Percy, Percy, Percy. It’s all you ever heard around Camp Half-Blood.

All it ever was, was about him.

Perseus Jackson; son of Poseidon, hero of Olympus.

You despised him.

His black hair, his sea-green eyes, his voice, his smile. All of it drove you to borderline insanity.

You despised your rotten mind for how much it worshipped him, how much you wished you could be like him. Much less better.

He was charming, sociable, handsome. Everyone loved him.

All he ever did was anger you.

What better way to take your anger out than on the person who caused it?

Next thing you know, you’re sparring with Percy.

You didn’t know what you were doing it for besides being, well, controlled by rage.

You didn’t know if you were doing it for your own benefit, to impress other people, or, Gods forbid, you were doing it to prove yourself to him.

You put your all into it, fighting against the other demi-god as if he was your sworn enemy. It only angered you more when you saw him fighting back with nothing but ease.

Stupid Percy, stupid sea, stupid earthquakes, stupid horses. Stupid Riptide, stupid everything his father was the God of. Percy had won.

You were on your knees, chest heaving, covered in cuts and sweat. Feeling nothing short of disappointment, embarrassment. Even more rage than you could imagine.

And this idiotic boy, Gods, he had the audacity, the gall to sheath his sword before you. Hold a hand out so he could help you up. (An uncomfortable feeling settled in your stomach because of how you almost immediately accepted it.)

“You were good,” he said breathily before raising a brow,

“No hard feelings?”