A/N: This is a sequel fic to 'a place to be with the sun'. Please read the fic (also found on my ffnet) before reading this one for the full experience!
Dedicated to mayu.
.
.
Sleep comforts the lonely Sun God, even if he cannot dream.
Reincarnation is a cruel test of time he endures.
A hundred years for every cycle.
Still, he waits.
Days must happen, as sure as the moon should rise every sun fall.
It's longer, Souma finds, when you begin to keep count.
Thirty becoming one, one becoming twelve, before returning to one.
Seventy gruelling repetitions.
To think seventy years seemed like such a small, small number before.
At eighty-nine, familiar gold catches a sunray and the sun awakes with too much vigour for the day of Winter's solstice.
Frost dissolves into steam beneath his feet that lead him to an isolated intersection with but a lone figure.
A man just turned twenty has his head angled towards the sky, catching snowflakes on golden bangs. Sharp hues of pink tint ivory skin, slender chest dipping, and he breathes .
Gods are not known for thinking before they speak. The Sun God, specifically, even less so.
"Takumi?"
The blond stranger cracks a suspicious glance over his shoulder. Blinking quietly, he turns half a step, pulling his haori closer over his chest.
"Hello."
Breaths coming quick and furious, Souma finds himself overcome with an inability to conjure a single word. Trapped by that cold, curious stare.
"Do I know you?"
Once again, it's the same curiosity and suspicion all balled into one simple question, directed at one who'd appeared before him without any prior knowledge or proper reason.
This familiar repeat clogs words and letters in the mouth of the glib god.
The pedestrian signal blinks green, green, green.
Takumi continues to stare at Souma. Slowly, the suspicion eases, transforms into confused yearning for an answer the person himself doesn't know the question for.
And then the yearning overflows.
"Wh- ." Takumi pats at his face, tears dripping down a surprised frown. "I don't know why i'm crying. I apologise." He frowns harder, desperately wiping his eyes. "It won't seem to stop."
Stomach lurching, Souma dares to reach out, wipe a tear and - no burn marks follow his touch. Just a wide eyed, watery stare.
Winter's solstice, the longest day of the year. The coldest.
The only day where the Sun can touch a human.
Skin colder than he's ever known, stiffening his blood and freezing his nerves. Still his fingers move, thumbing away the tears. Frantic, terrified hope the only thing pushing him forward.
Cold skin against cold skin, yet every touch feels electrifying hot.
"Do you - Can you - remember - ?" Words, teeth, clattering. Clutching Takumi, straws.
"I - I - . It was -,"
Neon sign flashing green, green.
Red.
"Red. Bright and beautiful and orange and red and it hurt ."
Gabbled words. Choking sobs. Eyes burning, watering. Memories of the past and present are not allowed to coexist.
Takumi is grabbing at his chest, heaving. Bending over, knocking his head against Souma's chest, face twisted in agony Souma had never, ever, ever in a million lifetimes ever wanted to see again. "It hurt."
Gathering the human in his arms, the God heaves a cracking sigh, thinks of superficial love and sunsets and heartbreak and a life that couldn't last past three decades.
"I know. I know."
.
.
.
In this verse, cloth is sold instead of flowers. Deliveries are not limited to a countryside, and often the textile merchant finds himself travelling across the land for a bolt of cloth. Manpower is not a problem in his store, but there are certain old customers that pay for the service of the owner himself.
Such trips can last for days, even weeks, but Souma doesn't mind.
After all, the sun can follow Takumi's every step, no matter how far.
.
.
.
Humming pleasantly, smoothing out wrinkles of the red silk. Deft hands wrapping the obi around, tucking and pulling. Combing both hands through striking red hair, tugging them backwards.
Throughout it all, Souma stands patiently, enjoying the feeling of fabric draping and curling around his form.
Taking a step back, Takumi admires his handiwork. "As I thought, red suits you."
Souma lifts his kimono sleeve, looks down, feels his breath catch in his throat.
Gold threads dance across the silk in a huge, intricate floral pattern. Delicately growing up from the hem, all the way towards the obi. Across his chest, another flower sprouts, stretching down towards the sleeves, where a couple more blooms blossom.
