tyrusweek

Can I just do a little tb to this tyrus scene cs there’s some stuff I’m noticing now that TJ’s crush is canon,,

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So in these first 2 screenshots we tj run over to cyrus from the side. But if you look at where he came from it’s a wall. So I think that he was waiting at the wall for cyrus to get to school, just rehearsing how he was gonna ask cyrus to hang out. He also ran up to cyrus 0.2734 seconds after he entered the building so he had to have been waiting there.

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So my next point is TJ’s expression after he just asked Cyrus to hang out. That is the face of someone who’s hoping their crush agrees to hang out with them ESPECIALLY in the last photo. I mean look at the face 😢

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And very lastly, this is his face when cyrus makes a joke and agrees to hang. Tj looks so relieved but it also kinda looks like he’s tryna play it cool. Can I also just refference real quick “They know. I talk about you” because if that does not SCREAM “I go on and on about you, my crush, to my besties in classic teen girl fashion” then idk what does. Anyway thank you listening to my TED Talk.

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GREEK TRAGEDY: a tyrus au

TJ’s third summer at Camp Half-Blood is shaping up to be the same as ever: bossy older sister, empty marble cabin, goofy best friend. And of course, unattainable crush on Cyrus Goodman, son of Apollo and unknowing light of TJ’s life. However, the life of a demigod can’t stay peaceful forever; especially a son of Zeus. Armed with celestial bronze and a general give-em-hell attitude, TJ, Cyrus, and TJ’s best friend Marty set out on a dangerous and exciting quest. Suddenly, TJ finds himself growing close with the boy he once considered out of reach, and anything seems possible— if, of course, they don’t die.

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Is cannon

only surprising for one

summary: when cyrus gets injured right before t.j.’s basketball game, some (un)surprising outcomes occur.

posted this on my ao3 awhile ago(:

***

Cyrus had never been an athletic person. However, he’d always been exposed to sports. Sure, there were the terrible athletic requirements created by the American education system, but a lot of his friends seemed inclined to play with discs or balls. Yet there was nothing better than watching them play, than seeing their bright smiles after an hour long game of running back and forth.


Cyrus was thinking all this as his—his friend, T.J.— thanked him for coming over.


“Believe it or not,” the basketball captain informed him, “but I’m really nervous before games. And this is our first game of the season, too! We better not screw up.”


Cyrus shook his head, grinning. “You won’t; I’ve seen you guys practice. Steve Curry would be impressed.”


T.J. chuckled. “It’s Stephan, Underdog. But really, thank you. You being here—” He exhaled. “You being here is the best support, Cyrus.”


“Anytime,” he said softly. “Now, we better get going. The bus comes in ten minutes, and I’m quite sure that’s our only transportation to the game. Are you sure your mom’s not coming?”


T.J. rolled his eyes in response. “She has to show a house or whatever. But it’s okay.”


It really wasn’t, of course, but Cyrus didn’t want to mess up T.J.’s mood right before the game. Or ever, really. So he put his arm around T.J. (pretty hard considering he was five and a half inches taller than him) and told him to wait for him outside.


Cyrus had made him a surprise. Sneaking it in was considerably tough, and he stowed it behind T.J.’s organized bookshelves upstairs (Cyrus was shocked when he found out about the bookshelves, too, because he realized T.J. preferred Hemingway over Fitzgerald. Seriously, Hemingway. ) Deciding the reveal could no longer wait because it might surprise T.J. on the court, Cyrus worked on bringing it downstairs, which was even harder than bringing it up. It felt like it weighed more than him. Oh well, he was sure T.J. would enjoy it, even if it could be better—


And then he was falling—toppling, really—and Cyrus’ mind was surprisingly blank until he finally landed on the wooden floor. He breathed heavily, curled into a ball of, well, pain. But it hurt even more when he realized the painting, which wasn’t fully dried at all, was probably badly smudged and damaged. There was paint all around him, and on him. Oh God, all his hard work (and some of Andi’s help) down the drain. And T.J. would never see it. He moaned miserably as he tried to get up.


It took Cyrus approximately two seconds to realize that getting up was an impossible feat. Really, the world was spinning even worse than the time he was on that rollercoaster Andi and Buffy had forced him on. And his legs—well, they didn’t really feel like legs.


