Back at the Start (02)

I press my lips together, keeping my real thoughts inside as I nod at Emmy. "Mmm. Mhmm. Yeah. It's...really something. I'll get it back to you tomorrow." I start heading back toward the school. I need to grab my things and go meet up with Kastor and try to forget about what I'm wearing. "Thanks, Emmy."

As you head back to the library, the final bell rings, releasing a tidal wave of students into the halls, their chatter and laughter ricocheting off the walls as backpacks swing and sneakers scuff. You weave through the crowd, feeling the slight jostle of bodies but keeping your focus ahead. Emmy gives you a small, apologetic wave from the opposite direction, her flushed cheeks still catching the last remnants of the chase. You wave back briefly but keep moving.

The library is a quick pit stop - just enough time to grab what you need. You tuck your books under one arm, sling your bag over your shoulder, and head for the parking lot, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Sliding into your car feels like slipping into a private world, a bubble where the noise of the day can’t reach you. The engine hums to life beneath your hands, and you pull out onto the main road, leaving the chaos of school behind. The warm glow of the sun pours through your windshield, bathing everything in amber light. The windows are down, the air carrying the faint scent of cut grass and spring blossoms, with a hint of asphalt warmed by the day’s heat.

The drive to the park is familiar, each turn a memory etched into your muscle memory. The radio hums softly, but your mind is elsewhere. On him. On Kastor.

The park comes into view just as the sun begins to dip, casting long golden rays that filter through the trees, dappling the pavement in shifting patterns. You pull into a gravelly spot beneath a cluster of tall oaks, their thick trunks standing sentinel over the lot. The park is calm, its usual crowd thinned out. A mother pushes a stroller along the paved path, a distant jogger keeps pace with their shadow, and a pair of kids toss a frisbee lazily back and forth near the open field. The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling fills the air, a natural symphony accompanying the scene.

You step out of the car and spot the bench by the small pond. And there he is, sitting with his back to you, a figure carved in warm light and shadow, his posture loose. Even from here, you can tell he knows you’ve arrived. You take a deep breath and start toward him, each step pulling you deeper into the moment you’ve been anticipating all afternoon.

Kastor doesn’t look up right away as your footsteps crunch softly on the gravel path. His head tilts slightly, acknowledging your presence without breaking the rhythm of his pencil, which glides across the page of his art journal. The faint scratch of graphite is almost hypnotic, blending with the gentle rustle of leaves overhead.

Then, he stops.

His hand freezes mid-stroke, and he glances over his shoulder, his dark eyes catching the light like liquid amber. A slow smile spreads across his face, lopsided and easy, like he’s been expecting you all along. "Hey, Jewels," he says, his voice low and warm, like the hum of the summer evening. He sets the journal down on the bench beside him, closing it with deliberate care. His pencil rolls to a stop against the edge of the wooden slats. Kastor leans back, stretching his arms across the backrest of the bench, his posture open and unguarded. He pats the empty spot on the bench next to him.

What do you do?

There's something so zen about the way Kastor exists, like him just sitting here on a bench doing art is also like a meditative kind of prayer. A hot prayer.

When he silently welcomes me, a soft smile spreads across my face and I move around the bench to sit close to him, close enough to feel his warmth but not so close that it could be called snuggling. I set my backpack on the ground at my feet.

"Don't judge the sweatshirt," I tell him. "It wasn't my choice."

Kastor watches you settle in, his eyes lingering just long enough for it to feel like a quiet compliment. When you mention the sweatshirt, his gaze drops briefly to take it in, and his brows crinkle with amusement, like it’s an inside joke you just handed him. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he says, his voice steady but light, the hint of a chuckle beneath his words. "It’s not exactly your usual... vibe." He gestures loosely at the sweatshirt, then lets his hand drop back to rest on his knee. "Space cat."

