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Percy has lost count of how many times the world has ended.
When Luke's poisoned scorpion stung him at twelve; watching Annabeth fall off a cliff at Westover Hall; blowing up Mount Saint Helens, and the Princess Andromeda, bathing in the River Styx, and watching Annabeth fall to the ground with a poisoned dagger in her arm. The world ended when he suffocated at the bottom of the ocean in Kym's poison, and when he wasn't strong enough to pull Annabeth out of the opening to Tartarus and had to let go of the ledge instead.
The ending of the world was always painful. The end of the world was always accompanied by screaming, or explosions, and new scars that even ambrosia couldn't quite take away.
Except, of course, it wasn't the real end of the world, because the world kept spinning and Percy would always open his eyes, get up, and fight for the happiest ending you can get while being a demigod.
No, the real end of the world came quietly, creeping up on him, and by the time Percy realized, it was too late.
Annabeth stopped talking, and he stopped reaching out, because every time he did they would end up fighting, angrier than they were before. He yelled, and she yelled back louder, and they cried separately, in their own rooms, and slowly it stopped being them against the world, and started being them against each other.
One day, Annabeth shows up at his apartment, and they both know that once she walks out that door, she's never coming back.
"Is this really it?" His voice sounds hollow, even to himself.
Annabeth nods stiffly, looking somewhere past his left ear. "Yeah, it is."
He looks at her, at the girl he fell in love with. There are bags under her eyes and her greasy hair falls in limp ringlets around her shoulders, too thin under her jacket. The dimple that appears when she smiles is nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with frown lines across her forehead. Somewhere in the back of his head, Percy realizes he can't remember the last time he saw her smile. Part of him wants to cry. Part of him wants to shake her, beg, promise that he can be better, that they can fix themselves, plead desperately enough that they both believe it and she stays.
Instead, he watches as she walks out, shutting the door quietly behind her, and the world ends.
*
Except it doesn’t. Percy still has work the next day, and he still has to call his mom, and buy groceries, and kill monsters when they try to ambush him on the subway.
The world keeps spinning and Percy lives.
*
Percy stumbles into his apartment when New Year’s Eve is bleeding into day, completely exhausted. He’s getting too old to pull all-nighters for the sake of a party.
He shuffles into his kitchen, looking for a glass of water. Instead, he pauses, looking at his kitchen table and frowning.
A year ago, he’d stumbled into his apartment with Annabeth attached to his lips, both of them breathless and a little drunk and high off of the party and each other. Her hands were tugging at his zipper and he was pretty sure one of his neighbors had seen them making out like horny teenagers while he struggled to unlock the door, but he hadn’t really cared about anyone but Annabeth and getting her out of that dress.
They hadn’t made it past the kitchen.
Percy had fucked her on the table, lazily and maybe a little sloppy, but she hadn’t seemed to mind because she’d tightened her legs around him and gasped out “Happy New Year, Percy,” into his ear instead of “I love you” as she came, pushing him off the edge with her.
Percy blinks, and the memory fades. He spins on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen, glass of water be damned.
*
It feels like the world is ending.
Nightmares are nothing new to Percy. He’s been having them his whole life, and after living through two wars he’s learned to suck it up and deal with it. They’ve faded into the background, and sometimes Percy gets the mundane pleasure of dreaming that he’s somehow forgotten his pants and now the whole office has seen his dick instead of seeing Michel Yew’s bow, laying on the asphalt with its owner dead under a bridge that he destroyed.
Nightmares are nothing new to Percy, but they haven’t been this bad for years.
Annabeth stands before him, a dagger sticking out of her arm, the skin around the wound a sickly green. Her eyes are milky white, unseeing. She opens her mouth to scream his name but no sound comes out, and Percy knows that she won’t be able to cry for help. Not as his hands are thrust out in front of him, bending the blood in her veins, the same way he did with the goddess of misery all those years ago. His hands curl into fists and she collapses on her knees in front of him. He’s crying, and he wants to stop but he can’t , he just has to stand there and watch as he kills the person he loves the most and the world exploding would be more merciful than this.
As Annabeth takes her last breath, Percy jolts awake. He’s shaking so badly that he misses the first time he attempts to grab his phone, and then he drops it into the sheets. It rings once, twice, three times, and it’s an ungodly hour of the morning and it’s about to go to voicemail when-
“‘Ello?”
Percy just sobs in response. “Annabeth,” he tries to say, but he’s screamed himself hoarse and there’s still this giant lump in his throat, so all that comes out is a pathetic sort of whimper.
“Percy?” Sheets rustle on the other side of the line as she sits up. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The ringing in his ears slowly fades. “I’m okay,” he whispers eventually. “I just- the nightmare was really bad, and I- I had to make sure you were okay.” He closes his eyes and then opens them immediately. The image from the dream is still imprinted into the backs of his eyelids.
“Oh,” she says. After a moment, she adds quietly, “Tartarus?”
Percy wraps his blankets tighter around himself, even though he’s soaked in sweat. “Something like that.”
“Well, I’m right here. I’m okay. And I’ve got two legs, and two arms, and two eyes that I can see with, and all ten fingers and all ten toes.”
Percy imagines her, wrapped like a burrito because she’s a blanket hog, a wild mess of curls splayed out on the pillow. He imagines her face, gently lit up by her phone screen, the slope of her nose and the small birthmark by her collarbone. He imagines her sitting in bed, talking to him at this ungodly hour of the morning, and his heart pangs. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up. “I miss you,” he blurts out.
Silence. Then, timidly, “I miss you too, Perce.”
Percy exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leans back against his headboard. “Meet me for coffee tomorrow.”
He phrased it like a demand, but they both know it’s a question and Percy waits for her rejection.
Instead, she says, “Coffee sounds nice.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Okay.”
“Okay.” If he concentrates, he can maybe hear her smile, too. “You should go to bed, Percy.”
“Yeah, I should.” He settles back against his pillows and suddenly going back to sleep feels more impossible than surviving two wars. “Annabeth?” She hums to indicate she’s listening. “Can you stay on the line with me?”
He hears her soft puff of breath, then more rustling of her sheets as she lays back down. “Of course, Perce.”
He rolls over, facing what he still considers her side of the bed, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend that she’s laying right next to him, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He lets the familiar sound of Annabeth’s voice wash over him, gently lulling him into unconsciousness.
It’s the best he’s slept in months.
Annabeth stops her ramble when she hears a faint snore. “Percy? Are you awake?” When there’s no response, she smiles, rolling her eyes fondly. “Goodnight, Seaweed Brain.” After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “I love you.”
The world keeps spinning.