalia touch up her hair, five inches of curls lopped off on one side, undercut sharp and severe.

“I thought we could have a picnic here,” she says, a smile curling her lips without her permission. “Then, if you want, we could do some light trespassing? See the ships up close?”

Percy swallows. He breathes in through his nose, shuddering. “Sure,” he whispers, hoarse. “Sounds good.”

Dropping to the ground like a rock, studiously not checking her out, Percy unpacks their picnic, laying out the blanket, something blue, old, but soft Annabeth had knitted in a fit of pre-finals’ anxiety in college. Annabeth had hinted the night before that he should make them some food, as no one could make a grilled cheese like Percy, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to buy them some prepackaged, tasteless garbage.

Percy’s sandwiches, just like the man himself, are stacked: thick, sourdough slices (which she suspects he made himself), bacon, turkey, apple, tomato, lettuce, avocado, mayo for her but none for him. She’d always been under the impression that dancers needed to watch what they ate, endlessly in pursuit of some unattainable ideal of beauty. Nope. Percy eats everything and anything he can get his hands on, high carb and high protein and high everything else. It makes sense, she guesses, for someone who basically has to bench their own body weight daily. Every inch of him is tailored for power and velocity, to propel him out of the grasp of gravity--rabbit food just isn’t going to cut it here.

Munching down, he maneuvers himself into a number of splits and stretches, unable to give up his routine for a single day. “When I was probably thirteen or fourteen,” he says, halfway through a tirade of reminiscence, “my dad took me and Triton and Kym to Cyprus, for some family bonding time.” He rolls his eyes. “You can probably imagine how well that went. Most of that trip was… well, Cyprus was definitely the best part. We went to Kyrenia Castle, which has this amazing museum that holds one of the oldest known ships in the world. Like, this thing was operational during the lifetime of Alexander the Great, and it sank about a mile away from the harbor.” He takes a heroic bite, chewing with his lips firmly shut.

“Cool.”

He swallows. “Very cool. I love really old ships, but you can imagine how few of those are still left, and not just because we haven’t found them.”

Annabeth feels her neck heating up, despite the shade they sit in. “Well, I hope these ones are old enough for you.”

“Oh, these are incredible--don’t get me wrong! I had no idea there was anything like this so close to home. Who needs Cyprus when you have Staten Island?” He grins, placing his sandwich down, throwing his arms in a stretch.

“I know it isn’t Tokyo or Moscow or anything…” she trails off, self-conscious even as she doesn’t actually ask the question that’s on her mind.

Shamefully, she has found that she still thinks about what Will had said at his apartment over a month ago at this point: Percy Jackson, boy toy of the rich and famous. But if she actually asks, it will make her look like some totally jealous girlfriend or something, like she honestly cares about Percy’s past sexual conquests.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t.

He’s just led a really interesting life, and she wishes she could relate. That’s all.

“It’s not,” he agrees, bending his back with an audible pop. “It’s better.”

“Really? A little ship graveyard is better than the sites of Tokyo?”

“I didn’t see any sites in Tokyo,” he said. “Mostly just Mittie’s hotel room.”

“Mittie?”

Percy looks at his sandwich, suddenly very interested in the crust.

“She’s someone important, then?”

Silence.

Annabeth laughs to break the tension. “Okay, I'll bite--who’s Mittie? Another model?”

Taking a small bite of sandwich, he chews, methodical and deliberate. He swallows, clearing his throat. “Margherita Savoy.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell. “Who?”

“Princess Margherita Elisabetta of Sardinia.”

Her mouth drops open a little. “A princess?”

Percy shrugs. “Technically. The throne of Sardinia doesn’t exist anymore, obviously, but she’s big into the money and the titles and stuff.”

A princess. A fucking princess. “But she lets you call her Mittie.”

He looks a little constipated. “She didn’t… until she took me to Tokyo.”

“Oh,” she says. Because what else is there to say? She’s certainly no princess.

“She was nice,” Percy says, softly. “You know, eventually. Once we got to know each other.”

Her phone is hot in her pocket, like it’s preemptively searching Google for pictures of Margherita Elisabetta of Sardinia, downloading them all so Annabeth can scribble all over her face like a bad high school movie. “A pretender?” She scoffs, exaggeratedly, her fists tight against the grass. “Talk to me when you get a real princess.”

His ears go red. “Um…”

No way. “No fucking way.”

“Look, Eugenie was just kinda pissed when Triton broke up with her, and so she just thought that we’d have some fun.”

“Oh my god.” She says, looking at him in something like horror. And telling herself at least it wasn’t her distant cousin Madeleine.

“It was only for like a week or two,” Percy protests. “We went to a club in Berlin she knew Triton liked to go to so he would see us and get annoyed.”

“A princess dated you because she was pissed at your brother?”

“Only twice,” he says, casual, like any of this is normal and not absolutely insane. “Eleonore is one of Kym’s friends. And she’s technically, like, an archduchess, not a princess. But I don’t know. A couple of his other girlfriends wanted to get back at him, and I was in Europe and available, so we just…” He trails off. She can hear the ellipsis, hanging hot and heavy over them, each dot dropping like a stone. What is this, fucking Mamma Mia?

“When was the last time this happened?” she asks, not really wanting to hear the answer.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, gaze unfocused as he thinks. “Um… not since the week after Frank left, I think. Mittie wanted to go to Bora Bora but she didn’t want to go alone, you know?”

“No, I meant,” she pushes through as her stomach flutters, tight and uncomfortable, “girls using you to get back at your brother.”

His face falls, just a bit. “Oh. Last year, I guess.”

“Who was she?” And where is she so Annabeth can punt her off a building?

“Calypso Atlas.” He sighs, wistful, with more reverence than he had given any of the princesses, and Annabeth’s stomach flops, different from the flutter. Painful this time. “She actually liked me.”

