So Sudden, So New ((Kurt Larson)) [PG-13]

Half of the time, walking around Camp Jupiter, Dante didn't know where he was going or what he was doing. Somedays, he was just trying to escape whatever or whoever was behind him, watching him. Sometimes, its presence wasn't as strong and overwhelming...or wasn't there at all. Strange, how there were times at Camp Jupiter when Dante felt completely safe. Perhaps that was what it was for...but then why did he feel the presence behind him sometimes, so strong he just wanted to run and escape it all? Something, or someone was following him all the time. "Beatrice," he muttered as he started down a dirt path. "Sei proprio tu? Mi hai seguito fin qui? Chi sei tu, Beatrice? Cosa sei, Beatrice?" The woman had been the closest friend Dante had ever had. Sure, he had made a name for himself at high school and all, but the boy didn't know the true meaning of friendship until he had met Beatrice. Will non mi hai mai prendere tra le tue braccia? Tenermi vicino a te? Dante, il mio amore, il mio, il mio unico...my love, my one, my only. Dante sighed. Why had Beatrice pushed him away like that? Surely she knew that he didn't feel the same for her as she felt for him. Dante didn't love his best friend...was Dante even capable of love? The boy honestly wasn't sure. Many people had come in and out of his life, and the boy hadn't felt that way about any of them. So many people there...and so many people that had fallen for the enigma that was Dante. "Hai davvero mi ami, Beatrice, amico mio? L'hai detto così mi sarebbe? Essere spaventato...così si potrebbe inseguire me, Beatrice?" Shutting his eyes for a moment, Dante stopped halfway down the dirt path.

When he opened his eyes, the boy looked around. He had been to this place before...the Arena. Dante honestly didn't think he'd be much good with a weapon...he'd gone to the armory a couple of times and nothing just felt right, there was always something about the dagger or spear or gladius. Perhaps it just meant the boy had something else hidden inside him, some sort of power. Maybe he had to wait until he got claimed to find a weapon (he had overheard some people discussing a recent claiming, but the boy figured it was different for everyone). Whatever it was, Dante wasn't even sure he was stable enough to hold a weapon. He was definitely having a moment of clarity, something that didn't happen often, and usually didn't last too long. Of course, as soon as the boy processed that he probably wouldn't be too safe with a weapon, the wind brushed by, her laughter in his ear. Looking around wildly, Dante saw no one near him. Not at it really mattered. It wasn't just anyone's laugh, it was Beatrice's. Sarai sempre al mio fianco, a destra, Dante? Sarai sempre al mio fianco, perché è questo che i migliori amici sono per! Somehow she knew, and had always known. But the boy had left her, left his best friend behind. At least, he always thought that. From his vantage point, Dante noticed one other person in the Arena. Starting down the path gloomily, the boy sighed. "Vi ho fallito, Beatrice," he muttered glumly. "O stai ancora mi guarda? Ti prego, dimmi, amico mio, sei stato un cattivo spirito tutto questo tempo?"

All thoughts stopped short when Dante got a good look at the boy in the Arena. In fact, everything stopped as the boy stared. This was...what was this? Something felt off to Dante, felt different. He could stop staring, watching as the other boy moved. But his small notebook with observations didn't come out. The tall boy wasn't sure he could get it if his tried. He wasn't sure he could move if he tried. Perfectly still, a marble Michaelangelo sculpture, except for his brown eyes, watching the other boy move. Dante's cheeks felt funny, sort of tingly, like when Beatrice would say something inappropriate. As if he was blushing or something. Which was absolutely absurd...the boy hadn't blushed in a very long time, and there was no reason for it to be happening now. No one had spoken anything, no one had...there was nothing. It must have been the wind. And his furiously beating heart? Fear. There was something nearby. But Dante knew there wasn't. It was just him and the other boy, probably only a few years older than Dante. But Dante was...drawn to him. Not in the sense that he wanted to stay secret and observe him, but rather...a shock went through Dante's entire body...Will non mi hai mai prendere tra le tue braccia? Tenermi vicino a te? Dante, il mio amore, il mio, il mio unico...is this what Beatrice had meant? If Beatrice really was just Beatrice, she had truly loved Dante. Was he so drawn to this boy because he was attracted to him? Dante had never been attracted to anyone, he had always figured he was sort of defective like that.

