Trust [Lams AU]

28

Trigger warning: drug/alcohol mention, violence mention, implied bullying

A/N: In this chapter I explain a lot of the wacky references I'm always making so in case you're wondering "why the fuck do they keep talking about Ancient Rome?" "What the fuck does SPQR mean?" "Why does everyone want to have a Greek god for a parent?" This is where I finally explain all the references :)

Enjoy!

John stood in front of the mirror, hopelessly confused.

What did one wear to a party?

John hadn't been to one in so long he'd honestly forgotten what one is supposed to wear to social gatherings.

Okay, let me think. What did I wear to the last party I went to? Wait, that was a Halloween party. I was dressed like a Roman demigod.

Okay, that's out. Time for Plan B.

John sighed and sat down on his bed, resting his head in his hands.

If only I had a Plan B.

John didn't want to look stupid, but he also didn't want to look like he'd tried too hard not to look stupid, because looking like you tried too hard always ends up making you look stupid.

He didn't want them to think that he was trying too hard to fit in. He'd been that person many times before, desperate to be accepted, trying as hard as he could to fit in, spending hours getting ready to try to make a good impression. It never worked. It just made him seem more pathetic.

John sighed and put on a pair of jeans.

If John had learned one thing in the past sixteen years, it was that when in doubt, jeans are always a good choice. Don't know what to wear to a Christmas dinner with your extended family who will probably judge you no matter what you wear? Jeans. Forced to go to a school event and want to look presentable enough that your parents won't reprimand you but still want to make it known that you would rather be anywhere in the world but that formal event? Jeans.

Going to a social gathering for the first time in years and don't want to look like you tried too hard when in reality you're trying way too hard? Jeans.

Now if only he could decide on a shirt.

In all honesty, John didn't own many nice clothes. He wore a uniform to school, and he didn't go out much. He mostly just owned jeans, some t-shirts, and his "Formal Event Shirt." That was the term he used to refer to the gray button-down that he wore whenever he was forced to go to a formal event. It was his generic "I have to look presentable even though I really don't want to be here" shirt.

John opened his closet and picked up his Camp Jupiter shirt. The metallic golden letters that he'd written in gold puffy paint four years ago glittered in the dim light of his room.

He imagined the Roman gods sitting in Olympus watching him, laughing at his stupidity.

"And to think that this moron wants to be a demigod. As if any of us would have a child so foolish."

"There is no way he is my child." He imagined Apollo saying. "A child of mine would have a better sense of style."

Fuck it. John thought, officially throwing in the towel. I'm wearing the Roman Senate shirt.

He put the purple t-shirt on and examined his reflection in the mirror. His hair was in the messy bun he always wore when lounging around the house. He took his hair down and smoothed it back into a neat (well, as close to neat as John's hair ever got) ponytail.