“Everyone likes you,” she says, faintly. Maybe wearing the leather jacket is giving her heatstroke.

“You know, they really don’t. Not how it counts, anyway.” He picks at a blade of grass, rubbing it between his fingers. “Most of the girls who wanted to use me to get back at Triton only did it because they knew how much he liked to bitch about me--the ‘half-breed bastard.’” He rolls his eyes, huffs a laugh. “And even Kym’s friends didn’t actually like me. Like, yeah, they’d fly me all over with them, but they didn’t want to be seen with me. Mittie and I were on and off for years, and she gets photographed constantly. I’m not in any of them.”

Annabeth thinks she might actually be sick.

But he doesn’t stop. “It wasn’t so bad when they went around saying that I was a dancer with the Paris Opera, because I was, and I was proud of it. But it wasn’t… I don’t know. It wasn’t like with Frank, whose family does have a ton of money, but who only ever dated me because he liked me.” He picks another blade of grass, tearing it between his fingers. “Calypso, though. She was different.” And he smiles, a little.

“How?”

That smile grows wider. “She just called me one day, out of the blue, and very publicly asked me to be her date to Milan Fashion Week after she and Triton broke up and he immediately turned around and got engaged. She was super up front about it, didn’t try to sleep with me or anything, even though I know she was friends with some people and probably heard about my various talents.”

She knows exactly which talents he means. He winks at Annabeth, ironic and self-conscious, and she forces out a little laugh, as though the idea of him going down on someone else is charming.

“But then we actually had a good time together, and a few weeks later, she called me up again, and again, and again, until eventually she introduced me to her father--which was a hell of an experience, let me tell you. The Atlas family puts the Olympianides family to shame as far as dysfunction goes. But it was nice, in its own way; if I’d ever asked Mittie to introduce me to her dad, she’d have laughed in my face.”

“Sounds like you were pretty serious,” Annabeth manages.

“That was the problem.” He looks away, towards the sea. Always towards the sea. “She wanted to leave Paris, travel the world. And she wanted me to go with her.”

“To leave the Paris Opera?”

“To leave ballet entirely. I just…” He holds the silence for a moment, lost in the fog of reminiscence, the mist of possible futures long since dissipated. Sighing, he shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it. So, in March, she went to Dubai, and I started making calls back to New York.”

“You broke up with her this year?”

“She broke up with me,” he clarifies, turning back to her. “It was all very romantic. I always left my comp at the box office for her. She didn’t come to my show, but she showed up at the stage door the day before she was set to leave, telling me that she had an extra ticket with my name on it. I turned her down.” And then he looks her in the eye as he says, “I don’t regret it at all.”

She swallows, her face flushing, tongue numb as she searches desperately for something to say to that. “Atlas, you said her family was? It sounds familiar.”

“Oh, you’re probably thinking of Zoe Atlas,” Percy says, easing off for the moment. “You probably know about her because she and Thalia were archenemies in boarding school. Or maybe girlfriends? I have yet to get a straight answer.” Annabeth’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. Thalia, in boarding school? What? “But I like Zoe. She’s an activist, and absolutely hates her father. Like I said, there’s a lot of dysfunction. And she came to my first show way back when, and she wasn’t even weird when I dated her sister when we ran into each other in Paris. So that was nice.”

“She went to your first show?” What in God’s name is up with these one-percenter families? It’s like they all overlap in one big incestuous slurry. And as the daughter of the Chases and the Pallases, she tries not to think where she might fit into that.

“Thalia brought her. Her first not-date. It was Thalia’s first ballet ever, too. It… it meant a lot.”

“What show was it?”

He smiles, wistful. “The Nutcracker. I was one of the kids at Clara’s party. Most scared I’ve ever been. When I got out backstage after intermission, Thalia was waiting for me with my mom. She punched my shoulder, called me ‘Kelp Head,’ and told me I did great. Then I hugged her,” he says, snickering. “She punched me again.”

Annabeth laughs, huffing through her nose. “Good to see some things never change.”

“That’s our Thalia for you--looking out for everyone, even when it kills her inside.” He glances at her pointedly.

It’s her turn to share.

Annabeth’s mouth is dry, like sandpaper.

She grabs her backpack, pulling out a sketchbook and a pencil. Beside her, Percy sighs, deflating a little.

Annabeth flips open a new page, and starts drawing.

Each sketch delivers a challenge: bringing order to the whole through design, composition, tension, balance, light and harmony. Sometimes, buildings spring to life on the page, fully formed. Sometimes the page stays blank, an empty pencil.

Pencil to paper. Letting whatever wants to come out, come out. “My mom invited me to lunch one day,” she says. Her eyes follow the line of her pencil, ninety degree angles and symmetrical shapes. “I had moved to New York like six months before. Single girl, in the big city, to follow her dreams.” She’d gone to boarding school in New York before that, but it wasn’t the same as picking out her apartment and taking the train to the Manhattan skyscraper her office was held in. Sometimes she’d walk down the street, feeling like she was smack dab in the middle of Sex and the City, which she and Piper use to watch in secret, huddled under the covers in the dorms at Miss Minerva’s. “Unfortunately, my mom didn’t love my dreams.”

“She didn’t approve of anarchist architecture?”

Annabeth’s laugh is hollow. “She thought I should have been charting some new path in business for a woman. But not in a feminist way. In, like, a capitalist way. But architecture was not really negotiable for me. And once that became clear, she had her own expectations about that, too.”

Annabeth has always been a prideful know-it-all. If all her mother had wanted from her was ambition, they probably could have made it work. Annabeth wanted to reshape the skyline, she wanted her name on buildings that would last and impress.

But even Annabeth couldn’t do that in six months.