Takumi smiles. "I had these sunflowers embroidered for you. Fitting, no?"
Souma absently strokes the ironic embroidery, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. Looks up, a melancholy smile meeting Takumi's anticipatory beam.
"Thank you."
Rich laughter fills the room. Picking up the case by his side with one hand, Takumi's other gloved hand cradles Souma's, squeezing. "I'm just glad you like it. Use it to remember me from time to time while i'm away."
"Don't worry, I won't forget you so easily."
(yet the fact that mortals are terribly, terribly fragile remains pertinent,
no matter how many years pass by.
their vessels were not made to withstand too many things.
metal is but one of them.
'he was just trying to save a child'
.
.
.
red is an inappropriate colour to wear to a funeral.
but Gods have never been known to follow human customs.)
.
.
.
Souma leaves the store just as the sun begins to sink, departure as silent as his arrival. He leaves with nothing but the clothes on his back.
His only concern is preserving the kimono.
Gods have no need for man made items, no use. But only this he wishes he could bring back with him.
(back where? certainly not home. home was gone, corporeal and essence non existent. to be non existent for decades. decades loathe to the count.)
There's a temple, nearby. Humans have come up with new religious terms for Souma and his creed, but the symbols carved into wood and stone remain the same.
He knows, because Takumi had brought him there once, so many New Years ago.
"Knowing that you still bring comfort to the people is something important to a God, isn't it?" Intuitive, caring Takumi had said.
Stone lanterns steadfastly light his way on either side as Souma ascends the chipped stone stairway. Slender fingers had traced the abstract sun carved into stone, once.
He makes a point to stare forward, not allowing his gaze to linger.
Walking onwards, Souma hears a little girl with clapped hands in front of the offering box before he sees her.
'Please let mama get well soon. Please don't take her, Mister Sun God. Please.'
How opportune.
"Then can you do something for me in return?"
The little girl spins around, low ponytail swinging. Eyes growing to the size of saucers at the sight of the man, radiating waves of light that soak into the sunset.
She nods once.
"This kimono." Souma places a hand over his chest. "Will your family take care of it for me? Until I come to get it back."
"Yes!" Her reply is immediate. Then her face crumples with worry. "Everything? Won't you get cold, mister?"
"No. I am the Sun, little one. I can never get cold." Snow caressing a single coloured figure amongst gray. Tears staining the sharp pinks against ivory white. Green, green, red. "Almost never."
"Okay." The girl smiles, hopefully. "You'll make mama's fever gone too, won't you?"
A fever. Easily treatable, but not when medicine is beyond the finances of a household struggling with the maintenance of a worn out temple. Gods are not so cruel as to abandon the devoted and the kind.
"I will. She'll be better come morning. What's your name?"
"Nadeshiko! Tadokoro Nadeshiko." She bows deeply, hands pressed against her knees. "Thank you, mister sun!"
The sun is nearly gone beyond the horizon, sinking into a deep abyss of black. Vision growing dull, the God wonders, how long more will he have to wait, this time.
At least now, like him, the kimono will be safe from the aging of time.
"Thank you, Nadeshiko."
(counting begins to tire him out, mourning even moreso.
he doesn't know how much more he can take.
for the very first time in his very long life,
souma resents being a god)
Nadeshiko's granddaughter is getting married when Souma next visits the temple.
It's a rare occasion when Souma finds the energy, the urge to come down to the human realm. It's only been seven decades, not nearly enough time for the cycle to repeat.
But Nadeshiko has done much for him. The least he can do is bless the happiness of her offsprings.
Leaning against the trunk of the sakura tree, he watches boredly from above. Everything blends in a palette of pink and red and white. The only favourable contrast is the warm bouquet of sunflowers the bride cradles. Even that, Souma finds himself turning away from.
Amongst the scattering sakura petals and vivid white, a crisp wedding march plays.
While all others watch the bride cross the temple ground, only one gaze trails towards the pianist, curious of the single blond head in a sea of black.
Soon, the gaze turns into fixated disbelief.
As fingers dance across the grand piano, the realisation of 'it's him' strikes harder with every key pressed.
