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Will was very young the first time he dreamt of his dad.
"So," said a blond man in a white dress that was Too Short and teeth so straight they were off-putting. "How goes it, kiddo?"
Will was aware he was dreaming. He always was. But he had never quite been capable of pushing his way out of these dreams, so he was as good as stuck. He looked the man up and down.
"Are you a MLM salesman?" he asked, which he at the time felt was a reasonable question.
The MLM salesman looked affronted.
"I am living sunlight," said the man, perfectly straight nose wrinkled in offense.
"Living Sunlight," Will had mused, itching a mosquito bite on his ankle. He straightened and rocked back on the worn heels of his favorite sneakers. Only one side still lit up, but that worked for him. "I've never heard of that one. Is it Vitamin D supplements?"
The salesman sputtered. "Will, I -- I'm your father?"
Will froze in quiet awe, perking up like a watered flower.
"My time has come," he whispered.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth that the salesman stomped one sandaled foot, squeezed his fists, and hollered, at the top of his lungs, "Do not compare me to any character in that no-good loser's movies!" He spit on the ground beside them. Or, well, not really. Metaphysically. "George Lucas is a disgrace to the name of linguistic arts! He has written the worst dialogue known to man! He made Natalie Portman look robotic!"
Will disagreed on principle.
But he inclined his head, because, well. Fair. He did indeed do that.
"The art of the whole thing is the implications," Will said haughtily. He waved a hand the way he'd seen some of his Mama's critics do at shows. "The grander themes and nuances of Star Wars are deliberately left to viewer's thoughtful interpretations." He nodded, once. For emphasis.
The man -- his father, allegedly, but Will had his doubts -- Mama would crush this guy like a bug -- and Will has issue being related to someone so annoying, already -- sighed, and then shook his head.
"Maybe I mixed you up," he mused. He glanced down and frowned. "Are you actually one of Athena's ilk? Mine aren't usually…like this. More cool than straight geek, generally, which the exception of band dorks."
He leaned down -- far down, Will scowled, not fair; if this man is his father this better mean he will be tall -- and squinted.
"You don't look much like me yet," he observed. "I'm not quite so spotty."
"You're an asshole," Will informed him hotly. To his frustration, however, the stupid spots in question were not quite on board with his attempted nonchalance, and begun, as they always do when he's mad, to glow. Like little pinpricks in a window shade. "How do you sell scammy supplements if you're an asshole?"
"Hm," continued the asshole. He had nice hair, which was a third thing about him Will hated on principle. Thick and wavy and fell to his shoulders in nice ringlets. Held off his forehead by some kind of leather headband. What a douche. "Your mother is Naomi Solace, yes?"
"What are you, a cop?" Will said, which is what his mother had trained him to say in response to that question. But if this guy is a cop then Will is an elephant, so he gave up and answered: "Yes, but that's none of your business."
"…She bisexual? Coulda been a double night for her, I suppose. Can't blame her."
Will blinked. "What's that?"
Salesman Loser Dad blinked. "Uh," he said, and continued to flounder. It was a foreign look on him, so Will found it amusing. He counted three entire minutes of stuttered non-explanations and hand gestures.
"Dudes," Salesman Loser Dad managed, eventually, waving a manicured hand. "And women. You know?"
Will squinted at him in much the same way he squinted at raccoons during mating season attempting to seduce a fencepost.
"Both," finished the man eventually. "Both is good."
"Well, duh," said Will, continuing to look at him oddly. "How are you ever meant to choose?"
Salesman Loser Dad barked out a delighted laugh. "Alright!" he crowed, throwing a hand over Will's shoulders and recovering quite gracefully when Will picked it up by the middle finger and removed it not unlike one would a dead snake. "You are mine!"
"I have met you one sum total times," Will noted. "Any attempt to claim custody on your end is laughable by any reasonable court of law."
"Two," dismissed his alleged father. "I said hello to you at a bar that one time. Remember?"
Will did not remember. Will also knew that telling people who frequent bars that you do not remember seeing them in one is generally a Bad Plan -- another lesson from his mother -- so he said nothing at all. Alleged Absenteer was too wrapped up in his own rambling story to notice.
"Anyways," he continued. Will avoided correcting him on the correct use of the term 'anyway' because he is taking these special classes at school called Fitting In With Your Peers -- What You Should Know and has been advised that constantly correcting people may come off as 'combative' or perhaps even 'bitchy'. "Just came to drop by and introduce myself. Figured you should know your old man so you know who to pray to when you make it to camp!"
Adults do this thing where they say a sentence that is entirely incomprehensible without decades of general life experience and then get mad when you don't get half of it. Will, well used to adult bullshit -- his mother is excellent at pointing it out to him -- did not bother worsening this issue. He just nodded , and filed it away in the mental compartment in his brain labelled 'Problems for Future Will (Sorry)'.
He also refrained from mentioning that his father in question did not introduce himself, and Will remained, still, after suffering all this, ignorant of his name.
Another folder in the compartment. Fun times for Future Him.
"I'll be seeing you around," said his dad with a wink, spinning away from his personal space. He skipped off to the distance with a backwards wave and an honest-to-Jesus "Toodleloo!" which would be funny if Will were not stuck watching him prance away.
"There's no way," he said to himself, after a good twenty minutes, hands crossed over his chest. He shook his head, and then again for good measure. His mom's a deeply cool person. She has a cool butterfly tattoo and two ear piercings and everything. She wouldn't do that to herself. "Nah. This is my brain making things up for the drama of it all."
He turned in the opposite direction of the figment of his imagination and walked until he woke up again. He didn't bother mentioning his dream to his mother. In fact, he forgot about it entirely.
Until two years later, when he sat awake on a cot in the Hermes cabin, staring at a half-faded mural of the gods on the poster-cluttered wall. He glared at a salesman-looking guy who's horribly good hair peeked between a poster of Al Capone and a framed Cease and Desist.
"Fucker," he muttered to himself, and ignored it when someone sighed and muttered about the mutiny rehabilitation package again.