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"Has anyone seen Persephone?" Apollo asked one morning after making a perfect foam leaf in his cappuccino.
"She's probably, like, frolicking in a meadow or something." Dionysus' tone was in no way patient, but Apollo chocked that up to the perpetual hangover he was nursing. "She loves meadows."
"You mean her mother loves meadows," Hermes corrected.
"Whatever."
"Yes," Apollo went on, "but Demeter usually brings her to big events; she never goes so far as to snub Zeus, let alone on his birthday, and neither Persephone nor Demeter was there last night."
"Well, one can only have so many birthdays," Hermes said. "There ought to be a statute of limitations or something."
"When you're married to Hera I imagine you'd want a formal excuse to get as wasted as possible as often as possible," Dionysus mused bitterly.
"Just because you hate Hera doesn't mean Zeus hates Hera," Hermes said, a tad condescendingly.
"Everyone hates Hera," Dionysus snapped.
"I believe something grave has happened," Apollo announced, ignoring Hermes and Dionysus, hand on hip, face directed rhapsodically toward the sun. "Something grave indeed."
"Well, when you find out what make sure to remind Seph that she owes me that hangover remedy of her mother's," Dionysus muttered, head buried in his hands.
"I'll make sure to–" Apollo stopped. "Wait. Why does she owe you?"
"Because I've been covering for her every night when she sneaks off to see that weird Underworld go–" Dionysus cut off suddenly, apparently registering his own words. "Oh. What? Wait."
This revelation was followed with a collective silence from the three young gods. That was, until Hermes spoke.
"Demeter gonna be pissed."