He says, "Just one drink won't hurt." But one drink leads to two, and two drinks lead to three, until the bottle of wine is gone.

He says it drowns the pain. The alcohol numbs his mind and blurs the memories so he doesn't see Fred's lifeless eyes or the ghost of his final grin whenever he tries to sleep. He doesn't feel the guilt that rips at his insides during every painful, waking minute of sobriety.

He says, "I'm okay. I have it under control." It's a lie. Maybe his family knows, but they let him grieve however he can, even if it means letting him drink the pain away.

He says, "I don't need your help. I'm fine." And he trips and stumbles, slurring little drunken curses.

And Oliver watches Percy's downward spiral in silence, as helpless as he'd been when he'd first heard the news. And maybe, just maybe, Oliver's hurting because he can't ease Percy's pain, but the bottle can.