Annabeth screams in the night; Percy is always awake when it comes.

It's not that Percy doesn't scream either. He cries and laments when no soul can see, because he must be strong for everyone else.

Annabeth is, too. But she is more open about it — she was always wiser than him.

Her chest heaves with sobs and she burrows deeper into Percy's chest.

He whispers in her ears, tells her, "It will be okay."

He doesn't know if it will be, but he's going to try.


Come morning, she asks him not to speak.

She's sitting up in the bed, tear tracks staining her porcelain face, and yet her calmness shows in her gray eyes.

"Don't say anything."


"A moment of silence, Seaweed Brain. For them."

Percy understands. He says nothing.


It is like this every day and every night — they do not tire of the routine.

In the end they do not ask each other anything. Words are conveyed with their eyes and their expressions. There is nothing to be said.

And yet they say the same words every day.

"Don't say anything."


"A moment of silence, Seaweed Brain. For them."

They like the routine. They do not grow restless of it. The same thing every day — items of their fantasies in younger years, of what they might once have wished for but know better now.

They are fond of these illusions.

a/n: short percabeth idk what this is. is it fluff? angst? both? who knows, certainly not me