Pink filts through the air, but even the tiny blossoms cannot obscure the brilliant shine of the pianist's satisfied smile as he plays the final notes of the piece.
Blood rushes to Souma's head, the vows and cheers senseless buzzing in his ears.
Faintly, he's aware the bride is moving forward. Her back faces an anticipatory audience, and she tosses her bouquet of sunflowers that land in the pianist's lap.
The one symbol the shrine had adopted for the God, inspired by red silk and golden threads.
'Fitting, no?'
Hoots and whistles are lost to the embarrassed man, to the God in the tree.
For once, Souma is tempted to believe in human superstitions.
.
.
.
Bell overhead clinging against the wooden door, chiming the arrival of a customer. The modest piano shop bustles quietly with few patrons, mostly adults. Hardly anyone looks up at the new arrival, too concerned with prices and the problems of their pianos.
Souma makes his way to the back, where a single piano is skewed aside, oddly placed in the shadows. Awkward noises emanate from it. The blond behind the piano looks reasonably immersed in his work. Most likely, tuning is in progress.
Souma coughs once, politely. Effectively, Takumi's attention is snatched. He looks up from the grand piano, hands still settled upon the keys.
"Is the piano hard to learn?"
Eyes settling on Souma, gauging, judging things of foreign concept.
"It depends."
"Would you be willing to teach me?"
"Would you be willing to sit through hours of practice, with no one to keep you company but me?" A dry smile. Obviously, this has never worked out before.
Obviously, Takumi does not remember him, or the days spent in the fields, spent amongst cloths, with no other company but each other. It might be better this way.
"Yes, I would."
.
.
"No, no. That's the A minor. You're supposed to play E major here." Takumi huffs, tapping on the sheet music. "You honestly don't have a skill for this, at all." He throws his arms up in the air, in mock exasperation. "And i've been teaching you for years !"
"At least I know this?" Souma puffs his chest out with pride, pressing 'do-re-mi'.
"Even a child knows that, Souma!" Takumi rolls his eyes, hands akimbo. "You're my worst student."
"I'm your only student." Souma points out, and Takumi seems to deflate a little.
"T-That's besides the point." Takumi says, ears bright red. He recovers from the jab quickly, sly smile already forming on his lips. "Anyway, it seems there are some things even a God can't do, huh?"
"I raise the sun every morning! Pretty impressive already, for the some things I can do, if you ask me!"
At the offended tone, Takumi grins. "Yeah, yeah."
"Don't patronise me!"
Takumi's grin grows, splitting at its ends with held in laughter. "I'm not."
"You aaaare!"
The childish tantrum from a God is the tipping point.
Takumi dissolves into laughter, cheeks blooming pretty red.
But in a sudden fashion becoming too habitual for liking, the laughs quickly turn into ugly coughing. Like a record scratching, jarring towards the end, too soon, too abrupt.
Before Souma even has time to react, Takumi holds out a hand. "I'm fine!" He manages, hand still clapped over his mouth.
As he uncovers his mouth, a trail of blood glues from his lips to the palm of his hand. "I'm fine." Takumi repeats, as if doing so will make the inevitable seem less believable.
Brows creased in a shallow, grim frown, eyes not so focused, breathing not quite there. He tries to smile, but the uncertain twitch of lips only serve to break Souma's heart even more.
Souma's arms easily circle around Takumi's very thin waist. Takumi leans into Souma's shoulder.
"I'm fine." He insists, albeit weakly. Red quietly drips from his palm onto the polished hardwood floor.
To continue keeping him alive is pure greed and selfishness, Souma knows. Even painless suffering is, at it's very core, suffering. And years of that should have been enough, already.
He's been selfish for long enough, in this cycle.
For now it was time to
- let go.
Even after the human breathes his last, the God's hold doesn't loosen, tight like rigor mortis.
(some gods laugh, tell him to forget.
it's just a human.
but it's so, so hard to forget.
when there are so many traces of him left behind
so many traces souma clings to
like the cadence of his voice, his smile, his mannerisms
imprinted in the heart
like the flowers he made bloom with his very existence
like forgetting how to breathe
and remembering)
Once in a blue moon, Souma slips into a domain not his own. The other Gods are interesting, entertaining. But they are not company Souma likes to keep.
