Nico and Percy's dynamic through the series is eternally funny to me, because it's just. like.
Percy's having a constant mental struggle between his fatal flaw of loyalty with a promise he made to Bianca to protect Nico, versus his Big 3 kid desire to maim other Big 3 kids / Poseidon descendant urge to totally maim Nico specifically. He hates Nico so so much. He thinks Nico's annoying and weird at best, and creepy/sketchy when he's older. The only positive thoughts Percy has towards Nico are "He's Bianca's brother and Bianca was my friend and I owe her/He's Hazel's brother and Hazel is my friend and would kill me if I was mean to him," "He's a powerful asset and useful ally (if questionable)," and "He's kinda pathetic and I feel maybe a little bad about it." Percy has multiple occasions throughout the series where he strongly considers - and on one occasionally actually goes through with - throttling Nico.
Meanwhile, Nico is following around Percy like a lost puppy. He explicitly can never bring himself to even dislike anything about Percy no matter how hard he tries. He has a whole bit in BoO where he's mentally going "UGH he's so stupid BUT IT'S ENDEARING HOW DARE HE." He's totally smitten. He's making deals with his dad for Percy. He's making convoluted plans to help Percy stand a chance against Kronos. During the entirety of BoTL it's like he's playing tsundere - "I'm helping NOT PERCY SPECIFICALLY with this quest! Me helping Percy would be SILLY because I DEFINITELY HATE HIM." Then he proceeds to show up to Percy's birthday party to basically ask him on a weird date and spend the entire next book scrambling around trying to help him or protect him or impress him. And Percy could not give less of a shit.
Just. That dynamic is so funny to me. Percy is the founder of the Nico Protection Club in that he's the one they're all protecting Nico from and meanwhile Nico is throwing himself at Percy to the point where the literal god of gay love calls him out on it.
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continuing with the vibe from earlier, pre-whatever canon dabi is truly, genuinely just horrible.
a surface glance wouldn't show anything more than an acquaintance-ship, but there's just something weird and different in the way you two are around each other. it's not super often, but when you are, you either enjoy a content silence or share a conversation that's only just riveting enough to keep you both present.
you ask him things about himself that he doesn't want to answer, that he refuses to, but you just kind of roll your eyes and try to hide your smile when he says something smart in response. you share a drink or two. a glance that feels too curious. there's not enough touching involved to be considered significant, but at one point you share the same breath and the air is so immediately tense and severe that you know you've crossed some kind of line no one else has with him.
but—it's undefined. unacknowledged, in truth, and dabi doesn't ever approach you on his own, nor does he give you his attention if he can keep it to himself. it's entirely too confusing, but what could you expect from a man of his status? asking for any clarification would only give you the kind of harsh end you don't want.
you leave it alone, for the most part. let it grow when it can, but you don't overdo it; if you and dabi happen to find yourself at the same club at night, you'll share a wave and maybe even have a quick chat with him outside as he smokes a cigarette.
which is exactly what you intend to do—before a man buys you a drink at the bar.
he's handsome and flirty enough that you let him, entertain his small talk and laugh at the cheap, somewhat raunchy jokes he tells you. it's all genuine, and while dabi is still lingering at the back of your mind—at the back of this club, somewhere—you allow yourself to be appreciated in the way a normal man would. not some wordless cat-and-mouse game that's too confusing to be even a little upset about.
you don't even know where dabi went, when the man excuses himself to run to the bathroom, and you do peek around for him. you really do want to have a quick chat before either of you leave because you don't know when it will be that you see him again, and you like to make the most of your chances. there's some thrilling side of you, too, that wonders if he even cares at all about the drink in your hand, or the man who bought it.
that question is answered—wordlessly, as always—in a horrific fit of chaos.
a thick cloud of smoke spreads through the club like wildfire, bringing screams of terror and a panicked mob with it. people are trampling over themselves to get from one side of the building to the doors; drinks are being flung and shoes are being lost and some are even on their knees, vomiting.
dabi follows the crowd lazily, lit cigarette in hand. there's a frightening char to his fingers that you know didn't come from just that, but he passes you without saying anything. only staring, tense and severe, before shuffling out with the rest.
and you finally see, at the back, the remains of your flirty, handsome man: whole, for the most part, except for the partfectly shaped handprint that's been seared through to his skull.
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