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[color=808080][color=5c83a7][b]#5c83a7[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/qM68dL01/unnamed-23.jpg][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]near the strawberry fields[/b][/color]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]

[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]The son of Apollo had pointed him toward the bathroom with the gentle authority of someone used to shepherding the half-dead back into the world, and Beckett had gone without argument. The infirmary still felt too fragile, too full of soft voices and bandages and memories that scraped raw when he looked at them too long. In the narrow tiled room, he stripped the rest of the wrappings from his torso with slow, methodical movements, the adhesive tugging at skin that was already tender. He didn’t study the new scars. He didn’t trace them or measure them or give them names the way some soldiers did. 

They were just more lines in a map that had long ago stopped being blank. He pulled the orange sweatshirt over his head instead, thick cotton swallowing him up, the Camp Half-Blood logo stitched over his chest like a quiet claim. It felt strange— soft, clean, unearned. He flexed his shoulders once, testing the way fabric moved where bandages had been and where new scars remained, then turned toward the sink.

Cold water shocked his hands, his wrists, his face. He splashed it up hard, letting it run down his cheeks and into the hollow at his throat, grounding himself in the sharp honesty of it. For a second it almost worked. The fog receded, the room steadied, the low hum in his skull softened to something manageable. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, like he’d been taught long before monsters had replaced mortars. Droplets clung to his lashes, slid down the bridge of his nose, darkened the collar of his borrowed sweatshirt. When he finally looked up, it was into his own eyes, too pale, too tired, carrying the reflection of things they didn’t want to remember.

The dreams lingered there, heavy as silt. The ocean rising like a cathedral, waves taller than houses, rocking him in their violence while he felt inexplicably safe. The ship buried beneath the earth, heat pressing in from all sides, the air too thick to swallow. The woman’s voice shaking stone loose from the ceiling, calling his name like a promise or a sentence. Then the jungle again. Always the jungle. Rain needling into his skin, gunfire tearing the world into jagged pieces, the familiar certainty that the ground would either hold him or open and take him. Even awake, the weight of it pressed along the edges of his thoughts, an invisible hand at the back of his neck reminding him how easy it was to fall through the cracks between moments.

But they were [i]alive.[/i] The thought cut clean and bright through the murk. Violet, stubborn and passionate and still standing. Lux, electric, defiant, breathing. Himself, improbably still tethered to this side of things. It should have been enough. It [i]was[/i] enough, logically, mathematically, the way survival always tried to be enough. Violet was getting the last of her healing now; he’d seen her breathing easier, color creeping back into her face. Someone had told him he was free to explore camp if he wanted, to get some air, to see where he’d landed. The words had floated past him like leaves on water. Explore. Rest. Recover. All fine ideas. None of them stuck.

What stuck was the shape of Lux’s name in his mouth. The space she’d left behind when she walked out of the infirmary, sharp as a pulled tooth. His reflection frowned back at him, mouth tugging down, lines deepening around eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by this new kind of ache. It annoyed him, how immediate it was, how physical, how unearned. He didn’t like wanting things he couldn’t explain. He didn’t like the way his chest tightened when he thought of her turning away, of words he hadn’t said, of things he didn’t understand but already feared losing.

Beckett pushed away from the sink, palms leaving faint wet prints on the porcelain. The room tilted for half a heartbeat, then steadied. He rolled his shoulders again, testing the weight of his body, the honesty of gravity. Alive. All of them alive. That was the victory. Still, his feet carried him toward the door without asking permission from the rest of him. Out of the bathroom, back into the light and the low murmur of camp, following a quiet, insistent pull that had nothing to do with orders or strategy or sense, only the need to find her again, to see with his own eyes that she was still real, still breathing, still somewhere in this strange new world they’d survived into.

He’d barely had time to register the corridor beyond the infirmary, the smooth stretch of polished wood beneath his feet, the low golden light humming softly against white walls, the distant murmur of voices threading through open doorways, before something small and solid collided with him at full speed. The impact struck his shins with a dull [i]thump,[/i] more startling than painful, but sharp enough to rip him fully out of the fog he’d been drifting through since waking. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up, weight shifting back, breath hitching hard as instinct flared hot and ugly in his chest, mistaking the sudden contact for danger, for teeth, for claws, for another night of blood and rain and screaming. His heart stuttered once, violently, ribs tightening around it like a cage, and he dropped his gaze immediately, already bracing for something monstrous.

