Chapter Text
march 2024.
Her fingers are tired. A migraine is making its way around her head, closing an iron fist over her brain. All she wants to do is stop.
But she missed the note again. So the manager has her start from the top.
“You keep this up, Annabeth, you’re going to embarrass us both up there. I pulled a lot of strings to make this happen—”
She is out of platitudes by now. She’s run out of I know and I’m sorry and I’ll do better.
“—And straighten your back, your posture is horrible, I shouldn’t have to keep saying this.”
Annabeth nods and takes a sip of her honey water. Nods and drums her fingers over the piano in preparation. Nods before squaring her shoulders.
She takes a deep breath, the slow exhale tickles the top of her mouth.
She tries again.
“Well I heard there was a secret chord/that David played and it pleased the Lord… ”
The last time Annabeth was in Los Angeles, it was for a funeral.
The air was suffocating, the sun was more punishing, and the traffic nearly put her at the end of her rope. She had decided that day that nothing good came from this town, and only work or a world-ending emergency would bring her back.
There’s no world-ending emergency today, but there is traffic, enough to make her run late getting to Dolby Theater, and she hates running late. She’s on her own in the cab, the manager opted to attend a meeting on the other side of town.
(“It’s a rehearsal where the teleprompter will do the work for you,” the manager had said, “Even you couldn’t screw that up.”)
So she’s out of breath by the time she finds her place in the line. She averts her eyes at the adults milling around the room, a handful of names infinitely more important than hers. An aide finds her her place backstage. She closes her eyes, letting out a long exhale of relief.
“Annabeth Chase, right?”
She vaguely recognizes that voice—from movie commercials and promotional material and stories from the manager that made sure their paths wouldn’t cross until absolutely necessary.
“Percy Jackson, hi,” she says, opening her eyes against the exhaustion. She holds her hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you.”
He’s taller in person, she notices. His blonde curls stick up in all directions and he’s wearing a rumpled gray t-shirt, as if he remembered he had to be here five minutes after waking up. But his smile is bright and welcoming.
“You ready for this?” he asks as someone motions them forward. She nods, unconvincingly.
They walk in sync onto the vast stage. As much as she didn’t want to do this, the view makes her breath catch.
The theater is every bit as regal as it looks in photos. Most of the front rows have printed out faces on them, indicating the seating arrangements for the ceremonies tomorrow. She tries to visualize what it will be like with all those people looking up at her. It makes her head spin.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Percy asks. “Makes me think about being up here for a different reason, one day.”
He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as he takes in the view. A wistful look shades his expression, like he can see something she can’t.
“I’m just hoping to survive the weekend,” she remarks under her breath.
He looks at her with a questioning expression, like he has no idea what she means. He probably doesn’t— this whole thing seems so effortless to him.
There’s not much time to socialize after that. The aide guides them through where they’ll need to stand, where to look, where the teleprompters will read their pre-written spiel, what to do in case of any emergencies the Academy has seen before.
They run through their lines a few times. Annabeth gets told to not look like she’s reading off the screen so hard. Percy chooses not to read the words at all, he listens as someone off-stage reads them out, nodding as his lips mouth along to the words.
They have all of five minutes to rehearse before the next presenters are up, and Annabeth can barely blink before she’s backstage again and the manager is calling her phone and tells her to get her ass outside because the car is waiting for her performance rehearsal.
She thinks she hears Percy Jackson calling out a sarcastic farewell as she rushes to the nearest exit.
The day of the Academy Awards is madness as expected.
Annabeth has strict instructions for her red carpet walk.
“Traditional media only, don’t talk to anyone with a tiny microphone and a phone camera as their set up. Stop touching your hair so much. Watch the train of your dress. Smile, for goodness sakes. Act like you’re grateful to be here.”
She manages to get inside the theater without incurring the wrath of the manager.
It’s hard not to get caught up in the magic of the evening. She wants to get swept up in the moment, in thinking about the history she’s walking amongst, but she’s not here for enjoyment.
She finds Percy backstage when their award presentation comes up in the queue.
Best Animated Feature goes early in the night, luckily. He was slated to present because he voiced in last year’s winner, she was picked as his partner for a song she did in this year’s nominee, together they make the face of Young Hollywood that fits a category everyone incorrectly identifies is for children.
At least, that’s what the manager had said.
“Hey,” he says. “Wow, you look awesome.”
Annabeth smoothes over the front of her fuchsia gown. Admittedly, she feels awesome. Even if it took several hours of makeup and a million options for wigs and three fights with the manager.
“Thanks, so do you,” she says. He grins and mirrors her actions, smoothing down his navy suit (because it’s always so easy for men at these things, damn them).
When their names get announced, they both inhale sharply at the same time. Percy catches the action and laughs.
“We got this,” he says confidently. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“You have to ask?” she tries to sound light-hearted and effortless, like him, but it comes out darker than she intends.