"Chi sei? Questo bel uomo che si muove così bene e arriva a me, anche se non sa che sono qui..." no, that was wrong. That was Italian. Dante hadn't spoken a word of English since he had arrived at Camp Jupiter, and he knew doing so would sound funny to himself, but he had to speak to this older boy. Had to present himself...but still hide. This man probably wouldn't find the idea of another man being attracted to him too appealing. Most didn't. If this was attraction at all. Whatever it was, Dante would push it aside, meet this boy, get to know him...learn him. Figure out what drew him to him. Walking closer to the older boy, Dante took a deep breath, hoping he was presentable. Except he never was...sunken brown eyes, messy hair that he never bothered to fix, clothes thrown on haphazardly. It wasn't a cold day, but Dante still had on a winter jacket...he was often quite cold. Oh Gods...maybe the boy should just run back to his barrack and cower under the covers until the thing following him got him or he wasted away to nothing. With another deep breath, the boy braced himself. "You move quite well," he said softly to the other as he turned Dante's way. It was funny, the boy hadn't known a word of Italian until he moved to Firenze, but these days, English felt more like a foreign language than Italian did. Even early Italian felt more comfortable than English. And early Italian was pretty difficult. "Quite sorry if I startled you. I was just watching from the path...you move like a dancer," Dante continued softly, looking down for a moment before looking up. "I haven't seen you around Camp Jupiter...you must be Greek. Why are you in the Roman arena, then? Are you meeting someone?" English. It truly felt strange.

((Hi, I'm Google Translate! Although I usually mess up some of my own translations, you'll really need me for all that Italian up there. You'll get the general gist! Good luck!))

Kurt had read a lot about Ancient Rome for middle school. He was most fasinated with the weapons used by the gladiators, the criminals that were forced to either fight others for bloodthirsty spectators or they died. He layed in his sleeping bag on the floor of the Hermes cabin. He kept thinking about the marvelous killing machines used by the Romans. There was the Camp Rome or whatever. He could always just sneak in and get some weapons from their armory. Or he could just get one from the Hephy kids. Meh. Not as fun

Kurt got up out of his sleeping bag and got dressed in a grey t-shirt and a pair of purple and black skinny jeans with his black high-tops. He opened the screen door silently so as to not wake his fellow Greeks and tip-toed out the threshold. Kurt crept along in the morning darkness as it was still abtout 6:00AM. He strode swiftly and quietly like a shade to Camp Jupiter.

Once he was inside the borders of the camp, he sort of wondered along, trying to find the armory. After about 45 minutes, he found the armory. There racks of weapons so shiny and deadly they almost made him cry. On one rack, he found a cestus which was basicly the early version of a boxing glove... with iron spikes on it. Beside it, he found a sica. A sica is a steel Gladiator sword with a slight curvature which was used to go around shield or go under them. Kurt felt like he was in heaven.

He then found something he had been dying to use since forever; a scissor. Not a pair of scissors though. No no. The scissor looked like a arm attatchment that Captain Hook would use... if he had lost more than his. Damn, Peter Pan would have been so screwed if Hook that thing. The blade on the end was like a steel half-disc used the slice and the blade could cut through flesh and bone like it was butter. So he immediatly took that. Ok. We got a sica, cestus, and the scissor. That should be good.

Kurt was just about to leave when he heard a boy's voice from behind say, "You move quite well." Just then, almost dropped the three weapons he was carrying as he turned around. "Quite sorry if I startled you. I was just watching from the path...you move like a dancer. I haven't seen you around Camp Jupiter...you must be Greek. Why are you in the Roman arena, then? Are you meeting someone?" The boy spoke softly, almost timidly like English was a very new language to him. He had brown, sunken eyes, pale skin, and brown, messy hair. Kurt looked down at the weapons in his arms. "Ummm... I can explain this. I... nevermind I can't explain it."

Maybe he should try a little English...if he was going to talk to this boy, get to know this boy...Dante couldn't just speak in Italian. No one here understood Italian. That wasn't the issue...after all, the tall boy hadn't known Italian until he had completely immersed in it, living in Firenze. Despite everything that had ended up happening there, there had never been a place that felt more like home. "Se sono tornata a te, Firenze, troverei Beatrice, amico mio, ancora lì?" Dante mumbled, barely paying attention to what he was saying. All he could do was keep his eyes on the boy in front of him, the boy who didn't even notice the tall boy was there. "La ragazza con il sole nei capelli è andato," Dante sighed. "Lo sento con ogni fibra del mio essere. La ragazza con il sole nei capelli è andato. Sei morto, Beatrice? Non credo che tu sei morto...Penso che è stata spostata, come mi sono mosso. Ma tu non sei lontano da me, Beatrice? Sempre mi segue, non è vero, Beatrice? Sei dietro di me adesso, Beatrice?" With a deep breath, Dante took a moment to look down. Of all the things the boy could worry about himself, he worried most about his fixation on Beatrice. He knew he didn't love her, but there was certainly something strange about her. Even if the boy hadn't really seen it then, he saw it now. Now, when it was probably too late...when Beatrice...whoever or whatever she was...was...Dante felt the chill go up his spine. The familiar chill that went up his spine whenever he thought about this. "Qualcosa non va..." he whispered, looking quickly over each shoulder. "Dei e dee di cui sopra, mi protegga!" Dante whispered harshly, looking up to the sky.