“She wanted the best schools, the best companies, the best projects.” She sighs. “I was lucky to find a job in New York that wasn’t just carrying coffee.” She had gotten a bigger offer from a more well-known firm where she had interned one summer, but it had been for an assistantship, heavy on the assistant. Her eventual Junior Architect label hadn’t been great, but it had been something, being a rising star at a smaller firm. It seemed like a good fit. “I did not make my mother proud. I… she lived in New York, and I lived with my dad all over.”

Percy frowns. “Your mom didn’t have custody of you?”

“My mom didn’t want custody of me,” she laughs, bitter. God, it feels weird to tell someone else this. Piper and Leo and Luke knew, obviously, but they had witnessed it all firsthand. Telling someone else, out of the blue… Well, Percy had divulged his tragic backstory without complaint. It’s only fair that she does as well. “I mean, my dad didn’t either. But when it became clear my mom wasn’t an option, well, there we were. He stepped up as best he could. That wasn’t always a lot, but when compared to my mother, he seems like a perfectly involved parent.”

“Are you trying to make my parental situation seem more reasonable?”

“Is it working?”

“If you ever meet my dad, we can compare notes.” He shudders at the thought, playfully. “So, what happened with your mom?”

“She made her displeasure known.” Annabeth sighs again, shading a corner. “I mean, she’s always made her displeasure known. I wasn’t getting good enough grades, I wasn’t in the right activities, I wasn’t going to get into the right school, yadda yadda yadda. But for a long time… I don’t know, it at least seemed like she was worried about me.” She thinks of the Eta party, of the man in the brown suit, tutting about Athena Pallas’s druggie daughter, and scowls. “My mother has always had an all or nothing outlook. If I wasn’t the best, I might as well be nothing. But the thing was, this time I thought I was making real progress. And when she invited me to lunch after six months in the same city, I thought she would see that.”

She had not. Because to Athena Pallas, having a daughter who was an architect instead of an executive Vice-President on her way to CEO, having a daughter at a small but growing architecture firm instead of the best one in the country, was like having a daughter who was drunk in a gutter somewhere.

And Annabeth had realized as much that lunch.

All her work was never going to earn her mother’s love.

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure what work had been her’s and what had been her mother’s ambitions.

She’d started crying. In the cafe and right now, on Staten Island, with Percy. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs, wiping her nose on her arm. “Wow, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He reaches over and wraps an arm around her, gently, rubbing her shoulder, and she more or less crumples into his side. “It’s fine. Take your time.”

Her arm, still free, keeps moving. The drawing takes a shape that she can’t quite name yet. A tree, maybe, in a box. A window to another world, possibly. She spills tears on the paper.

“She disowned me.” Her thin line trembles, before righting itself. “I ran out of there. I stumbled into the first tattoo parlor that didn’t smell like piss, and got my owl done.” She brandishes her left arm, the grey shape blurry and faded against her elbow. She had had a stuffed owl as a little girl, her protector against the spiders in the closet. “I cut off my hair, got my eyebrow pierced, found a club, and just… had a rough couple of days. Got really really drunk that night.” Like, too drunk. Crying on the floor of a filthy bathroom drunk. “Thalia found me under the bathroom sink, took me back to her place, helped me kick the hangover the next day, and that was that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Annabeth says. And most of the time, she isn’t. She wipes her eyes, smudged makeup getting smudger.

“Your mom sounds like she sucks.”

“She does.”

“What about your dad?”

She sniffs. “What about him?”

“You just haven’t really mentioned him. What’s he like?”

Shrugging, she wipes a tear from her cheek. “He’s a history professor.”

“And?”

“That’s about it.”

“I mean, do you like him?”

She shrugs again. “Sure.” There was a lot to like about Frederick Chase. “I haven’t really spoken to him in a while.”

Mouth in a sympathetic twist, he brushes the curls from her eyes, a gesture so sweet it makes her heart pound. “You should call him,” he says. “I’m sure he misses you.”

Her phone burns in her pocket, heavy with the weight of unread texts. “Maybe.”

“Do you want to change the subject?” he asks.

“Please,” she blurts out, digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. “God, please. Let’s go back to your cute backstory. Tell me more about your first ballet. I want to hear all about the time you were in the Nutcracker.”

Percy fishes out a napkin from somewhere, handing it to her. Grateful, she blows her nose into it, wet and disgusting. “I hate to tell you this,” he says, “But I have been in the Nutcracker, like, fifteen times.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he nods, “It's the big moneymaker. Have you ever seen it?”

“It's a holiday classic,” she scoffs, a little wetly. “Of course I’ve seen it.”

He snorts. “Like, for real, or the recorded one they play on Netflix with Macaulay Culkin?”

“I've seen it live! My dad lived in San Francisco when I was in high school. They have a fancy ballet there.” She’d seen it as a little kid in NYC, she thought, too. Maybe when her parents were still married, or her mother was still willing to take her for Christmas.

“Would you be willing to see it again?”

“Like, for real,” she parrots back at him, “or the recorded one they play on Netflix?”

“Ha ha. I mean for real.”

“I mean… maybe if they switched things up a bit.”

“It's a classic!” He protests. “I mean, it isn’t like we do the Balanchine everywhere, every time. But… it's a classic.”

“I’m sure the dancing is fine.” Annabeth says. She remembers going with Luke in Boston and thinking it was nice, but also hoping Luke would kiss her at the end of the night, so she hadn’t really paid attention. “But they get to design a land of magic and sweets and fairies, and every time the costumes and the sets are just, like, pink glitter and white gauze mixed with weird racial stereotypes. There’s no imagination.”

“Well, okay then.” There’s something in his smile, in the turn of his head that she can’t quite identify. “What would you do?” he challenges.

She holds his gaze for a moment, looking into those eyes that almost reflect the color of the sea around them. Her eyes feel a little puffy still, but he doesn’t look away. Then, without breaking away, she flips open a new page in her sketchbook.

“Space,” she says. “It needs space.”

“Outer?”

“Negative. Lots of space for dancers to move around.” Her pencil scratches over the paper, familiar blocky shapes springing to life. Doric fluted columns split the wings, because of course. “It’s Christmas, so we want color: no sterile, snowy landscape. We know it’s all frozen over--we don’t need to see it again. Obligatory Christmas tree here,” she sketches a crude triangle off to one side, approximately along the golden ratio, “and a big fireplace in the center, preferably a functional one.”

“You know there was this dancer in the nineteenth century that died because her costume caught fire, yeah?”

Annabeth tilts her head, capitulating. “Fair point. We’ll raise it up on a pedestal, keep it out of the way.” She draws a little platform beneath it. “But color is key.” Up above, she draws a pediment crowning the proscenium. She scribbles in the empty space, a placeholder. “Everyone knows the story, so you lay it out up here, episodes merging into each other from start to finish.”

Percy peers down at her page, his chin perilously close to resting on her shoulder. She can’t draw like that. “Kind of reminds me of the Parthenon.”

“You’ve been?”

He nods, his hair tickling the side of her face. “Couple of times. I thought you said you wanted color, though. The Parthenon’s all white, isn’t it?”

“Not originally,” she says. “Do they not explain that on the tours?”

“Um…” Sheepish, he looks away. “I, uh, I’m not always great at listening.”

God. It’s so endearing. What the hell. She kisses him on the cheek, enjoying the way he flushes lightly. “Me either.” He is so fucking handsome. “But no, the original Parthenon, all those white statues, they were painted. Ergo, color.”

He blinks, momentarily stunned. “Wouldn’t--uh, wouldn’t that distract from the dancers? People would just be staring at the ceiling.”

“Then… it’s only lit up before and after the show. During the show, you turn the lights down, bring the focus back down onto the stage.” She considered it. Something she’d worked on for a production once, a fashion show Piper had done at Pratt. “Or, you set it up so the colors are mostly lights. Lights that shine through during the snowflake dance and when Clara rides off with the prince. But then you also get the white for the frosted look. But, they’re still too pink, so I don’t think some color variety is bad.”

“So, not to kill your vibe,” Percy says, pulling back a bit, “but I gotta say, I don’t see how this is that different from the billion other Nutcrackers out there.”

She glares, lips pursed. He’s trying so hard not to laugh. Dick. “The set is only half the problem,” she says. “You'd need to redesign the costumes, too.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you come see my show in December, and then you can tell me all about how you’d fix it.”

“Me and every tourist in New York at Christmas time?”

He nods, like he was expecting it. “Then come to my current one. September isn’t Christmas, so it’ll be a lot less crowded.”

“I don’t know,” she grimaces, sketching a star in the corner of the page. “I don’t really think I’d fit--'' Fit in with those people like the ones from the Eta awards, who thought not being her mother’s lackey was the same as being in rehab.

“Annabeth.” Percy takes her drawing hand, lifting it off the page entirely. The pencil is caught between them, an ineffectual barrier to the sweet, rubbing thumb on the mound of her palm. “I want you to come to my show. I’ll leave you a ticket. No one will care what you look like, I promise.” He stares at her, baby seal eyes in full effect.

Fuck.

“As long as you leave me a ticket,” she says, weakly. “I mean, I wouldn’t be able to afford a good seat.” The lie slips out, easy as anything. She can’t help it.

He smiles, soft and warm and way too inviting. “And in the meantime,” he says, softly, you can come with me tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I’m going to my parents’ for dinner. It’ll be just my mom, Paul, and my sister. They’d love to meet you.”

“I can’t,” she replies, immediately, almost without thinking. “I’ve got--I’ve got work to do.”

She doesn’t. But boys don’t bring girls like Annabeth home anymore. She isn’t meant to settle down. She’s meant for grimy bars and ship yards. She'll leave it to the princesses to be brought home.

He deflates, just the slightest bit. If she hadn’t had so much up and personal time with his naked chest and the movement of his shoulders, she probably would have missed it. “Maybe next time, then?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, not entirely certain if she means to follow through. “Maybe next time.”

#ballet au #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #perseannabeth #byima #uhhh whoever else #my fic #pjo fic #look at them having a real conversation and then immediately blowing it

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floggingink · 7 years

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Riverdale, “Chapter Nineteen: Death Proof”

Death Proof is a great movie. there’s one man in it and he gets Pussycatted at the end. Vanessa Ferlito gives a lap dance. Zoё Bell’s abs have a starring role

Jughead is a Serpent now, so it must follow that he’s taking care of Hotdog voluntarily

did he take the couch? Jug took the couch. he’s writing again, so he’s got his groove back via an emotional plateau/Toni

Betty hung up and was like, Shit. SHIT!

Nick has a knife for...protection? cocktail garnishes?

Mrs. St. Clair seems thrilled to meet Betty and then not at all surprised that Nick has charges brought against him, the ennui of the ruling class

Betty gets a free pass for her suspicious appearance at the apartment for just having been that much of a pain to Sheriff Keller by now

I liked Betty’s tone of disappointed confusion when she says “You didn’t kill him.”

I don’t like BH talking about “nakedness” in any context, no matter who he turns out to be

I want to say those are Veronica’s shimmery blue pajamas?

Penelope’s icy disregard reverts Cheryl back to calling her “mommy,” which I think is like Cheryl’s PR thing? Cheryl continues to be fascinating. she’s called Penelope “mother,” hasn’t she? it’s all about context. it’s all about context with Cheryl

Jughead eats: at breakfast with Jug, Toni daintily eats fruit out of a parfait cup, like Veronica

Toni’s uncle locks her out of his house, so there’s that. the Serpents don’t have somewhere for her to sleep?