His smile widens. He holds out his elbow for her and she takes it.
Despite Percy inviting bad omens, their award presentation goes out without a single hitch. By some miracle, Annabeth manages to toe the line of reading the prompter and looking into the camera and smiling an appropriate amount in a way that would impress the manager.
Just as quick as the rehearsal, they’re whisked off the stage.
She catches the clip playing on a monitor backstage. The image of the two of them strikes her—Percy stands tall and effortlessly delivers the pre-written joke; she announces the winner with a perfectly bright and rehearsed smile.
Together, they don’t look like two seventeen year old kids out of place in this iconic room. Instead, they look like they belong. And that feels pretty cool.
She carries that feeling as she returns to her seat.
Truth be told, the award was never the part she was nervous about.
The real challenge comes a few hours into the ceremony, when the lights go dim and the room goes quiet. A grand piano is illuminated under a single spotlight on the side stage. Annabeth sits on the bench before the keys, alone.
Deep down, she knows she was never supposed to be here for this part. The manager has reminded her only a dozen times that she pulled in too many favors to get her this performance after a last minute illness made the much more experienced musician drop out, and if Annabeth screwed it up the manager would never try for her again.
She reaches out and presses down on the keys.
Above her head, the screen lights up with the words, In Memoriam.
Annabeth’s hands no longer shake as she plays the notes. She practiced so much that the actions run purely on muscle memory. Her shoulders are pulled back, her back is straight, her breathing is steady. The room is so dark that she can’t see the audience, she can pretend there’s no one there.
It’s just her, and the notes of the piano, and the sound of her singing. This part feels like the easiest in the world. She’s worked through this abridged version of Hallelujah dozens of times, she knows every rise and fall of the song in her heart. Up here, every criticism of the manager melts away.
The lights against her face change as the memorial slideshow progresses, photographs of crew and the occasional clip of an actor that draws a muted applause.
Then, the one thing she was fearing the most.
It happens for just one second. She shouldn’t have even been looking at the screen, she should have been focused on the piano. But the image changes out of the corner of her eye and something in her just has the instinct to look up.
She recognizes the headshot immediately, because she was there when it was taken. She fought over the choice of clothing and hairstyle and how to smile right and the whole thing ended up taking an hour. It was one of her happiest memories in this whirlwind that has been chasing stardom.
But today the image is tinted in black and white. His smile is frozen forever. Below, in a clinical, serif font: Luke Castellan, Actor.
The image changes and she’s blinking back to her piano again, but it’s too late. Seeing him was enough, one finger stumbles over a chord and her throat tightens with emotion.
She pushes on, her eyebrows furrowing together as she sings the chorus. Her mouth pulls down in a frown involuntarily, every semblance of neutrality is out the window now.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, she wills herself through the final notes.
The lone stagelight on her fades as the broadcast goes to commercial. The audience’s applause is buzzing in her ear, like she can only hear it from another room.
Her legs find their way backstage on their own accord. The manager is waiting for her, leaning against the wall in her black power suit.
She walks over slowly. She regards her with an expression Annabeth doesn’t know how to quite place yet.
Annabeth braces herself for the barrage of critiques— her pitch being off, the pacing, the missed note, the emotions getting in her way. She’d written them in her head and screamed them at herself in the short walk from the piano to the back, so nothing the manager says can hurt her now.
“I should have known you weren’t ready for something of this level.”
And that’s all. She’s walking away, leaving Annabeth frozen in place, like she’d been doused in ice water.
The tears that threatened to make an appearance ever since she saw Luke’s face return, blurring her vision.
“Annabeth!” a voice calls out.
She blinks the moisture away furiously before turning around. Percy pushes his way through production personnel, out of breath as he finds her.
“Hey,” he says. “I just wanted to say you did a great job out there, and I wanted to see if you’re good and—um— why is that scary lady glaring at me?”
He’s looking over her shoulder warily.
Annabeth doesn’t have to turn back to know who’s doing the glaring.
“That’s just my manager,” she says. “And, thanks.”
Percy throws a raised eyebrow to the manager before turning back to
“Your manager? She looks just like—“ he shakes his head quickly. “Anyway. It was really cool meeting you. If you ever want to hang out or anything, let me know.”
“I don’t live here,” Annabeth says. Her voice is flat. It’s all she can do, to not betray the emotions bubbling under the surface. “I’m flying back to New York tonight.”
“What a coincidence,” Percy retorts. “I’m from there too.”
And she can’t believe the nerve of this guy, really, smiling at her all sweet and confidently like he’s not aware that all she wants to do is find a quiet place to scream, maybe break a few plates.
“Annabeth!” the manager calls behind her.
She tries not to sigh.
“It was nice meeting you too, Percy Jackson,” she says, turning around. She’ll feel guilty about being rude later, it’s not like they’ll ever see each other again. “Coming, mom!”