Instead, there was a child at his feet.

Small in a way that made Beckett’s chest ache outright, too small for this place, for its monsters and and blood-slick borders. All narrow limbs and sharp little knees, a mop of black curls exploding in every direction like he’d lost a fight with a thundercloud, bright hazel eyes blazing upward with ferocious indignation. A crooked pink bandage was stuck across one cheek like a badge of honor, and clutched in his fist was a lollipop still wrapped in crinkled plastic, the stick jutting out between his fingers like a fragile, ridiculous weapon. The sight of him broke something in Beckett’s head, not violently, but wrongfully, as if the world had misfiled its paperwork. Children did not belong in places like this. Not in halls that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and old blood. Not in camps ringed by monsters. Not anywhere near memories like his.

He blinked once. Then again. The image did not change. [color=5c83a7]“Uh—”[/color] The sound slipped out of him, useless and clumsy, his voice too rough for a hallway that held something so small and innocent. He bent slightly, slow and careful, every movement deliberate as if the boy might shatter if startled. [color=5c83a7]“Are you okay?”[/color] he asked, offering his hand without thinking, palm open and steady, scarred and rough and far too large beside the child’s thin wrist.

The boy scoffed.

It was an exaggerated sound, sharp and theatrical, clearly borrowed from someone older, someone who knew how to make contempt sting properly. He slapped Beckett’s hand away with surprising force and scrambled upright, wobbling only briefly before catching his balance, cheeks flushing with embarrassment that immediately disguised itself as fury. He jabbed a finger into Beckett’s leg like an accusation that deserved a witness. [color=d6d6d6]“Watch where you’re going!”[/color] he snapped, voice high and fierce, trembling just slightly at the edges like anger hadn’t fully decided whether it wanted to be fear instead.

Beckett’s brows climbed toward his hairline despite himself, startled amusement tugging at his mouth. Something warm and unfamiliar loosened in his chest, easing the tight coil there just enough to let him breathe. [color=5c83a7]“Sorry,”[/color] he said automatically, the word worn smooth by years of surviving people as much as war, his voice hoarse and scraped raw by nights that refused to stay buried. [color=5c83a7]“I’m still pretty tired. Didn’t see you there.”[/color]

The boy deflated a fraction.

Not much, but enough that Beckett noticed. His shoulders drooped, sharp edges softening, anger draining out of him like air from a balloon. He glanced away, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor, then back again, jaw tightening as if bracing himself for something unpleasant. [color=d6d6d6]“I’m not actually mad,”[/color] he muttered after a pause. [color=d6d6d6]“I just—”[/color] He wrinkled his nose. [color=d6d6d6]“My sister says when someone’s nice you’re supposed to say sorry. So… I guess… sorry.”[/color] The word came out reluctant, chewed thin like candy he hadn’t decided whether he hated or loved.

Something in Beckett eased. Not enough to undo the ache in his bones, not enough to quiet the ghost-weight of the jungle or the thunder of memory, but enough that his lungs didn’t feel so tight around every breath. He smiled, really smiled, crooked and tired and unguarded, something human slipping through the cracks of the soldier he usually wore like armor. [color=5c83a7]“Your sister sounds pretty smart.”[/color]

The boy brightened instantly, nodding hard so his curls bounced wildly, pride shining through him like sunlight through storm clouds. [color=d6d6d6]“Faye’s the best,”[/color] he declared. [color=d6d6d6]“She’s teaching me how to fight like her.”[/color] The words landed heavier than they should have. For a heartbeat Beckett saw rifles instead of lollipops. Boys with hands too small for triggers. Childhood traded for survival.

He buried it. Forced it down where it lived, behind his ribs, sealed behind bone and discipline. [color=5c83a7]“That’s… pretty cool,”[/color] he said instead, voice steady, gentle. And the boy beamed, utterly unaware of the quiet war he’d brushed against, like a pebble skipping across dark water, never knowing how deep it truly was.

Beckett hesitated only a moment before straightening fully, the boy still squaring up to him like a sparrow convinced it could intimidate a wolf. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, fingers catching briefly in damp hair that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain, then offered a small, careful smile. It felt strange, introducing himself to someone whose life was still measured in school days and scraped knees instead of body counts and borders crossed in blood. His voice came out low and uneven, worn thin by too many sleepless nights and too many almost-deaths. [color=5c83a7]"I’m Beckett,"[/color] he said quietly, as if loudness itself might bruise the hallway. [color=5c83a7]"Guess I should start with that."[/color] He gestured vaguely to the infirmary doors behind him, to the lingering smell of ambrosia and gauze and fear. [color=5c83a7]"I’m… new here."[/color]

The boy’s expression shifted instantly, smugness blooming across his face like a secret he’d been waiting to unveil. His chin lifted, shoulders squaring again with renewed purpose. [color=d6d6d6]"I know,"[/color] he announced brightly, as if Beckett had just confirmed something obvious instead of revealing anything meaningful at all.

Beckett blinked, surprised despite himself, one brow inching upward as curiosity pried gently at the edges of his exhaustion. [color=5c83a7]"You do?"[/color] he asked, tone soft with disbelief. [color=5c83a7]"How?"[/color]

The boy rocked back on his heels, pride practically vibrating through him. [color=d6d6d6]"I was spying,"[/color] he said, lowering his voice dramatically even though the hall was empty. [color=d6d6d6]"They brought you in last night. All three of you. You were bleeding [i]everywhere."[/i][/color] His hands fluttered outward in a messy approximation of chaos before settling again around the lollipop stick. [color=d6d6d6]"My sister Faye helped carry you. She’s really strong. She told me to stay in bed but I woke up anyway when everyone started yelling and running around."[/color]

Something warm loosened in Beckett’s chest at that, quiet and unfamiliar. He let out a soft breath that almost became a laugh, the sound rusty from disuse but real. The boy clearly loved his sister a lot. [color=5c83a7]"Figures,"[/color] he murmured. [color=5c83a7]"Sounds like everyone here is pretty nice."[/color] His gaze flicked to the pink bandage on the boy’s cheek, concern slipping back into place easily, instinctively. [color=5c83a7]"So what about you?"[/color] he asked gently. [color=5c83a7]"That looks like it hurt."[/color]

The boy scowled again, but this time it was thin and half-hearted, embarrassment creeping up his neck in red splotches. [color=d6d6d6]"My brother punched me,"[/color] he admitted, voice dropping. [color=d6d6d6]"But it’s okay. Faye yelled at him. Like, a lot."[/color] He demonstrated with wild hand gestures, clearly satisfied with the outcome.

Beckett huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. [color=5c83a7]"Sounds like justice,"[/color] he said, warmth threading through the words before he tilted his head slightly. [color=5c83a7]"You were in a hurry when you ran into me though. Where’re you headed?"[/color]

The boy’s bravado cracked instantly. He looked down at his shoes, shoulders curling inward, thumb rubbing nervously against the lollipop wrapper. [color=d6d6d6]"I was gonna give this to Harper,"[/color] he muttered. [color=d6d6d6]"Daphne gave it to me. Harper’s in the strawberry fields. I thought… anyways, maybe she’d think it was cool if I brought you."[/color] He glanced up suddenly, eyes bright again, hope flaring. [color=d6d6d6]"You look kinda scary. In a cool way, I bet she’d think I was super cool for even talking to you."[/color] He straightened, grinning up at him. [color=d6d6d6]"You wanna come with me? I can show you around too, I guess."[/color]

Beckett laughed then, really laughed, soft but genuine, the sound easing something tight behind his ribs. The idea of being anyone’s measure of “cool” felt absurd, but the earnestness in the boy’s face tugged at him all the same. He nodded once, slow and certain. [color=5c83a7]"Yeah,"[/color] he said. [color=5c83a7]"I’d like that."[/color] 

Beckett followed the boy out of the infirmary with the careful, stiff gait of someone whose body had not yet decided whether it belonged to him again. The door creaked shut behind them, cutting off the clean sting of antiseptic and the low murmur of healers, and for a moment he simply stood there on the wide front steps of the wrap around porch, blotted stillness pressed between heartbeats. He hadn’t been sure what to expect beyond those doors, more barricades, more fear, more weapons hidden in trembling hands, but the world that opened before him was nothing like the one he’d been bracing for.

