28, gimmie your hand
sequel to this photographer percy au
When Percy took pictures of Annabeth before they started dating, she could never tell if he was looking at her through the lens of artist or lover. Now, she’s beginning to think it’s the same thing. There’s a delicacy to his gaze, as though his smile is meant both for Annabeth and the light shining on her. His taking a picture so often looks like gratitude, like the fear of forgetting his luck in a moment so blissful. And he immortalizes her on film, takes his care to capture and develop her image. It is no small thing, being a muse.
She envies it, sometimes. Percy gets to show Annabeth and the world exactly how he sees her, while she is left with her words, which can only ever fall short. He captures time and frames her suspended in the golden glow of sunlight, he makes her laugh moments before the flash, and he does not believe in bad photos. He photographs her bedhead, her soft stomach, her bent posture, and her chewed fingernails. He photographs her genuine laugh, her pouted lips, her pensive expression, her golden curls. Annabeth has never liked the sharp upturn of her nose, but Percy photographs her profile with such care that she can’t help but soften to it.
They’re at the beach for what feels like the last warm day of September. The Atlantic ocean is too vast to be swayed by the local weather, so they stay on the sand until they need to cool off. Percy’s camera is buried in their beach bag as they soak up the day—not every moment needs to be captured. Sometimes happiness demands to be fleeting. Nostalgia wouldn’t be as powerful if Annabeth could remember exactly how many freckles the sun kissed into Percy’s cheeks today. The longing comes from the fear of forgetting.
Sunset brings a gentle chill and sends Annabeth into Percy’s side. He pulls her bare legs into his lap and rubs his hands up and down them. It only works for a few seconds, but she’ll take any excuse to keep his hands on her. (She thinks he will too.)
One of the best parts about being in a relationship, she thinks, is not needing an excuse. There is an agreement between them that says you can touch me. I am trusting you to handle me at my best and my worst. I think that’s love. Please touch me.
Annabeth shifts her weight and straddles her boyfriend in a way that’s a bit indecent for a public beach, but the closest people are specs on the horizon and Percy is leaning back on his palms, his face to the orange sky and throat exposed. His skin looks golden, dripping in sunlight like honey, and Annabeth watches his Adam’s apple bob as she tastes. Even his smile is sweet. Annabeth is not an artist, but sometimes loving him makes her rethink that.
“Baby,” he whispers, and Annabeth opens her eyes to him chewing his lip. “You know the last thing I ever want to do is stop making out with my beautiful girlfriend on the beach, but...” He juts his chin to the sun, then to her general face. “I‘ll kick myself if I don’t get this.”
Annabeth pretends to roll her eyes as he lays back on the beach blanket with his camera in hand, but the way he looks at her is too profound for her to do much else. She’s always loved the way he looks at the world, though it wasn’t until recently that she discovered she likes the way he looks at her more. All that wonder, all that love, plus a surety that is so rare on him. There is the boyish boldness that makes her want to strangle and kiss him, plus the sly cockiness that has her leaning toward the former, but that gleam in his eyes cannot compare to this glimmer. His fingers slide along her chin, angling her kindly from the harsh angle he captures her at.
She chuckles, gestures to his hand. “We wouldn’t get anywhere without this. Piper says I can’t pose for any camera you’re not behind.”
Percy pokes her in the side quickly, snapping a photo when she laughs. “That’s because Piper is a terrible photographer.”
“I’m sure she’d love to hear that.”
“I’m just saying, it’s more than landscapes and lighting. If you’re taking pictures of people, you should try to capture something real. Something human.”
“Her Instagram feed is very focused on humanity.”
She said it to rile him up—passionate Percy is one of her favorite versions of the boy she loves. She’s snuck more than a few photos of her own during a long-winded rant about camera lenses and color editing.
But this passion is quieter than what Annabeth is used to. Honest. Soft. Percy rests the camera on his chest and trails his fingers from Annabeth’s wrist to her elbow, his eyes following the slow migration.
“I don’t always know why you’re looking at me the way you do. I think that’s why I picked up a camera in the first place—my mom looked at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to her, and I was scared that one day she’d come to her senses. I wanted to remember that face before it disappeared.” He doesn’t look at her. Can’t, maybe. “It’s been over a decade, and that look is still there. I guess now I take pictures to try and understand it. Because I don’t— I want—“
Annabeth takes hold of his wrist. It’s then that he looks at her, propped up on an elbow. He breathes.
“You look at me like I’m a good thing.” And he’s opening his mouth like there are more words he wants to say, but they won’t come.
Annabeth kisses him, sweet and soft and a bit desperate. The lens of the camera presses into her chest, and she slides it out of Percy’s grip as she presses a kiss to his nose, his forehead.
“Lay down for me,” she says. And, at his hesitation. “C’mon, Jackson. It’s hardly the first time I’ve had you on your back.”
That earns a laugh, which earns the first picture. The camera may be out of Annabeth’s league, but she’s seen Percy use this thing enough to know that the big black button is all she really needs for what she’s trying to do.
She says, “I love you,” says, “You’re everything to me,” and, “You are so beautiful,” for the sake of his smile. She sits a little lower in his lap and photographs the way his eyes darken, and his hands, still itching for the camera, busy themselves with her thighs. The sun is disappearing quickly, but Percy is glowing with the last of the New York summer. His skin is still damp from the kiss of the Atlantic, and Annabeth thinks that he was born to look like this. Love and light, gentle and summer-warm by the seaside. Percy Jackson summed up in a time, a place, a feeling.
And Annabeth isn’t great with words, but he needs to hear them.
“The sun is gonna set,” she leans in, throwing her shadow over his face, and sets the camera down, “and it’s gonna rise, again and again and again, and I am never gonna stop looking at you like this. Even if you never take my picture again.” She plants her hand over his shoulder to lean down. “You’re gonna spend your entire life by my side waiting for it to go away, and one day you’re going to forget to worry. Just like you help me forget to worry.”
And then he smiles a bit sideways, a dimple pressing into his cheek. “You proposing to me, Chase?”
She rolls her eyes, but smiles back. “As if you won’t know when I propose.”
Percy’s hands skim up her back, where the last of the light stretches over the horizon of her skin. “Not if I beat you to it.”
He pulls her down for a long kiss. When Annabeth comes up, it’s nearly dark out.
“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to photograph your own wedding.”
“Yeah, well.” And he’s arching up for one last kiss before they have to leave, a comma on the page of this long day turned night. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”