The door opened. “Cyrus, come on! The bus is almost here, and you know that weird driver never waits…” He spotted the boy streaked with blue paint on the floor, next to a canvas turned upside down. T.J. kneeled next down to him, concerned. “Oh my God, what happened?”


“Hey,” Cyrus said, smiling. Oh shit, it hurt to smile. He inhaled. “Hey, I’m just trying to get up, but, uh, I guess I hurt myself because I tripped.”


“Down the stairs?!”


“Uh huh,” he breathed, the pain really getting to him now. “Do me a favor, please? I don’t think I can go to the game right now. I’ll make it though, don’t worry. Um, my phone’s upstairs, can you bring it so I can call my—” Cyrus gasped, and T.J. followed suit. “Sorry, my head is being weird. Uh, my mom. So I can call my mom.”


T.J. ran upstairs so quickly that Cyrus was worried he would be the next one to trip. But when T.J. returned with his phone, he was already dialing.


“Let me talk,” he said, raising a finger to his lips before Cyrus could protest. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Goodman… This is T.J…Yes, I was the one who brought the challah to the shiva. Sorry about disturbing you at work, but Cyrus got injured…He fell down the stairs…Yes, he’s talking, but he’s in a lot of pain, I can tell. What should I do… Okay, thanks, Mrs. Goodman…No, that’s Jonah, I’m T—yeah, bye.”


T.J. looked at him. “She’ll be here as soon as she can, but it’ll probably take around—”


“Fifteen minutes, yeah.” He bit his lip. “That’s great. Not too far…” Cyrus stopped talking; every word brought a new bout of hurt. God, who knew falling down the stairs could hurt this much?


T.J. helped Cyrus up, and half-carried, half-dragged him to the couch.


“Thanks,” he whispered, trying not to heave. The nausea was prominent, and honestly, Cyrus preferred the pain. At least that couldn’t bring unimaginable embarrassment, especially in front of his cr—T.J. He leaned back, breathing heavily.


“Cyrus,” T.J. said suddenly, concern thick in his voice. “How many fingers am I holding up?”


Cyrus almost scoffed, because of course he could tell how many fingers T.J. was holding up…except he couldn’t. It was way too blurry. “Three?” T.J.’s favorite number was three.


He shook his head. “Cyrus, I’m pretty sure you have a concussion. Does it hurt a lot?”


“No,” Cyrus lied immediately.


But T.J. believed otherwise. Gently, he rubbed away something from Cyrus’ cheek. Something—a tear. No, not a tear. Tears. He was crying. Cyrus flushed, undefinably embarrassed.


A horn repeatedly honked outside. The bus was here.


“I’ll see you later,” Cyrus said, closing his eyes. “Maybe I’ll make it by halftime. Good luck. I know you guys will do great.”


He opened his eyes a minute later when he didn’t hear T.J. reply or hear him stand up. Despite his blurred vision, Cyrus could make out the incredulity on T.J.’s face.


“You think I’m going to leave?” he said, the slight anger obvious in his voice. Oh, God, what if hours had passed and Cyrus didn’t even know? What if the game was already over and it was all Cyrus’ fault?


“Oh, Teej, I’m so, so sorry.” He buried his face in his hands. That act caused him to wince. “I’m sorry. Please tell me you guys still won.”


For some reason, T.J. answered all panicky. “Cyrus, you think the game is over already? Okay, come on.”


And all of a sudden, Cyrus Goodman was in T.J. Kippen’s arms.


“The urgent care is ten minutes away if I run. I’ll call your mom and tell her.” T.J. left no room for Cyrus’ bemused objections. They bounded past the open door, the bus stop (there was still a bus there!), the green lawns…And even though Cyrus was in more pain than he’d ever been in, and extremely confused, his puzzled mind let it register.


T.J. was carrying him.


T.J. was carrying him.


T.J. WAS CARRYING HIM.


They actually arrived in eight and a half minutes—T.J. was a basketball captain, after all—and he only let Cyrus go after the nurse checked them in. They waited, Cyrus’ face helplessly buried in T.J.’s shoulder. He dared not to talk; the terrible aches were everywhere now.


But all he wanted to do was apologize to the poor boy next to him.


