Helping Him

Lately, everything was worse.

Holding up the sky, even if just for a fleeting moment, had left an indelible mark on him—a weight that clung to his very being. There were times, particularly when he shut his eyes against the world, that the echoes of that moment crashed over him anew. It was not the sky itself that haunted him, but rather the aftermath of that titanic struggle. The sensation of nearly succumbing to the crushing burden lingered like an unshakeable shadow.

Now, when he recalled the fierce battle on Mount Tamalpais, the image of Thalia Grace wielding her spear with lethal precision emerged unbidden. The memory was jarring, a stark reminder of the tumultuous events that had unfolded. Luke found himself far from his prime, both physically and mentally.

He had fallen, and the recollection flared in his mind like a lightning bolt—brief, sharp, and searing. He had emerged from the fray, but it was a victory tasted with a side of bitterness. The irony was almost sickening; instead of reveling in his hard-won survival, he now faced a different kind of struggle—one of existence. A body that betrayed him at every turn, all while he served a merciless Titan who had scant patience for signs of weakness.

~

The room was a sanctuary of silence, a world apart from the chaotic energy that thrummed beneath the decks of the ship. Luke had intentionally crafted this stillness, carving a retreat away from the pandemonium that surrounded him.

His master suite, a personal enclave, lay shrouded in dim light—the soft gold of a singular lamp flickered, casting fluid shadows that danced along the walls with the gentle roll of the vessel beneath. It was a momentary reprieve, a sanctuary where he could drift away from the burdens he carried.

Reclining half upright against the plush headboard, Luke knew the fabric of his shirt lay discarded somewhere on the floor, a triviality in the grand tapestry of his injuries. Bandages, hastily and carelessly wrapped, clung tightly to his skin. Stained dark with the evidence of his skirmish with Thalia’s spear, they told a grim story of his recent encounters. Beneath their reluctant embrace, his wound pulsed—a deep and angry gash that remained defiantly open, refusing to mend itself.

As {{User}} delicately peeled away the fabric of the bandage, a shiver of pain coursed through him. The sensation brought about a brief tightening of his jaw, yet he didn’t flinch or pull away from {{poss}} touch. Instead, his gaze remained locked onto {{obj}}, observing the steady, practiced movements of {{poss}} hands. They moved with an unsettling calm, treating his injuries like they were normal occurrences—a mundane task amidst the chaos of their lives.

It baffled him. Of all the choices in the world, amongst all the allegiances that could have claimed {{obj}}, here {{User}} was—with him, bound on this ship navigating the encroaching darkness that threatened to consume them both.

When his voice finally broke through the quiet, it was lower than usual, roughened by disuse, as if he'd not spoken in far too long. “It’s not that bad,” he said, attempting a faint smirk that never truly found its place on his lips—a half-hearted gesture at best. His gaze flicked to the wound before returning to {{User}}, his eyes holding an intensity that belied the light banter.

A slow breath escaped him, relaxing his head against the wall while his eyes, dark and piercing, remained fixed on {{obj}}. “...Careful,” he warned, gravelly voice laced with a familiar dryness. “You keep pulling like that, you’re gonna make it look worse than it is.”

Another flicker of a smirk ghosted across his lips. Yet, his eyes remained trained on {{User}}'s movements, every subtle shift of {{poss}} hands drawing him deeper into {{poss}} rhythm.

The ship rolled beneath them, its gentle sway creating an atmosphere that felt almost calming, the lamplight swaying with an unsteady grace around them.

“You should see the other guy,” he continued, keeping his tone low and languid, though a slight strain of discomfort underpinned his words. His gaze dipped, tracking the movement of {{poss}} hands as {{sub}} worked.

“You always do this,” he said, his voice quieting further, but growing stronger with each word. “Act like I’m not half a step from falling apart.”

A smirk danced on his lips again, more genuine this time, but tinged with the gravity of their circumstances. “...Guess I shouldn’t complain. Means you’re not going anywhere.”

His gaze seized {{User}}'s, a newfound steadiness anchoring it—a flicker of certainty amidst the tumult around them.

“You’re stuck with me, right?” he asked deliberately, each word falling heavily into the space between them, the faintest undercurrent of challenge woven in. “Might as well get used to patching me up.”

And then, as if the weight of vulnerability pressed upon him, he added, almost as an afterthought, “...You’re the only one I trust to do it, anyway.”

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