He leans forward slightly, bracing his elbows on his thighs, and turns his head to look at you. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he does it like he’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re saying - or not saying. "Wanna talk about the cafeteria... thing?" he asks, his tone casual but probing, as though he already knows the answer and is just waiting to see if you’ll tell him about it.

His fingers tap lightly against his knee, a barely perceptible rhythm, like he’s working through his thoughts. He’s close enough now that you can catch the faint scent of charcoal and mint clinging to him, familiar and grounding. He doesn’t pull away, but there’s still a cautious edge to his demeanor like he’s waiting for the moment the warmth between you might turn into something more complicated.

I can’t help but chuckle softly when Kastor names my sweatshirt aloud. I comb a hand back through my hair, shaking my head at the ridiculousness. But then he asks about lunch and I lower my hand, my gaze fixed out on the view in front of us even while I can feel his eyes on me. I sigh, taking a moment before I answer, "Melony Printsy and the band of football jocks she somehow picked up happened." I look over at him then, wondering if he has an opinion on the whole thing. He certainly has more battle experience than me. "I WAS trying to walk away from it before everything got out of hand."

Kastor leans back slightly, his hand drifting to the art journal on his lap. "Melony Printsy and the jocks," he repeats, like he’s tasting the words. His fingers brush the edge of the journal, flipping it open to a blank page. He doesn’t ask for permission - he never does - but there’s something almost reverent in the way he studies you, his gaze moving from your face to the way your sweatshirt hangs on your shoulders, then back again. "Turn a little," he says softly, gesturing with his pencil. "Toward the light."

As you adjust, he starts sketching, his strokes deliberate and precise. "Walking away’s noble," he continues, his tone thoughtful, "but it’s not always the winning move. Sometimes, you’ve got to hold your ground, remind people who they’re dealing with." His pencil scratches against the paper, quick and confident. "Not that you need me to tell you that. I’ve seen you in action. You don’t walk away unless you’re planning to circle back."

There’s a pause, just long enough for him to glance up at you again, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. "What did they want from you, anyway? A fight? A show? Or was it just a chance to knock you off your pedestal for five minutes?" He tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering his own question as much as asking it.

I follow Kastor's instruction, turning toward the light. I can just see him in my periphery and the way he studies me before his pencil meets the paper makes warm shivers dance across my skin.

He talks about holding my ground and I can't help but wonder how much of that is coming from him wanting to protect me, from his warrior mindset clinging on, or from the idea he might have that it's what I'd do anyway, eventually. When he asks what they wanted, I'm not sure how to answer. I feel the question play across my face as I try to answer it myself, but then his last words land. I arch an eyebrow, turning from the light to look at him more directly.

"Oh, I'm on a pedestal now?"

Kastor’s pencil pauses mid-stroke, and he glances up at you, one eyebrow quirking in that maddeningly subtle way he has. "Oh, come on, Jules," he says, his voice low. "You know you are. Even when you’re not trying to be, people can’t help but look up at you - or look at you, period."

His pencil resumes its work, sketching quickly, capturing the way the light catches on your hair. "It’s not just about the way you carry yourself, though that’s part of it. It’s... more. Like you’ve got gravity. People orbit you." He smirks faintly and leans back to study his sketch for a moment, tilting his head. "Of course, there’s a downside to all that. Pedestals are easy targets, and not everyone’s thrilled to see you up there. Some people will try to knock you off just to prove they can."

When he goes back at sketching and pulls his magnetic gaze from me, I turn to the light again, looking away but very aware that Kastor must have been looking at me on my pedestal too. It's...flattering, and makes me wonder what he's seen.

I huff a whisper of a laugh when he talks about people wanting to knock me off just to prove they can. "Oh believe me, I know. I had enough to deal with between Victoria and Melony, but now the whole football team hates me too. And that's just the mortals." I watch him from the corner of my eye. "Do you get back to Olympus ever?"