There are certain exceptions.
He is about to visit one of them.
The fragrance of flowers swallows him whole, washes over his senses. Involuntarily, he raises an arm to shield his face from it. This was the one part he could never get used to.
In the middle of a garden filled with every bloom imaginable, a regal gazebo stands. Red roses curl around the pillars, pouring itselves over the ornate dome. Mouth watering bite sized delicacies are laid out on the tea table, an impressive spread for the lone goddess who sits across an empty chair, delicately sipping tea.
To anyone else, she would seem the embodiment of sophistication, magnificently lustrous. An ethereal beauty, contentedly having a tea party for one.
To Souma, she just looks dead bored.
"Look who we have here." Setting down the china cup with a 'clink', the goddess smiles at Souma.
"Alice." Souma greets, making his way through the swaths of flowerbeds - so condensed they were they'd become a gigantic garden, sprawling over any empty ground.
Alice makes an excited hum, pleased to hear Souma remembered her chosen name.
"So what gives me the pleasure of your company?"
"Nothing." Souma settles into the empty seat, reaching out for the teapot himself. Alice was never a good hostess. Saw no reason to be, when everyone else were throwing themselves at her feet to serve. "Just bored."
The smile on Alice's face sedates. "The cycle ended?"
Tea slushes into Souma's too tiny cup. He doesn't answer. Alice doesn't press.
"I'll be rooting for you in the next one. Though it won't be much help, will it?" The faint humour in her words feel like salt being vigorously rubbed into Souma's very raw wound.
"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" He slams the teapot down. A macaron tumbles from the apex of its tower.
Alice is impassive in the face of the angry god. "I was just stating facts. Your devotion is admirable, but other than that, it's a rather boring and predictable - in your words - game." She swirls the tea in her cup. "What's more, a game isn't fun if you have no say in it. We're impervious to each other's powers, after all."
Livid gold bores into cool red.
Tearing his eyes away, Souma clicks his tongue, displeased.
Easily, Alice shrugs off his unpleasant attitude, turning her indecipherable gaze towards the distance. There's nothing to be seen but flowers for miles. Crossing one delicate leg over the other, she rests her chin in a hand.
For a long while, nothing but silence is heard.
"What would you do," Alice pipes up quietly, too quietly, "If he chose someone else?"
A short pause.
"If that is what would make him happy." But the words are hard to dislodge from his dry throat.
Alice laughs, pityingly.
"Lovesick fool."
Alice's words have a funny effect of lingering in your mind longer than you ever want it to.
This time, Souma feels something different in the gravity of the words. Something much, much more poignant.
A silly significance Souma keeps dear to his heart, much like anything to do with Takumi, is that he has never tried to find Takumi before he is twenty. It just didn't seem right , to meet him before the age he was at on their very first meeting.
Yet it's easier than he believed it to be, when he's the sun and gold is such a reflective colour.
Takumi is hurrying out his front door, straightening his school tie as he dashes down the street. He seems fine. He is fine.
When he turns a corner, an arm shoots out, grabbing his elbow, jerking the blond to a surprised stop. His face is flushed red from the hurry, but turns a new shade from obvious embarrassment when he notices who stopped his determined charge. The red deepens as the girl frantically pats him down for any injuries.
There's familiarity and hesitation in the way Takumi handles the girl and her small hands. Soon, they're resuming on the path to school, carefree chatter filling the empty space between them, resonating the red Takumi looks.
Souma's too far away to hear, but the sight annoys him all the same.
Eventually, the day draws to a close.
Dusk swallows the school grounds, shadows of students hurrying home stretching long on the dimly lit pavements. A murder of crows line the telephone lines where Souma has chosen to reside for the uneventful day.
As the sunset sky hangs overcast, Takumi and the girl walk home, laughter puncturing their faint conversation once in awhile. It isn't long until they reach a secluded overhead bridge. They remain at the foot of the steps, conversation trailing, gazes lingering. Takumi starts to say something, but stops, smiles and changes his words to a quiet "see you tomorrow". The girl reciprocates, soft blush blending into her softer words.
So intimate and private this moment is, to continue watching feels wrong and intrusive even to Souma, an immaterial being. He knows his presence should affect nothing. Yet he finds himself turning away from this scene, as if his gaze alone soils it.
It doesn't take a God to realise what the fragile feeling blooming between the two is.
The second time that day Souma crashes into Alice's domain, it's less flowery and more charred embers.
"What," Souma hisses "Is the meaning of this?"
To Alice's credit, she remains unaffected. Picking a burnt petal from the air, she watches it easily crumble between her thin fingers. It is only then that she turns her head to look at Souma.
"The karma of the girl's father was brought over to this life, and it ended in premature death. It resounded in a ripple effect to the adjustments I made fit, resulting in your human and the girl meeting earlier than originally planned. The rest is as you see."
Alice's gaze spells something and heavy dawning strikes Souma.
"You knew. You knew. That's why you asked." His knuckles glow white hot. "Death - Kurokiba - That bastard . He told you, didn't he? Why didn't you tell me?!"
"So what if he did, and so what if I did? What would you have done? Messed around with the human's mortal fate more than you already have?" Alice asks with barely restrained irritation.
"What do you mean by that?! This is - You're the goddess of love! Can't you do something? Tie a red string or whatever silly traditions the humans come up with - ,"
In an instant, Alice's face clouds over. In the exact same instant, Souma bites down on his tongue, regrets the impulsive words. She stands, drawing herself to her full height.
"It seems you've forgotten, Souma. I am a goddess." Each step she takes crackles, flowers wilting. "My domain is mine to govern alone. The traditions humans come up with all have roots. Roots that I planted. I will not have you insulting that."
She pushes her face into Souma's. Her ruby eyes are dead cold.
"You have gotten full of yourself, Sun God ." The frigidity of Alice's voice drops to sub zero. Icicles churn in her words. "Love does not wait for a God, and will not bend itself for one either."
"A human has the right to make their own decisions. I pave the way for them, and they will choose themselves who to love, how to love. Right now, Sun God, you are standing in the way of Takumi Aldini's fate. No, you have changed it."
Alice steps forward, and Souma has to take a step back.
"Simply by interjecting your presence in his life has thrown a wrench in the way I have paved. In every single one of his past lives, there were people he met under different circumstances, changing his relations with them. There were people he could have chosen to love that he did not. Because you were there. Interrupting the flow of his fate.
"And there was nothing I could do about it. Because we are the only ones invulnerable to fate. Invulnerable to each other's interferences. But right now, the Takumi Aldini you are seeing is one without your interference. I have the right to give him a very human happiness that he can only attain without you, so I did.
"In every other life, I did not stop you from interfering because I admired your tenacity. Not many have the courage you have towards such an impossible love. But the human deserves to have a life to love and be loved, without the boundaries of a God and a mortal. I simply gave him a chance to have such a life, and he chose to take it."
Numbed by the harsh words, Souma finds himself unable to even blink.
"It was his choice. Whether or not you will choose to respect it is yours." Alice finishes, never dropping the edge in her voice.
Then, with a snap of her fingers, flower blooms surround the frozen Souma, stuffing his nose with their overpowering scent.
Alice's flashing eyes is the last sight he catches, before thousands of petals blind him.
"Choose wisely."
For a God, a single choice has only two extreme endings. Complete neutrality, or utter destruction.
At this stage, Souma isn't clear which is better.
His head hurts, and spins, spins, spins.
Swift, sharp pain lodges itself all over Souma's chest, particularly near the non existent left ribcage. His entire body feels engulfed in flames, tossing and burning, not wrapping around him neatly like they're supposed to.
Nothing is going like they're supposed to.
The disorientated sun rises, falls. Rises, and falls.
For the first time, in a very, very, very long while, he loses count.
The fact is this: Gods are possessive by nature. To want something from the Earth that belongs to them is only a given, after all.
So at noon, as reflective gold catches sun rays, the Sun God materialises, choice made, heart set. Inextinguishable fury still burning low and deep in his belly, he silently gazes at the back of the man he waits centuries upon centuries for.
The possibility of not being able to attain the single thing he wants enrages and terrifies the God.
