A/N: Mentions of suicide and incest, which I don't support. (Revised: 10/17/2010)

streets of gold.

If this is all there is, then this is all there can be, 'cause I don't see no road that leads to you and me. ~3OH!3

There's something horribly wrong with him. Maybe it's a rare side effect of being born from Athena's godly head or something.

It's supposed to be immoral. Forbidden. Well, it's an understood forbidden rather than an actual rule.

But it really isn't so crazy, he tells himself, as he lies in the lower bunk bed and listens to the creaking wooden slats underneath her mattress in the top bunk.

You're supposed to love someone who's like you, right? Have things in common.

Maybe it's just a phase. You know, like discovering your sexuality or some shit like that. The only problem in that theory is that it doesn't feel like a phase. He's only fifteen, but he already feels like he loves her.

He's known her for a long time, longer than that Percy Jackson guy who's gone on more quests than anyone just because he's some bastard child of Poseidon.

And he's smart, sure. All children of Athena are. He knows that it would never work, that he has a next to nothing of a chance of Annabeth Chase loving him back.

He knows it, but he can't stop wishing.

She smiles at him, teases him for completely missing the target at archery—he might have done that one purpose, rolls her eyes when he spills his drink at dinner.

"No offense, Malcolm," she laughs, holding the edge of her knife to his throat in the sword-fighting arena. (She looks so much better in Greek armor than he does.) "But you're a lot better at the wisdom part than the battle one."

He's not sure if that was kind of a compliment or not one at all. So much for the fabled brilliantness of Athena's children. But it probably wasn't. She spends all her time with Percy Jackson, or avoiding him these days.

It's only a matter of time. Everyone knows that.

And then that day when Annabeth was late to archery practice, and he walked in on her with him, feeling an awful combination of embarrassment and irritation. It only makes him realize that he's never hugged her, least of all like that.

He wonders how she doesn't notice how much he looks at her, hoping (idiotically so, he'd later say) that she'll be sneaking a glance back at him. But she never is.

He's damned, that's what it feels like. He'll be spending his afterlife in the Fields of Punishment, while she reaches the Isles of the Blest with Jackson. It makes him want to puke, how nauseatingly perfect they are together.

He's guilty for being the slightest bit happy when they all thought Percy Jackson had died, and then he's guilty at himself for feeling guilty.

And then he's climbing the lava wall, dodging the magma and boulders, when suddenly a huge wall of lava is rushing down. He closes his eyes and thinks that maybe he was destined to die on this stupid climbing wall.

But all of a sudden there's these gigantic waves, drenching him and pushing the lava back, steam making his hair curlier than normal.

He coughs out water and blinks. "Are you okay, Mal?" Annabeth asks, "You're so lucky that Percy was here."

"Percy?" he asks, with a sinking feeling. He hates being grateful, especially to someone he doesn't particularly like.

Jackson shrugs, looking embarrassed. "Just something I did at Mount St. Helen's a while back."

He notices Annabeth's cheeks turn pink, and decides not to ask. Sometimes ignorance is better than knowledge.

But he waits, and watches, because he can't do anything else.

Annabeth takes a knife for Percy. Why would she do that, he wonders, if Percy is invincible? And then a worse thought: would she do that for me? He knows the answer is no. Not like that.

He would it do for her, though, without even thinking about it.

He watches as Percy turns down immortality, just to stay with Annabeth. It's so clichéd, so frustratingly selfless, and he hates him for it.

She will never love him like he loves her, he knows, because to her and him and everyone else, it's wrong. Scorn and upturned noses are all that waits on that path. Not to mention how disapproving Athena would be.

But he could care less about all that, if there was even a tiny sliver of a chance. Or even a hope of a chance. But there isn't, and it kills him.

Metaphorically. Suicide is for cowards, he tells himself, gripping a razor in his clammy, shaking fingers, and an orange bottle of pills in the other hand. But gods, he knows that he is a coward but tries to pretend he isn't. Does that count?