English...English...this boy was speaking in English, and for a moment, Dante had no idea what he was saying. That was bad, wasn't it? When someone could barely process their native tongue. Staring at the other boy for another moment, the boy noticed he had an armful of weapons. "Okay...so you can't explain it?" Dante's eyebrows furrowed. Was this supposed to be something funny? Watching the Greek boy, Dante tried to process it. Ummm... I can explain this. I... nevermind I can't explain it. "Was...was that supposed to be...funny?" Dante looked at the boy. He wasn't too great with 'funny' anymore. He didn't exactly understand funny...laughter...smiling. It was all quite foreign. For a moment, Dante looked down. "Sta cercando di essere divertente? Come sono io per essere di nuovo divertente?" he murmured to himself before looking back up. "I'm afraid I'm not the best with humor anymore," Dante admitted. "Or English..." the smallest ghost of a smile crossed the boy's features. "The two together are..." Dante shrugged, unable to take his eyes off the boy. "I lived in Firenze for six months," he explained, somewhat apologetically. "I think I must have adapted a little too well," why was he suddenly talking about all of this to a stranger. What was it about this strange Greek boy with armfuls of Roman weapons? Why had Dante happened across him like this? "Quando si diventa destino? Quando è il destino, e quando è fortuna?" Dante murmured. He needed to stop this back and forth with himself. No matter how much more comfortable Italian was, he was in America now. Which meant English.

"Dante," the boy held out his hand to shake, completely forgetting the fact that the other boy was holding a bunch of weapons. "Like the great Dante Alighieri..." another ghost of a smile. "I am sure you've heard of him. I spent most of my time in Firenze studying his works. Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo...two other great men from Firenze. Roman mythology...but Alighieri..." Dante paused for a moment. Perhaps he was just rambling because he hadn't really spoken to anyone in ages. "Alighieri was the greatest. La Divina Commedia...introducing something completely new to the world..." blinking a bit at the older boy, Dante realized with a soft sigh that he had been speaking so much, he hadn't even gotten the other boy's name. "Ci dispiace, che era scortese, non è vero?" he murmured, quickly realizing he had spoken in Italian. Great Gods, did the boy really have to make things even worse for himself? "Sorry," he repeated in English...such a strange language. It didn't flow the way Italian was. Italian was a beautiful language. English was...English. "Sorry, that was rude, wasn't it?" Dante sighed. "I didn't even ask for your name," the boy thought for a moment. Dante wanted to make this boy stay. Not only did he make the tall boy feel weird, strange, different, all that (but in a good way), this strange Greek boy made Dante feel...safe, in a way. It was strange. Sometimes, Beatrice would take his hand in the marketplace and Dante would feel safe. But that wasn't a feeling Dante had felt in months.

More time passing by. More time for the Greek boy to run. "Il tuo nome?" no...no, that wasn't right. "Your name?" Dante finally asked softly. He finally lowered his hand. "I truly don't mind you going through our armory," Dante shrugged. "I haven't been here too long. C'è qualcosa che mi segue...mi hanno detto che sarebbe stato al sicuro qui, ma posso ancora sentire qualunque cosa sia, chiunque sia dietro di me..." safer misunderstood than understood. "Honestly, it's all kind of the same to me. But if you were to run into a Praetor or Centurion, or a Roman very loyal to one of them, you'd probably be in a lot more trouble..." looking down sadly, Dante took a deep breath. This was absolutely insane. He shouldn't be going on to a complete stranger, or feeling this way, or...any of this...just because the stranger was particularly good looking and...breathe. Breathe, don't look suspicious. Don't flush. Don't show anything. Just stay blank. That way...nothing could go wrong...right? Oh Gods, there was something behind him...it was back, watching him, waiting to strike. Stay blank. No one, especially the other, would want to get anywhere near the boy if he ran...if he tried to escape...but there was no escaping. Not with this. Not with Beatrice. Shivers down his spine. Deep breath. Going into his bag, the boy pulled out a notepad and a pen. With a deep breath, he scheduled a quick note...Non so di chi fidarmi. Ripping the page out of the notepad, Dante looked back to the boy. "Pocket?" he asked. "Your arms are full," the smallest of small smiles, but still more than had happened in longer than the boy could remember, found its way to Dante's lips. "So let me put this in your pocket."

((Hi, I'm Google Translate, your old friend! Still some Italian here...maybe if Dante gets some action, English will return completely! ))