Takumi is squeezing the tip of a hose, spraying water over a bed of sunflowers just barely brushing his height. His white button up shirt is soaked, sunburnt back visible through the translucent material. Undone sneakers knocking a loose stone back into place within the ring that surrounds the tiny bed of flowers.
It's the two of them, alone once more. For a second everything seems to stop.
Nothing can be heard but the rain of water.
"Takumi." The name falls out of Souma's mouth before he can help it. A familiar mistake.
Takumi's shoulders give a surprised jerk at the sudden voice behind him.
"Oh. Hello." Takumi turns, gives a stiff nod. His cautious look on Souma doesn't let up. The familiarity hurts. "I haven't seen you around in the university before."
"I was just...looking." Souma makes a dismissive wave of hand. Takumi relaxes significantly, satisfied with the answer.
"Club enrolment is round the corner for you guys, isn't it?" He turns back to the sunflowers, now moving the hose back and forth. "I guess the council hasn't updated the club presidency list yet, huh? I'm actually the previous president of the club, you should find Kawashima Urara if you're interested in joining."
"Right. Mind if I ask why you're here if that's the case?"
There's an awkward break in the conversation, lengthened by Takumi's embarrassed 'eh's and 'uh's.
"Truth is, my girlfriend really likes the sunflowers here." Takumi rests a hand on his hip. Even with his back to Souma, he can still picture the blond's face - red blooming over his cheeks, eyes darting to the left. "It encourages her to get up for the morning classes."
Takumi's words feel like leaden blankets smothering the flames in the pit of Souma's stomach. Chokingly, the anguished, heavy flames burn Souma inside out.
A need to hold, to embrace and steal away the human claws at Souma's rationality. Red. So, so much red clouds his vision.
To kill rather than to have something taken away is something so, so easy to do. Especially when you're a God.
"Takumi-kun!"
A sudden call jarrs Souma back to reality, outstretched arms pinning back to his sides.
A girl - the girl - jogs up to them, twin navy braids swinging behind her, a hand pressed flat atop her straw hat. Her long dress billows around her calves, bright eyes the hue of rusted gold shining as they catch sight of the flowers in full bloom.
There's a familiar air to her, a crisp Winter chill.
"Nadeshiko?" But the name falls out wrong, crooked and unpleasant.
The girl comes to a stop in front of them, tilting her head, confused. "...Pardon?"
Souma shakes his head. No, not Nadeshiko. Not in this lifetime, she is not.
Takumi fills in the gap where her name should be. "Megumi." He greets, warmly smiling. Although, it fades a little when he spots the red splotches on the girl's face. "Did you run here? You could get heatstroke if you aren't careful."
The girl - Nadeshiko, no, Megumi - lets out a puff of air. "I did, but! I'm wearing a hat, and I have a layer of sunscreen on. Yes, it's the one you bought me with extra UV protection. Also, I drank a cup of water before I came here, so i'm well hydrated. Is that alright with you, mister health inspector?"
Takumi snorts. "Yes, it is." Lifting a hand, he presses the back of it against her cheek. The pull of his mouth is a telltale sign of his fretting concern. "You dehydrate easily, so go sit in the shade."
Those words, oh those lovely, lovely innotations. Souma had never known them to be so soft and loving, yet so very painful.
Shyly, Megumi giggles. "It's alright." Proudly, she lifts a plastic bag with water droplets still clinging to.
"I brought drinks! But I wasn't expecting you to have company."
All too suddenly, the couple's attention returns to Souma.
Putting a hand up, Souma forces a smile. "It's alright. I was just leaving. Other appointments."
"Oh, okay." Megumi's soft beam is reminiscent, painful. Almost suffocating. "See you around, then?"
Souma nods. He turns to leave before Takumi can say anything.
There's no point to watch the continuation, to stay. He already knows the ending to this timeline. Anyone would have seen the ending coming, long before the story reached this point.
Just not the ludicrous God who held on for far too long than he should have.
But at least, just this once, spare him the dreadful 'goodbye' the deuteragonist always left him with.
Something foreign slicks down Souma's face, tasting salty. Lifting a hand, he catches a drop that sizzles in the palm of his hand.
