ᴾʰᵒᵇᵒᵖʰᵒᵇⁱᵃ [ᴶᵃˢᵒⁿ ᴳʳᵃᶜᵉ]

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THERE were very few things Aza hated more than museums. The only things she considered worse were Ronald Reagan (someone get that man an economics class! Not that she had taken any) water-parks – she used to love them, but not since visiting the abandoned one used by Grandma and Grandpa to sneak around – and naked mole rats (they were nothing like the one in Kim Possible).

There was no appeal to a museum: sure, some things were pretty and some things were historically important, but she didn't want to look at them. She especially didn't want to wander about for half a day – she and Percy were dragged, of course, by Annabeth – and pretend to understand the shapes of art of why a stone tablet meant so much historically. Aza thought they were merely buildings to house artifacts stolen by the victors, but there was no goddess lounging about.

Leo's babble was far more entertaining than Annabeth's lecturing; every word out of his mouth was nonsense ("This drawing was actually made by another Leo: Di Caprio. Y'know, he drew the six-armed man to represent the movies that brought him to fame,") but it made the hour-long search less dull.

After leaving the refreshing air-conditioning, they were thrust into a humid heat, and she missed the temperature-controlled museum – she would have offered to look inside again if they didn't need to look for the others. By the time they sat on the bridge, overlooking a wide river that shimmered in the heat, Aza's hair was slicked with sweat and her tank-top stuck to her skin. She fanned herself with her hand and longed for ice cream sundays, or swimming in the Arctic.

Leo narrowed eyes lazily scanned the Olympic valley and drummed his fingers against his thigh. He seemed oddly contemplative, with his brows drawn slightly together; he didn't even notice Aza studying his profile. Her eyes held a special ability to bore into others and he was pierced by her half-lidded gaze, but he continued to watch the river. It was an unnaturally thoughtful expression, wanton and wistful, and it didn't seem to sit right on his features.

"What's going on with you," Aza's lips squeezed together and she gently elbowed his side. "You're being awfully... pensive."

Leo took another few moments to study the river before turning to face her. He swallowed heavily and slowly brushed a curl away from his eyes. "Can I ask you something personal? And can you promise not to punch me?"

Her brow raised automatically, and a half-chuckle escaped her lips. A thick swallow dampened the rapid beating of her heart, and she resisted the urge to grind her teeth. "Ask away."

"How... do you deal with loss? Feeling like your heart got ripped in two, run over by a truck and then beat with a baseball bat? You've been through it, but you always seem so put together."

Aza's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach and dissolved in the acid. The pressure in her chest grew crushing in an instant, as though she'd dropped a weight without a spotter. It was difficult to smile, and a cool mask fell upon her face – stern, tight lips, relaxed brows and a tight jaw. It took all her willpower to push back needle-prick tears. She didn't like to think about it – that's how she held it together.

"Years of repression, to be honest," She looked back out, watching the river glisten in the sun's zenith. "But that's not healthy. You should talk about it – I'm always here for you, Leo. I hope you know that. No judgments."

"It's... here's not the right place –"

"Guys!" Frank waved at them from the far end of the bridge. Beside him, Hazel sat astride her horse, Arion. Aza stood and extended a hand to Leo; she pulled him to his feet, and they jogged over to meet their friends.

"This place is huge," Frank said, once they reached him. "The ruins stretch from the river to the base of that mountain over there, about half a kilometer."