Sunlight spilled freely across green hills and soft pathways, warm and generous, gilding everything it touched. Laughter drifted through the air like birdsong. Somewhere down the slope, a group of kids were clustered together, shoulders bumping as they walked, one of them nearly doubled over with laughter while another tried and failed to look stern. Farther along the path, two boys approached, one with his arm slung heavily over the other’s shoulders, limping with exaggerated misery while his friend lectured him in animated bursts, hands slicing the air as if scolding alone might knit bone back together. The sound of it all, voices, footsteps, careless joy, hit Beckett harder than any monster ever had.

It was peaceful. Obscenely so. Bright and careless and alive. After weeks of sleeping in mud and rain, after counting heartbeats between lightning strikes and measuring distance in blood and breath, the sight of it made something in his chest loosen in a way that almost hurt. This wasn’t a battlefield. This wasn’t a hiding place. It was a home, one built not out of stone walls and barbed wire, but out of ordinary, fragile moments strung together into something resilient. He stepped forward slowly, boots scuffing the pale gravel path, feeling the strap across his back rub unpleasantly against the fresh scars beneath his sweatshirt. He ignored it, as he ignored most pain, and let his gaze wander instead, over the slope where kids were gathered in loud knots of conversation, over the shimmer of water farther down the valley, over the low, colorful shapes of cabins scattered like storybook houses across the green.

They started walking, the boy a step ahead of him, small fingers occasionally brushing Beckett’s hand as if making sure he was still there. Beckett watched him for a few seconds, his bouncing curls, the determined set of his shoulders, before speaking, voice low and rough-edged with disuse. [color=5c83a7]"Hey,"[/color] he said gently, the word almost swallowed by the open air. [color=5c83a7]"I never caught your name."[/color]

The boy looked up at him as they walked, eyes bright as sunlight on glass. [color=d6d6d6]"Elliot,"[/color] he announced proudly, as if the name itself were a medal. And then, without pause or invitation, he launched into a ramble so earnest it bordered on breathless, about the cabins and the food and the pegasi and how sometimes the nymphs stole fries off your plate if you weren’t paying attention, and how the lake was cold but only at first, and how his sister said camp was the only place you could be weird and dangerous and normal all at the same time. Beckett listened, half-dazed, eyes lifting to the valley below as it opened wider before them. Kids splashed at the edge of the lake, shrieking with laughter. A group trained nearby, wooden weapons clacking together in steady rhythm. Others lounged outside their cabins, sun-warmed and careless, trading snacks and stories like tomorrow was guaranteed.

It struck him then, quietly, irrevocably, that this place wasn’t just shelter. It was proof. Proof that the world could be something other than running and killing and surviving. Proof that children could grow up without learning the sound of bones breaking before they learned how to whistle. His chest tightened with the strange, aching fullness of it, a feeling too big and too gentle to have a name.

Elliot tugged suddenly at his hand, small fingers insistent, nearly pulling him off balance. [color=d6d6d6]"There!"[/color] he said, pointing hard toward the stretch of land where neat rows of green rolled into the distance under the sun. [color=d6d6d6]"The strawberry fields. Harper’s there— c’mon!"[/color]

Beckett let himself be pulled along, his long stride adjusting to the boy’s shorter steps, their hands fitting together more naturally than he would have expected. He even found himself smiling, a small, crooked thing he didn’t quite recognize as his own. The scent of warm earth and crushed leaves rose around them as they descended the path, the air sweet and alive with summer. And then he saw her.

Lux stood at the edge of the strawberry fields, sunlight woven into her hair like fine thread. A small girl balanced on her toes in front of her, carefully setting a crooked crown of wildflowers atop Lux’s head, tongue peeking out in concentration. Lux laughed, soft and unguarded, something bright and real, and in that moment she looked untouched by storms or blood or lightning. Just a girl in a field, smiling like the world had never tried to take her apart. The sight of it hit him like a quiet blow to the chest, stealing breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Elliot waved wildly, tugging his hand again with renewed urgency. [color=d6d6d6]"Harper!"[/color] he called at the top of his lungs, already half-running, half-dragging Beckett with him. Beckett followed, heart thudding strangely hard against his ribs, eyes fixed on the blonde girl in the distance like she was the only solid thing in a world that had just begun, impossibly, to feel safe.
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[color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] elliot [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] lux, violet, faye, & daphne [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none[/color]
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