First, red. And now blue. Blue, a gray blue blur is all he sees.
He can't remember the last time he was blinded by anything other than the human's beauty.
The fact is this: He is but a God, and the other is but a human. Their fates were not made to be intertwined.
Happiness for a human is so, so fleeting. Who is Souma to rip that away from Takumi? Who is he to deny his beloved happiness, even if it didn't come from him?
Who is a Sun God to deny the happiness of his most devout?
(to be invulnerable to fate is the greatest gift to be blessed with;
to be invulnerable to fate is the most inhumane curse to be bound to.)
.
.
.
Takumi shields his eyes, angling his face upwards. Involuntarily, his eyes slip shut as sunlight shines directly at his eyes.
They slide half open half a minute after, as if denying him the right to avert his gaze from the glare of the near-shadowed sun.
How odd, Takumi finds himself thinking. An eclipse wasn't supposed to happen today.
Perhaps the sun was tired, a little fanciful voice in his head pipes up. Takumi nearly laughs aloud at how absurd that sounds.
He raises his other hand to rub at his watering eyes still fixated on the slowly disappearing sun.
It's an almost painful event to watch.
.
.
.
(akira's front provides a cold, chilly comfort.
"you can't hide behind me forever."
his piercing look says, and souma tries to laugh it off
"watch me."
eventually, the sun has to rise
eventually, even gods have a reality to face
but for now, he hides
behind the moon
behind his salt covered hands)
.
.
.
To ensure that they live long, healthy lives is child's play.
To ensure that they are happy throughout is not.
But they fare well for decades, even without a God's guidance, interference.
Smiles not fading, love not waning.
But love cannot stop the inevitable.
Sadistic satisfaction fills the God who's had this fact hammered into him when he remembers.
(a sun god's presence is not needed, not wanted at a funeral
an immortal with blessings of health
a mockery of the dead
but gods have never been one to care much for human customs
the irony of the situation
(to have lost when they're always to be the one lost)
does not go unnoticed by the god
as the casket lowers
the bowed husband lifts his head for
a fraction of a moment
laughter lines track his face
pain etched into every fold of skin
a strand of golden-grey falling from its place behind his ear.
the coldly indifferent god leaves, then.
beauty truly is superficial,
as much as love is a mistake)
A god is not a guardian angel. Souma does not have the privilege of watching over just one. Akira tells him as much. At least respect the ones who respect him.
Idly, Souma runs a hand over Akira's loosely feathered cloak. Tiny silver and white specks cling to his hands.
A velvet twilight encompasses the sky, the slight crossing from night into day. The moon and the sun meet a lot more than the humans are led to believe.
"Stop brooding."
Souma's response is to stroke the cloak once more, admiring the stardust that scatters into the purple below. Clouds are damp and make terrible cushions. Still, Souma makes no movement to remove his body plastered into the condensed water droplets.
Akira frowns. Exhaustion lines a hard edge to his words. Inhales through his nose, exhales through lightly gritted teeth.
"Souma." He tries. He's been trying. Trying to understand the point in a fruitless love, trying to sustain and make thrive half a sky that does not belong to him.
Try as it might, the moon isn't able to shoulder the wishes of the masses alone.
Long suffering Akira doesn't hang his head and cry, or let defeat take over rationality like someone else has chosen.
What he does is offer - push unto - another option.
"At least go to festivals, bless the people. Do that much." It sounds like a suggestion, but all knows the moon suggests nothing, only directs and exacts.
"I -," And the sun forgets what his aim is, buries himself back among the clouds.
Any pity or sympathy the moon god once had for him is melting under the suffocating pressure the incoming daylight keeps shoving onto his lap.
"I'm not your shield." Akira near snaps, atypical fury bristling the chill curled around him. "I don't intend to be. Do your job, because I can't."
There's no response.
"Souma!" Akira explodes. Accumulative worry and stress boils over, thawing the cold swirling in mists 'round the God.
Vivacity roar of the sun complementing the benign viscosity of the moon. There is no one without the other. One cannot support the world, the people alone, how hard it may try.
Do something, the raw plea is evident.
"...Tomorrow."