Jughead was honestly about to be like “Last night was…[fun/amazing, similar],” because that’s what people do in Bridget Jones and he’s flying without a net here

Every triangle has three corners, every triangle has three sides: in a remarkable turn, Toni puts an end to the whole affair, because she has better things to do (girls), which is a stress off everyone’s shoulders

Jughead’s “not over Betty” because it was like six hours ago?

also props for the classic bad girl-bisexuality revelation. it doesn’t get badder (it’s GOOD). this is PRECISELY what I want but now I want optical proof

Betty is done with the BH’s “Simon Says”

The Blossom spawn: “the people” at “the Farm” (CAPITALIZED in the closed captioning!) will help Polly “disappear” for while? I’m gonna need a Farm episode pronto. what the HELL is THE FARM

Archie checks up on Betty in the morning and takes care of her of best he can, because this is a Good Archie episode. Good Archie wants to know why Betty hasn’t fixed it with Veronica yet. Good Archie never lets you walk alone. Good Archie stops you from walking into your ex’s brunch

Certified pedigree: the sheer SPREAD of personalities at Alice’s living room shaming. the mayor and the sheriff and their felon children. BOTH Lodges showed up. can Fred handle any more disappointment? Reggie has a parent?? what’s next!!!

Nick’s party was “bacchanalian,” so it’s probably best Alice only saw Jughead’s birthday party from across the yard

Mädchen Amick, MÄDCHEN AMICK: “Except for my Betty”

I’VE HAD SOME WINE LET’S GET THIS BITCH DONE

SUCCUBUS VERONICA IS GREAT VERONICA. ARCHIE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT A SUCCUBUS IS

I relate to Kevin because “HASHTAG BUGHEAD IS NO MORE?” is coincidentally what I woke up screaming two Thursdays ago

Hiram says “ACID QUEEN ALICE” because there’s something in Riverdale’s water that just gives you that kind of inspiration!!!! apparently he knows some shit about her too!!! everybody’s parents seem to “know” about Alice. she’s got a lot of attitude for someone whose secrets EVERYONE KNOWS

—just like Betty!

“The Southside is the source of all our problems.” HOW’S THAT, HIRAM? because your northside succubus children were the ones who tossed it back like green apple sugar powder in a Baby Bottle Pop

Archie’s 180 with “Not all Serpents are dealers” is the kind of whiplash Archie is capable of. he knows he fucking broke up with his boy. fucking fix it with Jughead you twit before he gets a bigger tattoo

The 2001 Josie and the Pussycats movie was a masterpiece: Josie was SO HOPING she would get out of there with plausible deniability!

Jughead is like NODDING ALONG with every word Mr. Phillips reads, waiting to be abandoned

I’m writing a scene where it’s gay.: JUG LEAVES THE INSTANT HE GETS A CAPSLOCK TEXT FROM THE BOY HE LOVES

he interrupts a totally warranted scolding from his beloved English teacher to PROBABLY get reamed again by Archie, but he CAN’T RESIST WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN

Archie coming to get Jughead is probably Archie’s “WHAT’S UP IS I SAW YOU, ARCHIE” moment. it’s not equivalent but rather proportional in that you know this is the best I could hope for from Archie, but also—I don’t want to shortchange him! he went to the scary school where everyone hates him, through the metal detectors (OR NOT!!!!!!), and stood dithering in the hallway until he saw his Jughead!!!!!!! HE CAME TO RESCUE JUGHEAD

this is a great example of Archie’s hands-on “justice,” which is sometimes more in quotes than other times, but he didn’t CALL Jughead, you know, he ran over there! fuck! FUCK! WHEN ARCHIE IS GOOD HE IS VERY VERY GOOD

Archie is like hauling him out by the fleece collar too, like Jug wants to get Toni, and Archie, his arms locked around Jughead’s waist, teenage boys scrambling

What damn high school in America: Sweet Pea punches the locker when he gets arrested, because of injustice

I think Veronica would have listened to Betty if Kevin had not interrupted!

“She’s not worth it” is way harsh, Tai, but Betty did seemingly attack her out of nowhere

anyway of course Betty answers the phone, because she’s stressed, down two friends, and doesn’t want to have done all that for no reason

the “Sugar Man”? the “Sugar Man”? SUGAR MAN

if one more person tells Jughead that the Serpents deal jingle-jangle, he’s going to absolutely blow a gasket

“Tall Boy wants to parley” is going to be a code sentence of mine for something. if we’re on the phone and it suddenly sounds like I’ve dropped it and you just hear “TALL BOY WANTS TO PARLEY!!!!,” the Winter Solider is there

Fifth period is AP English: Cheryl is sunbathing, in the shade, outside Thistle House reading Baudelaire because...it helps her feel calm…

Cheryl’s sheaths: I want to say those sick black sunglasses are Miu Mius

“Is there no memory, however traumatic, you won’t defile?” is an Alice-level read

oh, Fred would like to know how Jughead’s doing? ISN’T THAT NICE, YOU PRAWN

I’ve seen Brick like thirty times: Malachi’s House of the Dead is exactly what I wish I’d had the guts to make my dorm room look like, like all the cool lesbians’ rooms in the art majors’ dorm building, like the cellars of the Opéra Populaire but in the Strand

Gay?!: quick question: if Tall Boy weren’t here, would Malachi be fucking Jughead?

Cheryl had so seamlessly incorporated the Sugar Man into her emotional life as a first grader that she drew a family picture with him in it, like in Children of the Corn (her parents are two TINY stick figures in the background, it’s incredible)

is Sheriff Keller letting Betty have “one question” a red herring? asking for Jughead

the zoom in on Betty looking at Veronica and the cut to her audibly sipping on a milkshake is classic art

Veronica is right that Betty needs to “break up” with BH, but Betty’s Bettiness instead makes her want to “turn the tables on him”

HOW EASY WAS THIS CONVERSATION, BETTY. YOU COULD HAVE JUST TALKED TO THEM TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AGO

OH MY GOD! Jughead and Archie, together again, it’s been like THIRTY YEARS!!!!!

