CLARISSE LA RUE

The first sign is never the shouting.

It’s quieter than that—subtle, almost laughable in how easily it could be ignored. A glance that lingers too long in the wrong direction. A missed smirk. A conversation that should have been effortless, suddenly edged with something brittle. Something waiting.

You feel it before anyone else does.

Before the Ares cabin grows tense. Before the Hermes kids start whispering. Before even Percy Jackson starts keeping a careful distance like he’s learned the hard way.

It starts with silence.

Clarisse doesn’t look at you during training.

That, more than anything, is wrong.

Because when things are right—when you and Clarisse are on—the world bends a little differently around the two of you. There’s a rhythm to it. You move through camp like a storm that somehow never quite breaks, charged but controlled, electric but steady. She fights harder when you’re watching, but she also fights smarter. Less reckless. Less desperate to prove something.

And you—well, you don’t feel like you have to prove anything at all.

When it’s good, it’s effortless.

You sit beside her at the campfire, your shoulder brushing hers, and she lets it happen without a single sarcastic comment. The smell of smoke clings to both of you, tangled with something warmer, something familiar. She passes you a cigarette without asking, her fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary. You don’t comment on it. Neither does she.

You never need to.

When it’s good, she laughs more. Not loud, not showy—Clarisse isn’t built for that—but real. Low, rough-edged laughter that catches you off guard every time, because it’s rare and unguarded and yours.

You calm her without trying.

And she anchors you without asking.

But now—

Now she doesn’t look at you.

You notice it during sparring first. You step into the ring, expecting that familiar spark—that challenge in her eyes, that unspoken dare. Instead, she sizes you up like you’re just another opponent. Nothing more. Nothing special.

It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

The clash of weapons is sharper than usual. Louder. Your movements are faster, more aggressive—not because you need to win, but because you need her to notice. To react. To give you something.

She doesn’t.

Clarisse fights like you’re anyone else.

No hesitation. No restraint. No flicker of recognition when your blade grazes her shoulder.

When you finally land a hit that should earn at least a smirk, she just resets her stance, eyes cold, voice flat.

“Again.”

That’s when you know.

You’re off.

The shift is immediate.

It always is.

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, the distance between you has already turned into something jagged and dangerous. You don’t sit by her at the campfire. She doesn’t look for you. Conversations fracture into smaller, quieter groups, like the entire camp instinctively understands what’s coming.

Clarisse doesn’t laugh that night.

She trains.

Harder than anyone else. Harder than necessary.

You watch from a distance you pretend is accidental. Her strikes are brutal, unrelenting, driven by something sharper than anger. There’s no control now. No balance. Just force.

She doesn’t stop when she should.

Doesn’t slow down when the others step back.

Doesn’t listen when someone tells her to take a break.

She only stops when someone physically gets in her way—and even then, it almost turns into a fight.

It usually does.

By the next morning, the whispers have started.

You hear them before you see them—low voices, quick glances, the kind of cautious curiosity that spreads like wildfire through camp.

“Are they—?”

“I think so.”

“Gods, not again.”

Someone mutters something about the “La Rue Rule,” and you almost laugh.

Almost.

Because it’s ridiculous. Dramatic. Exaggerated.

And completely true.

Percy Jackson coined it after the last time—after he’d tried to step between you and Clarisse during an argument that had nothing to do with him and ended up with a broken nose for his trouble.

The rule is simple: if people think you and Clarisse are fighting, get out of the way.

Immediately.

No exceptions.

It spreads fast, that kind of survival instinct. By midday, people are giving both of you a wide berth. Conversations cut off when you approach. The usual chaos of camp feels... contained. Controlled.

Like everyone’s bracing for impact.

Clarisse spends the day in the arena.

You don’t.

Not at first.

You go somewhere louder. Messier. Easier to disappear in.

The Dionysus cabin is already in full swing by the time you get there—music too loud, laughter too sharp, the air thick with something reckless and careless. It’s easy to slip into it. Easier than it should be.

You let yourself be seen.

That’s the point.

You laugh louder than usual, the sound ringing just a little too bright, just a little too forced. You let people get close—closer than they should. You don’t stop them when they lean in, when they touch, when they leave marks that will be impossible to ignore later.

It’s not about them.

It’s never about them.

It’s about her.

Everything is.

You catch glimpses of yourself in reflective surfaces—smudged makeup, too much jewelry, clothes that barely count as practical. You don’t look like yourself.

You don’t feel like yourself.

But it gets attention.

And attention is the only thing that matters right now.

By the time you leave, it’s late.

Too late.

The camp is quieter now, the kind of quiet that settles after something loud and chaotic burns itself out. You walk back alone, the night air cool against your skin, your thoughts louder than anything you left behind.

You don’t expect to see her.

You should have.

Clarisse is exactly where you knew she’d be.

The arena.

Of course.

She’s still training.

Of course she is.

Even in the dim light, you can see the damage—bruises blooming across her arms, a cut along her cheek, the way her movements have started to lose precision. She’s exhausted. Pushing past it.

Punishing herself.

Or maybe just trying not to think.

You step closer without announcing yourself.

She notices anyway.

She always does.

Her grip tightens on her weapon, shoulders going rigid for half a second before she turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable at first—blank, almost—but then her eyes flick over you, taking in every detail.

The smudged makeup.

The marks on your skin.

The way you’re dressed.

Something in her expression shifts.

Not soft.

Never soft.

But sharper. Colder. Controlled in a way that’s somehow more dangerous than outright anger.

“Busy night?” she asks, voice flat.

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it matters.

“Something like that.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

This is the part where it usually explodes.

Where voices rise, tempers snap, something gets thrown or broken or shattered beyond repair.

You can feel it building.

You can see it in the tension in her stance, the way her jaw tightens, the way her hands flex like she’s trying to hold something back.

And you—

You could push it.

It would be easy.

Say the wrong thing. Take one step too close. Pretend you don’t care.

But instead, you just stand there.

Waiting.

Because beneath all of it—the anger, the distance, the chaos—you know one thing.

Clarisse doesn’t do indifference.

Not really.

Not with you.

Her gaze lingers, heavy and searching, like she’s trying to figure something out. Or maybe trying not to.

“You look ridiculous,” she says finally.

It’s not kind.

It’s not supposed to be.

But it’s something.

You huff out a quiet laugh, crossing your arms. “Good. That was the goal.”

Another pause.

Another moment where everything could go wrong.

Then—

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair, frustration written into every line of her posture.

“This is stupid.”

It is.

It always is.

But that’s never stopped either of you before.

You take a step closer.

So does she.

And just like that, the distance between you doesn’t feel quite as impossible as it did before.