* * *


Cyrus awoke, feeling distinctly horrible. The sun was hitting him through the blinds; he wished it were cloudy. Somehow, the light was bothering him. And then he remembered.


“Oh my God,” he groaned aloud.


“Don’t say that in vain, dear,” chided his mom, who suddenly entered his room. She held a large tray. “How are you feeling?”


“Terrible.”


“Well, I expect you to be, baby.” She sighed. “You took quite the fall. A concussion and a broken leg. That’s a record, even for you, huh?”


For a therapist, his mom could be really unempathetic. “Thanks, Mom.”


“Oh, I’m sorry, Cyrus.” She pecked his forehead. “I have painkillers for you. You better take them. I know you’re scared of pills and all—”


“Hi,” someone said suddenly. Cyrus’ eyes darted away immediately. The last person he wanted to see right then, of course, had to be the person he usually really wanted to see.


Cyrus’ mom smiled. “Cyrus, I let T.J. in a couple of minutes ago. He’s been stopping by, but of course, you’ve been sleeping a lot. He wouldn’t take no for an answer this time, and I figured he deserved to be let in, now. Carrying you all the way there!” She grinned at T.J. fondly. “What a nice boy. Come in, dear.”


“Thanks, Mrs. G,” T.J. said modestly. He sat at the edge of Cyrus’ bed, and his mom excused herself with a rather knowing smile.


“How are you?” he asked immediately. T.J. held up four fingers. “How many are—”


“Four.” Cyrus sighed, rubbing his forehead. “T.J., where can I start—”


To his surprise—although he’d been surprised by T.J. Kippen a lot for the past day—T.J. walked to his nightstand and shook the bottle of pills his mom had left. “You can start by taking these. Your mom tells me you’ve been refusing them.”


Cyrus blushed. “Are you serious?”


T.J. nodded, grim-faced, but you could tell from his eyes he was hiding a smile. “These will help the pain, Cyrus.”


“Well, I don’t care,” Cyrus said resolutely. “I hate pills.”


“You mean, you’re scared of them.” T.J. grinned. “But you need to take them, Cy.”


“No.”


“Please.”


“T.J., I can’t. No.”


“You owe me this, bro. I missed the first game of the season for you.”


Cyrus’ heart hammered in response. Ohshitohshitohshit. “Oh my god, T.J., I’m so sorry, you have every right to be mad, you have no idea how much I hate myself, I mean, I really hate myself, ‘cept don’t tell my mom that or she’ll lecture me about not hating myself and my head will probably ache even more—”


His rambling was cut off by a shocked T.J. “Cyrus, I was kidding. As in, a joke. And the team won without me. But even if they didn’t…God, do you actually think I’m angry about that? Actually, no. Don’t answer. Because I’m angry now. What do you think I would do, Cyrus, leave you? Do you really think I would put a game before you?”


“But…” He struggled to form words. “But it was the first game of the season.”


T.J. rolled his eyes, but Cyrus continued. “So you’re really not angry? No, wait, you are. You’re angry that I thought you were angry.”


“You’re ridiculous, Underdog,” T.J. said fondly. He brushed away Cyrus’ brown fringe and pecked him on the forehead. Needless to say, this was the biggest surprise.


He wanted T.J. to know how grateful he was, and perhaps talking wasn’t the best choice. So, with great effort but even greater excitement, Cyrus kissed him softly. I must be really concussed, he thought, admiring his courage as T.J. kissed him back.


“You know,” T.J. said, breaking apart, “you know that I love basketball. But you should know the one person I love more than that.”


Cyrus stroked his cheek in a romantic gesture. Wow. And then: “Wait, it is me, right?”


“Should I prove it to you again?” he responded, laughing. “I have to thank you, anyway. For that beautiful painting.”


“Oh! It’s supposed to be the team with a trophy.”


“I know. You put me in the middle.”


“I expected it to be smudged.”


“It was. But it’s still gorgeous. It’s standing right next to the bookshelves.”


Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Right next to the bookshelves full of Hemingway?”


“Oh, shut up, concussed Fitzgerald stan,” T.J. laughed, kissing him again.


All in all, Cyrus’ injury could’ve been way worse.


Way, way worse.