Archie knows why Jughead joined the Serpents, has learned some lessons maybe? (no)

the second god-blessed cut to Archie (in his letterman jacket) and Jughead (fleeced, his man-about-town look) with the prison phones to their ears

“SP-24601”: FP Jones played by Hugh Jackman would be a sight to behold

poor FP has lost everything except his honor and now he’s lost his SON. his hair is such a mess. he’s gotta SLAM THE PHONE

“Ghoulies dress like fops” is great

they drive hearses, like Claire Fisher

“RIVERDALE DRIFT”? Jughead did NOT watch that franchise? (Archie’s expression is fantastic)

FP’s like, I hate that you joined my gang, but now you’re going to break some laws for me

Penelope eats hard boiled eggs with toast soldiers

the Caravaggio reproduction I liked from the wake escaped the fire!

did Penelope know about the drugs? I thought she didn’t know but I guess just knew the Sugar Man was sketchy and avoided him for Legal Reasons

“I wouldn’t even go cruising here.”

Reggie DOES look good in the county’s blue vest

I hope the reason Betty’s avoiding talking to Jughead, LIKE ARCHIE KEEPS TELLING HER TO DO, is because it’s too important and she’s scared to see him

Veronica’s purple pumps

God bless jingle-jangle: Verne the JJ dealer is a cutie!

you know he’s a Ghoulie because he hand-stitched a leopard-print patch onto his studded sleeveless vest

Veronica was rich: $150 for two stix of the JJ??? this is how you know it’s the northside kids with the drug problems!

“Drugstore Cowboy”

Sexy, aesthetic Southside: these angels hot glue the ends of the stripey jingle-jangle sticks, because it’s a family-owned business. I kind of love the Ghoulies? like I’d rather hang out at Malachi’s than the Whyte Wyrm from what I’ve seen so far, as long as I get my next tetanus shot first

Jughead calls Archie his “boy” to impress Malachi, Archie is wearing his Riverdale jacket probably without thinking about the political symbolism

I couldn’t believe Maggie Kiley had the audacity to stage the “Veronica/Betty?” “Archie/Jughead?” face-to-face, but she’s this season’s Lee Toland Krieger, she is an artist

Y’ALL REALLY GONNA TAKE JUGHEAD’S FIFTH HOME AWAY FROM HIM?

“SHARON”?????????

Cheryl’s red crop top and paisley trousers

“an unrepentant spore”

Penelope is Cheryl’s “cobra-like mother”

I swear Graham Phillips was darling on The Good Wife

Archie approached Reggie for the car and Betty approached Jughead about fixing it, and that’s that

Jughead consented to sulk next to her while she tuned it up, because he loves her but he’s mad

and it’s okay that he’s mad, for the record, because he’s been broken up with three times in two days

his voice cracks, preciously, when he’s like YEAH AND YOU BROKE UP WITH ME

I love how pissy and curt Jughead gets when he’s peeved. “You just called it a date.”

I’m curious about “You did the one thing that could hurt me.” EVERYTHING hurts Jughead

Betty’s in denim overalls and Jughead’s in a mechanic shirt for no reason except they’re next to cars

Cheryl is getting some grade-A maple syrup this episode! leveraging the St. Clairs’ check for dirt on the Sugar Man? GIRL

The female gaze: Veronica slept with Archie one last time because he literally might die today

aw, he’s proud of Veronica for her Ghoulie stunt

Hiram and Hermione are LITERALLY playing chess

OKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY WHEN VERONICA SAID “HE TRIED TO DO IT TO ME,” EVERYONE IN THE ROOM WATCHING WITH ME WHEN HIRAM LOOKED UP WAS LIKE OOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!! I’M TELLING YOU!!!!!

Hiram is about to rip someone’s face off with his teeth and Hermione steps into frame and it rack focuses on her, GENIUS

These students are legally children: I want to say Tall Boy is the only adult at the race. the FP at Jughead’s party, if you will

Best costume bit: everyone of course looks fucking incredible at the race. the Ghoulies? slick and absurd dandies. Kevin’s powder blue bomber jacket? he’s not at Needle Park, and he’s cruising. Betty’s high-waisted post-WWII skinny Express trousers? she knows Jughead’s looking. Cheryl’s $1,000 leather jacket and Quentin Tarantino foot-fetish slingback? she knows I’m looking. and Jughead in all black? Jughead looks GREAT in leather. Betty, write this down

Fwoopy hair is the best hair: Betty’s bandana and ponytail

Please protect Betty: Veronica and Archie get to make out, while Betty and Jughead have to make do with Betty telling him she can never stop loving him and to drive good

Jughead doubts it: Jughead’s “You’re an enigma, Cooper” is the second-greatest thing he has ever said to her, after “That was haunting, Betty.”

so Jughead can drive? Jughead can drive STICK?

Toni and Sweet Pea got out on 1) lack of evidence or 2) Penny Peabody threatening someone

Gay.: Toni got a face full of Cheryl and she’ll be back. Toni, save Cheryl from the evils of this world

Cheryl’s a chaos angel from hell: Cheryl was ABSOLUTELY “born for this moment”

Sixth period is Intro to Film: I know this is Grease, and I can appreciate Jughead being the Danny Zuko of this moment, but I don’t want to forget the chicken run from Rebel Without a Cause, where Natalie Wood starts the race with only her elated sky-high jump and tiny 50’s waist

Jughead gives Cheryl a thumbs-up and Malachi makes the rock-and-roll index-and-pinky signal

Cheryl’s hair: God, the see-through scarf? her immaculate cutout shirt? her Jesus Christ Superstar heavenward arms? CHERYL WAS BORN FOR THIS MOMENT

I don’t think Jughead is shifting gears

BUT HE IS HAVING A GREAT TIME!

