Sometimes I believe my brother has changed.
That mortality tempered him, that he's finally left behind his chronic need to be the center of the universe.
And then he shows up in the middle of a Hunt dinner, dragging Perseus Jackson along like he's forgotten everything the word "boundaries" means.
My Hunt, my Hunters, our space. And there he is, bursting in under the moonlight like he's making a grand entrance to his own show. Using Perseus as a literal human shield. He actually pushed him forward into the clearing, as if that would soften the invasion.
I am not amused. And worse, some of the girls are a little too amused.
Thalia smiles when she sees them, of course. She's always been more tolerant of my brother's madness than I would like. She stands, claps Perseus on the arm, and invites him to sit beside her like they're at a veterans' reunion. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely wrong.
Perseus, at least, has the good sense to look uncomfortable. He sits between Apollo and Thalia, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear, even though it's impossible for a son of Poseidon to go unnoticed among a circle of immortals sworn to renounce contact with men.
At least he has the decency not to make any sarcastic comments. Yet.
I stay silent for a few seconds, watching my brother as he piles a huge ladle of stew into his bowl. He smiles like nothing's out of place, like he hasn't been avoiding me for weeks.
But I do not forget.
"Perseus," I say at last, not raising my voice but firm enough that the conversations pause for a moment, "how exactly did my brother convince you to be his champion?"
Perseus looks up. He has that expression of his—"this is ridiculous, but I'll be polite."
We, all the gods's, know it too well.
"I ask myself that every morning," he says, "right before I regret getting out of bed."
Thalia bursts into a tiny laughter. Some Hunters smile, though they try to hide it.
I do not. Not because it isn't funny, but because it isn't the time. Or maybe because I refuse to give either of them the satisfaction.
Reyna, sitting a little apart, keeps her usual calm expression. Listening, as always, with that tense attentiveness she never abandons.
Perseus notices her and gives her a brief smile.
"I heard you're representing Zeus," he says. "Congrats. Sounds... important."
Reyna barely nods.
"It is."
She says nothing more, doesn't need to.
Her tone is calm as ever, but there's a strange spark in her eyes, like she's watching something no one else has noticed yet.
And then, naturally, Apollo decides the dinner needs a touch of theatrical tragedy.
"She has terrible taste," he says with fake sorrow, pointing at Reyna with his spoon. "But we forgive her. She's still in the phase of thinking our father actually cares."
"Apollo..." I murmur, warningly.
But it's too late. He's already raising a hand to his forehead dramatically.
"Oh no! A haiku is coming to me!"
Groans ripple through the clearing. Some Hunters roll their eyes; one even covers her ears in resignation. I say nothing. By now I know it's useless.
Apollo stands like he's about to recite epic poetry.
"Attention!" he says. "A heavenly inspiration incoming!"
"Perseus by my side,
Hunters sigh not for the boy,
They all sigh for me."
The silence that follows is loaded with judgment. Perseus ducks his head, clearly mortified. Thalia wears a smile halfway between amused and uncomfortable. Reyna doesn't even blink.
And I... I simply watch.
Sometimes I don't understand my brother. I don't know when he shifts from being arrogant to becoming this bizarre mix of hallway bard and part-time prophet. A year ago, he would never have brought a boy to a Hunt dinner. Now he does it as if it's nothing, as if everything changed and no one bothered to tell me.
Perseus looks up again, and now he doesn't look embarrassed—just tired.
"Alright," he says, dropping his bowl onto a rock with a small thud. "This is official: you're going to pay for this, Apollo. Dragging me here without warning... that's first-degree betrayal."
Thalia raises her eyebrows expectantly. Reyna looks away, though her lips curve slightly.
"It's not because of you two," Perseus adds, glancing at them. "Really, I'm happy to see you both. But I know I'm not exactly welcome here, and I've got enough awkwardness to last me the whole night."
Then he turns to me.
"My lady," he says.
And there it is. That slight pause, that tiny hesitation. The same as the last time we spoke. Perseus Jackson still struggles to call "lady" someone who looks like a twelve-year-old girl.
"I know this isn't the time or place," he continues, "but please—talk in private. Fix whatever it is you need to fix. Because your brother"—he thumbs at Apollo without looking—"is unbearable about it."
Apollo elbows him.
"Me? Unbearable?"
"You talked for half an hour about how the constellations are messed up since you two fought."
"Because they are!" Apollo protests. "Have you even looked at the sky lately?"
Perseus sighs.
"Yeah, the sky. Very tragic. Some of us would like to sleep at night."
"Ungrateful," Apollo huffs, tossing him a piece of bread.
Perseus catches it midair without even looking and pops it into his mouth.
"Thanks. Want me to write you a haiku in return?"
"Don't you dare," Apollo says, narrowing his eyes.
But Perseus is already speaking:
"Can't stand it right now,
Apollo breaks everything,
Please, I need some peace."
From the back of the group, one of the Hunters raises an eyebrow and says dryly:
"That second line has eight syllables."
"Really?" Perseus blinks, frowning. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm dyslexic," Perseus replies with all the dignity he can muster. "Counting syllables is discrimination."
Thalia bursts out laughing.
Apollo clutches his chest like he's been mortally wounded.
"Blasphemy. A haiku is sacred!"
"A haiku shouldn't cause physical pain," Reyna mutters without lifting her gaze.
I cross my arms and try so hard not to laugh. I really do. But something loosens deep in my chest. Just for a second.
Because in the middle of all this ridiculousness... it's funny. And that annoys me.
Because this absurd scene only exists because Apollo's been avoiding me for weeks. And now he shows up here, with his champion and his bad poetry, as if nothing happened and there wasn't a conversation we desperately need to have.
"That's enough," I say at last.
No need to raise my voice. Everyone falls silent.
"Come on, Apollo."
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