Kastor's pencil falters for a moment, the faintest pause before he continues his fluid, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t look up when he replies, his voice calm, but there’s an undercurrent of something heavier beneath it. "I don’t really see the point in going back," he says. "Olympus is... stagnant. Everyone locked in their roles, playing their games, pretending time doesn’t exist. Down here? Things move. Change. Mortals live. They struggle, they fail, they grow. It’s messy, sure, but it’s real." He tilts his head slightly, adding a few last details to the sketch, the pencil scratching softly against the paper. "Besides, if I went back, I’d just be another player in the same old story. I'm nothing to them, you know? Down here, I get to write something different. Or at least try to."

Finally, Kastor leans back, holding up the sketch to inspect it critically before turning it toward you. "What do you think?" he asks, though there’s an edge of vulnerability in his tone that he tries to mask with casualness.

The sketch feels like a punch to the chest, not because it’s beautiful - though it is - but because of what it reveals. It’s you, as you know yourself but rarely let others see. The sharp lines of your profile reflect the undeniable power you carry, the divine spark that makes you more than mortal. The tilt of your head and the intensity in your eyes radiate determination, a challenge to anyone daring enough to meet your gaze.

But there’s more. In the delicate shading and subtle curves, Kastor has caught something deeper - your connection to both worlds. The burden of being a bridge between gods and mortals, the constant balancing act between power and humanity. There’s a wildness in the strokes, but also a softness, as if he’s captured the parts of you that are still searching, still uncertain.

Looking at it, you realize this is how Kastor sees you: a force to be reckoned with, equal parts danger and allure, divine and grounded, someone who stands apart even when surrounded. And in the care he’s taken with every detail, there’s something else - a quiet reverence, perhaps even admiration, that he wouldn’t dare say aloud but has etched into every line.

"Well, I can think of one person who made Olympus change - at least a little," I say when Kastor lists the reasons he hasn't been back. It's not that I blame him for wanting to avoid so much of what he used to be there, but I have to stand up for my mantle. It's almost...innate, somehow. Like I can't NOT do it.

When he turns his sketch to me, I study it quietly, my eyes tracing the lines he's just made, reading the messages between them as clearly as if he'd written me a love letter. Only this is so much more beautiful than any words could be, and it's not just flowers and candy either. There's sadness there, the pull between worlds, uncertainty, danger. My expressions play across my face like the sun dancing through the leaves to reach the ground and finally my gaze shifts from the drawing to the artist.

"You really see things, Kastor. Real things." I pause, then add, "Thank you. I'm...glad we're talking again."

Kastor tilts his head, studying you with those sharp, thoughtful eyes that always seem to catch more than you’d like. He leans back, resting the sketchbook against his knee, his pencil balanced between his fingers. "It’s not hard to see the real things when they’re right in front of you."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment before dropping back to the sketchbook. "You’ve done what gods have feared to do for millennia. You’ve shaken Olympus to its core. They’d never admit it, but you’ve forced them to evolve in ways they never would have without you." A frown plays at the corner of his beautiful mouth before he says bitterly, "Even my mother knows you've changed the game. She just.. hasn't changed hers. Still wants me to be her little warrior. Her hunter. Her errand boy." He sighs, an edge of frustration flickering across his expression.

He taps the edge of the sketchbook absently, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. "As for us talking again..." He hesitates, the vulnerability beneath his usual reserve peeking through. "I missed this. Missed you. Even when you frustrate the hell out of me, Jules, I’d rather have this - whatever this is - than nothing at all."

Then, with a teasing flick of his pencil in your direction, he smirks. "Next time you wear something I have to mentally erase to get this kind of detail, I’m charging you double. Artists have standards, you know." He did sketch you topless, you realize.

It's hard to deny how Kastor still makes my heart skip a beat or twelve when he looks at me like that, talks about me like that, and - my eyes skip down to the drawing again, noting the bare shoulders this time - draws me like that.