oh NOW you say “abort”

Archie > Dawson: TURNS OUT ARCHIE HAD A GREAT PLAN! WOWZERS

Jughead can drive very well, has very strong arms, and can run very fast. these things I didn’t know!

okay but the race is forfeit, right? buys them some time, maybe

Betty and Veronica watching Jughead go lite-ballistic from stress and Archie being like, Dude, dude, calm down, like something was not right with the world (Archie did a great job)

although Jughead is right that the power politics are complicated and everyone is in danger, although it was frankly that way before

I liked Archie using a chessboard analogue. Veronica is rubbing off on him

is Betty getting a ride home with Reggie? classic

“Careful you don’t get burned again.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Penelope’s left hand makes her so uncomfortable that she wears ONE leather glove

when one Sugar Man retires, another seamlessly takes his place, like the Dread Pirate Roberts

“Damn good coffee”: fucking correct me if I’m fucking wrong, but is that the nightmare painting hanging over the fucking fireplace?

Cheryl hands the check back over, because as you will remember Cheryl honors business deals, but Penelope decides to be “a mother”

Pop’s trademark blue purgatorial lighting bathes the girls in their plotting booth

The Blue & Gold is basically just Betty’s awesome blog at this point

her “Care to comment?” is WICKED though

Betty has resolved to find BH, which means he has about three episodes left. the Serpents should really start involving Betty in their maneuverings, as she is just as much a hereditary Serpent as Jughead and much more effectual

50 Shades of Betty: SHE’S BREATHING DOWN HIS NECK AND SHE LOVES IT. this is her driving fast! they love danger!!!!!!

was Mr. Phillips protecting Jughead by telling him to stay away from the drug world??? (I mean obviously he was, but because Phillips was an insider and liked Jughead and didn’t want to have to kill him) or did he just not want Mini Woodward and Bernstein on the case?

he and Jughead make the exact same sort of grimly resolved/horrified eye contact, respectively, as FP and Jughead when FP got arrested last season

Toni TOTALLY knows this shattered something of Jughead’s Southside foundation. look at her little smile

Archie thinks his plan with the race backfired and he’s worried he’s losing Jughead, PUNKIN

Fred’s popping Chekhov’s Valiums, so he’s about to be addicted to drugs

I can’t even do it out here with the fucking Lodges sitting around their cream salon with Andre being like, the St. Clairs are dead or whatever, ma’am, and Hermione’s like, Thank you Andre, go get yourself something nice

Summer + Blair = Veronica: Veronica’s like, I HAVE HAD A STRESSFUL DAY AND IT MAKES ME FEEL POWERFUL

“CHECKMATE,” HIRAM? HIRAM, HAVE YOU MURDERED? DID YOU JUST MURDER?

Betty and Jughead I want to say are back together, but they did not kiss this episode, which means I have to start over with the tally marks on my wall

Betty’s reading The Silence of the Lambs, to better figure out what her game is going to be (Jughead had a copy)

Jughead looks over at her like, Damn. My girlfriend is fucking scary. I fucking love my girlfriend

SUGAR GETS GOT!!!!!!!! BODY COUNT OFFICIALLY TWO! he’s almost caught up to Hiram Lodge

NEXT WEEK: Sheriff Keller does me a solid and takes his shirt off

#riverdale #i say #commentary #tropes

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eripic · 7 years

Text

My 14-yr-long ED Story, the continuation.