Although, if he is damned, then one more spineless act won't matter.

...right?

He writes an agonizing note to Annabeth, the pen trembling in his sweaty grip. Salty tears make the ink run, making the heartfelt words nearly indecipherable.

Navy blue letters on yellow paper with pink lines.

His reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar, almost. Serious expression, wide grey eyes, hair darker than normal in the dim lighting.

"Mal?" Annabeth asks through the bathroom door, "You've been in there for a long time. Do you want me to get some alka seltzer or something from Chiron? A glass of water?"

The ADHD pills—how ironic an overdose on that would be—clatter to the tile floor. His fingers are numb from holding the container so tightly.

"I'm, uh, fine," he mutters hoarsely, sweat running in warm rivulets down his face. He splashes freezing water on his face and opens the door. Annabeth looks concerned. Her blond hair, the same fucking color as his, is pulled up in a messy bun, a few curls escaping to frame her face.

"You look terrible," she admits, "Are you sure you're okay?"

He tries to nod, but his teeth are chattering audibly, so loudly she can probably hear it. She looks puzzled, but holds out her arms.

He steps automatically into them, surprised. Annabeth pats his back comfortingly. Half-sisterly. You're nothing more than her brother, he tells himself. Half-brother. Nothing more. Nothing.

The words don't sting quite as much as they used to in her arms. He closes his eyes and pretends. He bites his tongue to keep himself from blurting the words out.

Later, he flushes the stupid letter down the toilet, groaning as it clogs the drain. Just perfect.

He hates her and loves her at the same time. He hates that she's so goddamn oblivious, and yet he loves that she doesn't know, that when she looks at him there will be no disgust in her eyes that match his.

He kind of hates that he opened the door.

He kind of loves that she cared enough to want to know if he was puking his guts up in the bathroom. Even if it was far from the truth.

Sometimes he wishes that his wrists weren't untouched and unbroken, or that all those pills aren't sitting in his stomach, that his shroud was burned. That at least someone mourned for his death. But he decides a heroic end would be better. Probably.

Less cowardly, at least.

She's Percy Jackson's girlfriend now, and everyone knows that will last forever. His insides twist uncomfortably every time he sees them together.

It's meant to be, the Aphrodite cabin sighs dreamily. But what, he wonders, is meant to be for me?

And so he avoids her. It's easy, actually. He gets a job in the real world, even though the best he can do (with no proper schooling, along with ADHD and dyslexia) is at a fast-food restaurant.

He kind of likes it there, even though it's pretty much a waste of his intelligence.

He flips burgers and dunks French fries in oil and resists telling a pair of freshmen that McDonald's is far from a hot date.

One of the girls who work there has blond curls just like Annabeth. He feels only a little guilty as he asks her out, telling himself that he doesn't just like her because of the color, because of Annabeth. Liar.

He finds out, later, that her hair is dyed. Needless to say, that relationship doesn't work out so well.

There are others, too; smart girls, grey-eyed girls, blond-haired girls. The names—Bridget, Stephanie, Kate, and even more—blur into a scrambled mess of nothing in his brain. He doesn't honestly care about any of them. And none of them are anything close to what he wants.

They're just not Annabeth, and it's useless to try and pretend he's looking for anything otherwise.

It's almost bearable seeing her a few times every summer, talking about his boring job and whichever mindless girl he's going out with now.

He eats mint chocolate-chip ice cream—her favorite—in the shade and talks about plans for Capture the Flag. It's easier, now. More natural.

But of course, she and Jackson are still together. Nothing has changed, even though he wishes hopelessly for it every year.

He loses his virginity to a willing girl—blond hair and grey eyes—who dumps him the day after. He thinks it might be because when he cried out her name, he called her Annabeth.

(He curses Aphrodite.)

Finally, he saves up enough money for college, with a partial scholarship. NYU. He thinks about majoring in psychology. That, or architecture.

He's made a not-very-difficult decision to not date anyone in college. Not because of a distraction from his studies, but more because he knows now that no one in the world—except one person in particular—will ever measure up to his ideal girlfriend.