The seriousness of things turns warmer with a little smirk playing across my face. "Maybe I wanted you to draw me like one of your French girls." A sparkle of playfulness sneaks into my eyes as I grin at him. "Certainly seems like you have lots of practice. Is this what you've been doing on all those long, lonely nights between baseball practice and games?"

Kastor snorts softly, shaking his head as a crooked smile spreads across his face. "Oh, absolutely," he says, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. "Hours upon hours of practice, sketching countless muses just waiting for their turn to be immortalized by my pencil. It’s practically a full-time job."

He leans in slightly, resting his elbow on the bench’s backrest, his gaze catching yours with a spark of playful challenge. "But you know, Jewels, none of them quite compare. I mean, it’s not every day you get a demigoddess who shakes up Olympus and looks good doing it."

I laugh at his playful seriousness, his closeness, and the butterflies dancing in my belly. I catch myself looking at his lips and my laughter fades. I lick my own lips, swallow, and bring my gaze back to his eyes, so close and so gorgeous.

"It's not every day you meet a demigod who drives you absolutely crazy in the best and worst ways either." I start to reach for his hand, then stop myself and put my hands on my lap instead. "Kastor, what...do you want from this? From...us? From..." I huff a laugh and gesture out at the park around us, "from the world?"

Kastor glances at your almost-outstretched hand, his pencil pausing midair for a brief moment before he starts moving it again in smooth, deliberate strokes. His gaze doesn’t lift from the page right away as if he’s carefully considering your question - or maybe just stalling for time. "What do I want?" he echoes, his voice quiet. His pencil scratches faintly against the paper, a soothing rhythm that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw.

"I want…a world where we don’t have to keep cleaning up messes we didn’t make just because they won’t." He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and the frustration simmering beneath his words flickers in the stormy blue of his gaze. "I’m tired of fixing their chaos, Jules. What’s the point of being a demigod if we’re always stuck holding the pieces together, while they just keep tearing everything apart?"

He leans back slightly, resting his pencil on the edge of the sketchpad. "Maybe that’s what I want from the world - a clean slate. Something real, without all the history and grudges pulling it down. And if that’s impossible…" He gives a faint, self-deprecating smirk. "I guess I’ll settle for making my own little corner of it better."

He exhales a long breath and starts sketching again so he doesn't have you meet your eyes. "But you, Jewels," he says softly, "what do you want? From me, from all of this? You’ve changed so much already. What’s next for you?"

I listen to Kastor's desires - or maybe anti-desires - and one phrase he said sticks in my mind on repeat: What's the point of being a demigod?

I've spent so much of my time doing exactly what he's talking about hating. Cleaning up messes, fixing mistakes, stopping things from getting out of hand. But are all those things the point? It can't be, right? I deserve something more, we all deserve something more.

He goes on to talk about a clean slate, without the history, or corners of the world and my thoughts turn from abstract to something more concrete.

I realize in my thinking, my gaze has fallen to the grass at our feet. Suddenly it snaps back up to him and the question leaps from my mouth before I think about it. "Do you want to go to Protigi with me?"

Kastor blinks, clearly caught off guard, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. His gaze snaps to yours, curiosity lighting up his face, but he doesn’t immediately reply. Instead, he leans back, folding his arms across his chest as if mulling over the sudden invitation. "Protigi, huh?" he finally says, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Eos never shuts up about that place. She says it’s like stepping into a myth, except everything’s real - like, real real. And Crissy…well, she makes it sound like some kind of divine vacation spot, which, coming from her, is saying something."

He tilts his head, studying you with a mix of interest and playfulness. "You’re serious? Just…drop everything and go?" There’s no hesitation in his voice, just a thread of excitement he’s trying (and failing) to disguise.

His interest amuses me, and him sharing what the others have said so far feels like scanning the Google reviews before heading somewhere on vacation.

"Well, the way I see it, we can sit here in the park and do some art and have a completely mortal evening together talking about wishing the world were different, or we could actually go to a different world and see how different it is." I shrug and put on an indifferent tone. "But if you don't want to go, I won't force you."