My senior year of high school was when I had lost the most weight in the shortest amount of time in my life. I went from teetering around 200 lbs (size14/16) all the way down to 128lbs from late July, 2010 to the beginning of January, 2011. I was as tall then as I am now (5'10"), and with my frame, 128 put me in the very underweight range. My journey to that weight came with great saccrifice. I went an entire month without eating anything (rather I just lived off of black coffee, unsweetened green tea, water, and sleep) I didn’t take any supplements during that time, which I will inform you of the side effects from that later. I fasted for a month, then went from that to eating one protein bar a day at school. And to keep myself from giving in, I would spend my lunch break in the library, hiding in the nonfiction aisle (where no soul dare go in my school) and read a book or sleep. I was weak and that protein bar would give me the energy to carry myself for the next 24 hours. I don’t know how my parents never noticed. I then would live off of egg whites and salsa (17cals per egg white and 5-10cals per salsa serving) 2-3 times daily, starting only on the weekends and then only for breakfast (occasionally) and dinner. Mom at this point would bitch at me for not eating the food that she gave me. I told her I wasn’t feeling well and that this was the only food I could stomach. Fortunately, not long after that statement, I caught ill with the flu, and it was the perfect excuse. I dragged it out for as long as I could until mom started forcing me to eat with the family. When they all sat down to watch television, I would go into their bathroom, because it was the farthest away from the living room, and throw up. It threw me off after that. I went back to binging and purging. My weight plateaued at around 165 lbs, so I started running. First, it was just a mile of continuous running and walking for an addition 5 miles, and then at my peak, I managed to run anywhere from 10-15 miles a day. I hit my sweet spot at 145 lbs, where I was (looking back) waif like and had legs for days. At the time I thought I looked ginormous. My body dismorphia was so severe that I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror or have my picture taken in fear of seeing a whale staring back at me. I saw fat rolls that were not there. My cheeks looked like a chipmunk’s, and I thought I could hear the ground shake beneath me when I walked. I stepped up my game that winter and ran every day of the week, would go to school with sandbags around my ankles and wrists, would do push-ups and crunches in the morning, during lunch, when I got home before I ran, and before I went to bed. I would throw up everything I ate, even if it was a grape, if i ate too much lettuce, that would be purged immediately afterward as well. I felt huge. But I wasn’t. I was actually at the smallest pants size my bones would allow (6). But I kept going, in pursuit of that holy grail of a size zero. Fast forward to January 1st. I spent the countdown in the hotel room I was sharing with my aunt, while she and my parents were celebrating the new year next door, vomiting in the bathroom. I was so weak. I was throwing up blood, my teeth were chipping, my hair was falling out, and my heart raced in my chest and would all of a sudden stop completely for several seconds at a time and get back to fluttering. These were the side effects of not at least taking vitamins and minerals, and also my severely strict diet and workout regimen. At this point, I weighed 128. If I ate so much as an apple, my weight would bounce back up to 133, and I’d have to starve for two or three days just to get it back down. My weight was unsustainable and my bones jutted out all over my body. I couldn’t so much as sit down without everything hurting, because my bones would dig into my skin beneath me. I wore several layers of pants and shirts, sweaters, etc, to keep my family from noticing what I had become. I looked like a birdcage. I could put my fist underneath my ribcage, my stomach was concave and hip bones would push my size 6 pants outward and make a bridge. I could see my spine and even my pulse on my abdomen. I was so sick. My period had stopped. I was dying. When I saw the blood, I freaked out. I didn’t want to die. I had no more fat to give. My heart was giving out. So I did something crazy and hated every fucking second of it. I forced myself to eat again, and to keep it down this time. I would cry myself to sleep. I could hear ana inside me screaming. By February I gained a whopping 15 lbs. My energy was restored and my heart stopped scaring me on the daily. I tried out for my tried and true track&field. Made the team. I committed myself to shotput and discus to help salvage my muscles that had all but deteriorated. I gained another 15 lbs in muscle by the time I hit college. The aftermath of my bulimia and malnutrition caused one of my teeth to crumble like sand for biting a cuticle when my sister was driving me home from school. I had to get it and a couple other capped because of it. Sophomore year of college, I had gained another 15 lbs. I went to my very first university with a stellar gpa. This was the first time I had been on my own. Not even a month in, my sister was murdered. I couldn’t breathe. I drank myself to sleep every night, and not even two weeks after her death, my parents made me return to school instead of letting me take a leave of abscence. I couldn’t cope. I stopped eating again. I didn’t even shower. I just lied in my bed and stared out the window or cried myself to sleep only to wake up screaming again. I didn’t go to class and my once perfect gpa plummeted. I would fall into a catatonic state if anything reminded me of her death and, if I was outside, had to be carried back in by housemates and dorm supervisors. Once I had finally managed to make it out of my room, I made some friends. I was so lonely. My best friend was dead, and no longer could I hear her voicemail. Her phone service was disconnected. No more Emily. I clung to my new friends for dear life. I started eating again, but this time excessively. I had lost nearly 20 lbs from mourning. I wouldn’t be able to leave the dining hall on my own. I would get trapped in the cycle of binge, purge, binge, purge. I would have to call one of my friends from the dining hall bathroom to come get me and lead me out so that I couldn’t run back to the food. My stomach would stretch so much, I could feel it tearing as I gingerly made my way to the bathroom again. A year later, I was 160lbs. I had just went through a devastating breakup with a verbally and emotionally abusive boyfriend. He would always pick on my weight and call me fat and tell me I needed to stop eating. Well, yes, I already thought I was fat, and losing weight was possible. But whenever I’d starve myself, he would find something else to bully me about. I thought I loved him and I let it slide until the relationship came to a head and we exploded on each other in a rage fight. That ended and I was back to being devastated and lonely. One night I was playing video games in one of my mate’s rooms when one of my sorority sisters called me and told me to come to a party with them. I got dolled up and headed out. It was one of our fraternity brother’s birthday and we were celebrating with booze and good music…well, they were. They dubbed me involuntary designated driver because I had a car. I just sat in the corner moping while everyone had a blast and here I was with my root beer. I was so mad. After taking the last of my shit faced sisters home, I walked up to my room. As I was about to go in, I texted my friend to thank her for letting me play with her gaming console. She texted me back saying there was a 21st birthday party happening down the hall and she wanted me to come. I knocked on the door, and one of my other friends opened the door. I said “fix me a drink muy pronto,” and walked in. Several shots of The Kraken later, I was completely plastered on the floor, flirting with the boys, who some were in relationships and this was making their girlfriends uneasy. I felt bad and backed off and proceeded to ask the room to raise their hands if they are single. Several girls on the futon raised their hands and one slumped over guy at the end of the futon. I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him on the floor with me and started making out with him. We were all over each other. I asked him his name several times and we both kept forgetting. I then pushed him back so that I could see his face, and dropped the most impressive pickup line in history…“Do you like pickles?” “…wha-?” I pulled him back towards me and started making out with him again. My friend texted me and told me to be mindful of who’s room we were in. I looked around and everyone was gone. I climbed on his chest and pinned him down. “I am dominant. Don’t forget that.” (God, I’m an idiot) I grabbed his phone and threw it on his chest and got up and stumbled back to my room and spent the rest of the night hugging the porcelain thrown. He looked all over campus for me the entire weekend. Finally, the night before my birthday a couple weeks later, he befriended me on fb. We had an amazing conversation and talked able meeting up again. We had so much in common and became best friends instantly and fell in love just as quickly. We’ve been inseparable since. My weight climbed back up to square one without me noticing, and he never said a word or even complained. Always called me beautiful, always treated me like a queen. But now shit don’t fit. I am starting back at square one again. I am uncomfortable in my own skin. But now, as I’m going on this journey once more, I’ve learned a few things from my earlier success. Take vitamins, minerals, electrolytes. Drink loads of water, don’t run an insane amount without rest (it fucks up my knees even more than they already are), don’t purge over every little thing (it destroys my teeth), don’t go below 145 lbs (you get your bones and lowest pants size without the heart complications), 128 lbs is unsustainable, and finally stay safe and enjoy the ride. Even if you fuck up one day, don’t beat yourself up too much. Just try again tomorrow and eventually you will get there. You have a fiance who loves you no matter what.

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