When you lose something you can't replace, when you love someone, but it goes to waste [W7, Tuesday]

[hydrokinetics]

[He lets Jason rest. He doesn't know if Jason's even asleep or in that familiar pocket Percy's found, the one that feels like dreaming but it could never be a dream. A dream would be a kinder reality. This is just a suspension of time.

He lets Jason rest, but whenever Jason emerges from his mountain of blankets and his sleepless rest, he'll find there's something on the bedside table. It's a plate of toast that looks like Percy held them in the fireplace, along with a glass of juice. The toast is cold by now and the juice is warm, no telling how long it's been there. Percy's been up for a while.

When Jason looks, though, he'll find that Percy's standing with his back toward him and a pen in-hand. There are papers tacked up all over the wall, and a pen in his hand as he draws. It's messy and not exactly artistic talent, but it's clear that it's a city skyline. There's a large building hundreds of stories high. There's the curl of the ocean. There's a large pine tree.

And there's Percy staring at it all. He turns his head to lean down and grab a bottle of juice by his feet, stopping when he sees that Jason's eyes are open. He tilts his head and offers a half-smile.]

Morning. Or afternoon. Not really sure which it is.

Comments

[impulsiveness]

[Jason is so tired.

He's done little more than sleep since Percy convinced him to return to his room, only leaving once or twice and only for brief periods of time. The plate of toast will go untouched for now, as Jason blearily stares at the changes in the room, though he'll definitely be taking a few, careful sips from the juice. They're all slow and measured, his face pinching with the effort it takes to swallow anything down nowadays.

Percy will get a brief nod, though he'll have to forgive him for not returning the smile. Good mornoon, Percy. What a fine day to be alive, huh? Maybe. Probably. There is so much more room to stretch with thirty two of their own dead, at least. Goodness. Gesturing at the papers, however, he furrows his brows at him.

The question is more or less clear. What is Percy doing?]