north

xx, reverie

Jason doesn't want to cry in front of everyone but when he sees Nico broken down under bright lights he can't help it. The setting sun that greets them is too harsh, the oranges of the sky too burnt for him to believe he's really escaped Tartarus.

But Nico is there. Bleeding, burned, missing an arm. Reaching what he has left out to Jason.

And yes, he's angry. Angry that someone would sacrifice that much for him. He supposes he's not one to talk, when he dove in as soon as Nico fell. When he's spent his entire life playing hero. Yes, he's spent his entire life letting people devote their lives to him, entrust their safety to him. He can never guarantee it and they know. He knows. It still hurts. But it's never hurt as bad as seeing Nico hurt in that same position. Because he cared enough to save Jason when he was ready to die.

What would have happened if Nico hadn't pulled Jason out right when he did? Nico's soul and body, torn to pieces, stuck between the mortal world and Tartarus. An eternity of death in shadow. For what? Jason's safety? So the prophecy can unfold?

Nico is all too willing to give himself up for a cause. Jason can't let himself be that cause.

He scours his skin and watches crimson swirl the drain. He empties an entire bottle of body wash to get his skin clear again, desperately trying to drown out the stench of Tartarus. His skin is too red, too tight once he's finally out. It's soft and it shouldn't be. Soft skin doesn't serve soldiers.

Jason regards himself in the mirror. His calf is twisted and marred with teeth marks. His physique is leaner and his skin newly pale. His scar stands out more this way, striking, seeming to split his lips further in an ugly way. His stomach gnaws at itself, ravenous with a hunger that he isn't sure food can satisfy.

He can't recognize himself in the mirror. Jason's memory and mind are completely in sync, now, distorted and washed out. The steam in the shower starts rising, hot and fast, quick to fill his head. Fill his lungs. Smog. The stench of blood. Fire. The river.

A knock at the door snaps him out of it. "Jason? Grabbed you some clothes. You okay?"

Leo's voice brings him back to earth. He clutches the mirror, sharp nails indenting the edges. "Yeah, I'm good," he gets out. The glass shakes when he releases it. He can't stand to look at himself any longer. He grabs the outfit left at the door and quickly puts it on. A Camp Half-Blood shirt and blue sweats. This orange, horrible and neon, he finds comforting. Warm colors make him anxious, but this one is fine.

Nico's jacket sits on the floor in a dirty heap. Jason runs his hands over worn leather reverently. He slips into it, appreciating the comforting wool, and wincing at the dry blood stains. Nico's blood. He removes the jacket, rinsing the stained garment under cold water and scrubbing until his hands are raw and the jacket is clean again. Then he puts it back on.

When he emerges from his bathroom Leo stands there. He's gotten taller, Jason notices. Lost some of the baby fat in his cheeks, gained a broadness in his shoulders that wasn't there before. He still retains his impish features but he's prouder now. Confident. His jovial persona is less of a facade.

"How long were we gone?" Jason asks.

Leo whistles low and uneasy. "Um, not sure. A week? No... longer."

"Longer," he repeats numbly. How much and how little has happened while he and Nico were trapped, he wonders. To give Leo such a jolt towards becoming a young man. His friends are growing, capable of changing, but still themselves.

Jason is so stuck in comparison.

"You with me, Superman?" Leo puts a hand on his arm and Jason flinches.