He is wrong this time, which is rare, but he doesn't know it.

Mackenzie Myers. She's pretty smart, but other than that, she's nothing like Annabeth. Hair—straight, by the way—the color of coffee with too much cream, and blue eyes instead of grey. They're in the same class, Human Behavioral Studies 101.

He hates her, at first. It's the hubris in him, wanting to be the best at everything. Arrogance, really, though he'd deny it.

His friends dare him—if he doesn't beat her score on the next paper, he has to ask her out, disregarding his—according to them—silly pledge. He agrees. After all, he is a child of the goddess of wisdom.

Mackenzie gets her score—ninety-seven. He gets his—ninety-six. After cursing his friends rather vehemently, he approaches her. Unenthusiastically so. He realizes, unhelpfully, that her dress is the same color as Annabeth's eyes. Which would also make it the same color as his own.

"Want to, uh, get some coffee later?" He notes the dull tone of his voice apathetically. It wasn't like she had to say yes.

She recognizes it, too, and her cheeks flush. "Is this a dare or something idiotic like that?"

"To be perfectly honest, yeah," he admits blithely.

She scowls and picks up her books. "No, thanks. I'm sure you're completely heartbroken." And with that, she stalks away. He smiles involuntarily, wishing strangely that she had said yes.

He can't stand sitting next to her in class, but only because he catches himself staring at her more times than he can count.

She doesn't seem to notice, which is the worst part of it all.

Annabeth laughs as he tells her the story that summer, and the sound isn't as perfect as he remembers it. He looks at her grey eyes and finds himself wishing they were the color of the sky.

No. He agonizes over it. The sense of losing whatever love he feels—or maybe it was felt now—is more painful than the actual love itself was. But he can't deny that he wants to know this mortal girl who most certainly does not want to know him. This girl who is virtually nothing like Annabeth.

Maybe it's just that he always wants what seems unattainable to him. He thinks that maybe he's addicted to unrequited love. It's too bad there's probably no rehab for such a thing.

He curses Aphrodite some more, which probably hurts his chance of his love life ever working out.

Weirdly enough, Percy Jackson nominates him as co-captain for Capture the Flag. He's dreading it, but he catches himself thinking that maybe Jackson isn't so awful of a guy after all.

His friends laugh at him when he confesses about Mackenzie the next year. But he doesn't have any classes with her this semester. (Unfortunately.)

He hardly thinks about Annabeth anymore. He wonders why he spent years pining after her only to fall out of an unrequited love in a matter of seconds. But he kind of wants to go back to loving her now that this new love seems impossible.

Hell, he tries. He calls her sometimes, trying to feel something, anything close to what he felt before.

But of course, he just can't.

The year passes in a blur of unfulfilled hopes and bittersweet wishes and silent dreams. He sometimes feels so incredibly older than everyone around him, seeing everything through ancient eyes.

He returns to camp, only because he has nowhere else to go rather than actual desire to be there.

"I can't believe I haven't seen you in forever, Malcolm." Annabeth hugs him cheerfully when he sees her again for the first time in months. He stares at her and wonders why he ever loved her, wonders how she never knew.

And then he realizes. He's nineteen—nearly twenty—now, and the entire world (with all six billion people in it, half female) is open at his feet.

This is the way it goes, at least for him. He'll forget about Mackenzie Myers and her pretty cerulean eyes. Eventually. Sure, it'll be painful. Heartbreaking. He thinks he might almost like the feeling, in an odd sort of way. She won't be completely forgotten, only eclipsed by another girl.

Maybe he will tell that girl about his buried love of Annabeth. Maybe he'll tell her about the suicide he almost committed. Maybe he'll marry her. Make love to her. Not necessarily in that order.

Or maybe he'll just get a dog. He grins wryly.

There was a time when he was sure that she would walk those streets of gold and he wouldn't. But now, he's pretty sure he has a chance of that, too.

He kisses Annabeth's cheek.