reflection ● jason grace

How to hate your best friend

If Jason could, he would write 100 poems about the way Daria looked under the moonlight.

He knew it was shallow, to be tracing the outline of her dress with his eyes, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

Daria caught him, which wasn't a very hard task. "Staring?"

Thankfully, Reyna was talking to Michael, or Jason figured the night would begin with him receiving a couple of bruises from the daughter of Bellona. Unfortunately for Daria though, she wasn't the only one who got trained by Daniel.

"Why would I be staring at you?" He returned, meaner than he had meant to. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked into the Coliseum, not waiting to hear her response.

Jason had heard it from Daniel; he'd heard it from Mitch. Hell, even Ryan had appeared in his dreams to give him a list of reasons why he couldn't be anything more than friends with Daria. It was stupid, but pushing her away was so much easier than being around her.

He thought about a couple of days ago, when they went sparring. It was awkward and quiet – any taunting that would usually happen was brisk and half-hearted.

War does not look favorably on distractions, Ryan had said. You can't let Daria distract you, and you can't distract her.

He desperately needed a reason to hate her. He needed her flaws to be the only thing he could see, like her acne or the fact that her nose was too big for her face. Jason grabbed a cup of punch, wishing he could drown himself in it, he needed to hate her, or this wouldn't work.

He saw her bend down to talk to a child from New Rome, Octavian's brother Benny. It seemed like Leila's rule of 'only teenagers' hadn't held up well. Daria's face was kind and warm. Reyna stood by her side, watching adoringly. Jason turned away from the scene.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

"Jesus Christ," Jason muttered, slightly jumpy. He looked over Michael, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. "Sometimes, I wish we weren't."

"What are you hiding from us?" Michael asked suspiciously. The son of Venus was just as smart as Daria, but he had less subtlety with his questions. "You've been quiet for three months. When are you going to drop the act?"

"It's not an act," Jason hissed back, all too aware that they were at a party. There was just something about Michael that got on his nerves – it was the way he wished he felt about Daria. "I-"

"You got some people killed," Michael interrupted. Any sarcasm that had been on his face was gone. He was deathly serious. "And now you're what? A sage?"

"We had this conversation already," Jason said wearily. "We're at a formal."

Michael grinned. "If you wanted to dance, you should've just said so."

"You're infuriating."

"I try."

Jason sighed. The music was getting to be too loud, the lights too bright. He knew his friends were getting tired of hearing it, but he needed to be alone for a bit. "I'm going to step outside. If someone asks..."

"I'll think of something," Michael agreed, his black hair shone under the disco globe. With a nod, Jason headed for the door.

No one tried to stop him. Jason might be the child of the prophecy, but no one wanted to actually be his friend. Even after everything, he was still the pretentious kid from the disgraced Fifth Cohort who had gotten 10 people killed in what should have been an easy battle.

The air outside was crisp in the same way fall leaves were. Jason took a deep inhale, lamenting would do him no good. And if Michael Kahale was right about one thing – it was that he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself.