[ luke's mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts — he doesn't deserve to be here, he doesn't deserve forgiveness, he doesn't even deserve elysium but he would take that over any other choice, if he were given a choice. sometimes luke wonders if his curse had been to be born with hate already curling deep within his chest. did he ever stand a chance? or had he been designed from the beginning to try and tear the world asunder? his thoughts don't particularly stretch as far as to be accommodating to clarisse's discomfort — her happiness isn't his priority, nor has it ever been; they've never been the type where he understands, without her so much as hitting him squarely in the jaw with it, of what she really needs. that's always been chris. he gets her in ways no one else does. and if luke had been in camp, being a regular kid, rather than ageing too fast and twisting into an ugly shell of himself, he would've seen it uncurl before him. ]
[ but it takes her having to bite at him for him to realise what she needs. luke may have been a popular kid, the golden apple of camp half-blood once upon a time, but he had never been one to completely understand the needs of others. if he did, he never would've left his mother, he never would've abandoned thalia, he never would've left annabeth to grow up thinking promises meant nothing to those who vowed to keep them. but luke is a selfish thing, sometimes, and he stares at clarisse like she's grown a third head — for she has, because isn't she the one who punches him and bites at him and burns him for simply being within the same block as her? to think she wants to wear his clothes, that his things will make her comfortable … he can't help but look upon her like as though she's a stranger. ]
[ and she is. he has never quite known clarisse, for all the years they've spent together, he doesn't know anything outside of what's in the how to be a demigod for dumb punks. he doesn't know if she likes jokes or the colour blue or if she even likes diet coke, even though he's seen her drink it. he thinks of chris, of how he'd be more useful and less of a stumbling newborn horse, in this particular scenario. ]
[ luke's still. he takes a few beats too long to even reply — let alone think up one. he's meant to ask her why she wants his crap when she can barely stand him? why she wants to borrow his things? does he really make her that uncomfortable that she has to shed her newly found girly skin? he could turn this into something it's not — a joke, a jest, something old and ancient that sits in the wheels of time between them, but he is not that luke and she is not that clarisse. so he goes for the lame thing. ] Yeah.
[ he glances away. and then he begins moving to his room. the apartment isn't too big — it's bigger than the houses at camp, but it's not as big as an aphrodite kid would like it to be. he crosses the foyer to his door within seconds, his long legs quite a big help, and disappears through the doorframe, not waiting to see if she's following like a shadow. he opens one of his closet doors and starts rifling through his shit. ]
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[ but it takes her having to bite at him for him to realise what she needs. luke may have been a popular kid, the golden apple of camp half-blood once upon a time, but he had never been one to completely understand the needs of others. if he did, he never would've left his mother, he never would've abandoned thalia, he never would've left annabeth to grow up thinking promises meant nothing to those who vowed to keep them. but luke is a selfish thing, sometimes, and he stares at clarisse like she's grown a third head — for she has, because isn't she the one who punches him and bites at him and burns him for simply being within the same block as her? to think she wants to wear his clothes, that his things will make her comfortable … he can't help but look upon her like as though she's a stranger. ]
[ and she is. he has never quite known clarisse, for all the years they've spent together, he doesn't know anything outside of what's in the how to be a demigod for dumb punks. he doesn't know if she likes jokes or the colour blue or if she even likes diet coke, even though he's seen her drink it. he thinks of chris, of how he'd be more useful and less of a stumbling newborn horse, in this particular scenario. ]
[ luke's still. he takes a few beats too long to even reply — let alone think up one. he's meant to ask her why she wants his crap when she can barely stand him? why she wants to borrow his things? does he really make her that uncomfortable that she has to shed her newly found girly skin? he could turn this into something it's not — a joke, a jest, something old and ancient that sits in the wheels of time between them, but he is not that luke and she is not that clarisse. so he goes for the lame thing. ] Yeah.
[ he glances away. and then he begins moving to his room. the apartment isn't too big — it's bigger than the houses at camp, but it's not as big as an aphrodite kid would like it to be. he crosses the foyer to his door within seconds, his long legs quite a big help, and disappears through the doorframe, not waiting to see if she's following like a shadow. he opens one of his closet doors and starts rifling through his shit. ]