Somehow, Souma makes that single word sound like the heavy swing of Death's scythe.
"Tomorrow."
Akira's decisive repeat makes it sound more like a simple, unbreakable agreement.
Tomorrow plants Souma at the end of a familiar flight of stone steps.
Roadside stalls pack the road, squeezing side by side, wafting scents mixing to concoct delicious lures. Thrilled chatter and the plastic bang of fired corks makes a fine myriad to harmonise with the shouts of vendors, the call of the cicadas.
It's Summer, and long into the evening the sun still hangs low, it's shine dimly lighting paths alike how the overhead lanterns light gleeful faces aglow.
Paper lanterns sway and float their way above the stalls, dwindling up the stone steps towards the shrine. From the foot of the steps, the majesty of the torii gates at the top is not lost upon Souma, even if the point in all this festivities is.
Eyes casting an approving, mildly grateful gaze at the added wooden gates. He carefully takes a step up. Then another. Soon, he finds himself halfway up the steps, drawn by deep red beauty gently resting against the sunset backdrop.
So absorbed he is, he's momentarily startled when a flare of straw coloured hair billows past his sight.
Turns his head to follow the long, sweeping hair, only to be caught by gleaming amethysts. They strike his heart, pinning him down with a ferocity of cognizance only a God should be allowed to possess.
Her skirt swishes at her ankles as she turns to properly face him. He cannot look away. This mortal might eat him alive if he does.
The shrinemaiden takes one look at Souma and his bleak, black, mourning attire and scowls .
"You shouldn't be dressed this way."
Souma cannot be bothered to care about this mortal's opinion on his attire, even if he is a little worried about what she might do about it.
Her scowl deepens as if reading his thoughts. Spinning back to face the shrine, she turns back but once to beckon at Souma.
"Come."
The demand is clear, silencing. Souma stumbles on the ascending steps, peppered with fragments of broken stone lamps, now known as nothing more than coarse pebbles along the path. There's nothing left for him to trace.
The woman doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn't care enough to slow down to allow melancholy and self pity to swallow Souma long enough for him to wallow in it.
Upon reaching the shrine, without pausing for a breath or an explanation, the woman pins him down with her eyes once more.
"Wait here." With that, she whisks away, Unceremoniously, Souma is left alone in one of the numerous rooms of the shrine. A moment's respite to breathe.
He's beginning to wonder if he should slip away when the lady returns, careful arms draped with - with - !
Breath catches in his throat, mouth stuffed full of cotton and it's red silk draped over pale cheeks, golden threads woven into a shy smile that parts to say words laced with forgotten sweetness.
Golden sunflowers glimmer to the rhythm of rays splayed across tender red.
"This belongs to you, doesn't it?" The statement is delivered blunt, yet not unkindly. She doesn't seem to mind his new found muteness. Rather, she hums satisfactorily, gestures at him to stand.
Quick as a crow, she has silk delicately tucked around him, folding and sweeping in all the areas that should. Even her impassive front cracks a little, wonder seeping through when confronted with the full, proud workmanship of the cloth.
"...The sun will be setting soon," She says instead of the praises that clearly wish to burst forth from her. A knowing smile graces her lips.
"Thank you." Souma manages, a hand over his chest. The repetition is a little less painful, this time.
The shrine maiden's smile glints. "Red is only becoming for a God."
.
.
.
Souma isn't sure how he managed it, but he's currently in the heart of the throng of people that swarm around him excitably. As nightfall beckons, as does the cheer of the crowd. Girls with stylish updos elbow each other as they sweep past Souma, giggling and red faced. Sticky fingered children push past his knees, half tumbling and shrieking.
He's careful to keep his skin covered as much as he can.
He allows himself to be pushed by the crowd, but soon tires of being prodded and jabbed. Aimlessly he drifts off the edge of the crowd, towards a near secluded bridge overlooking a river. Odd, considering the vantage viewpoint of the oncoming fireworks. Perhaps the glare from the not setting sun was the deciding factor.
Yet a lone figure stands at the vertex, cradling a bouquet of crisp sunflowers. Back against the sun, bathing in a glare of sunray cuts the bridge in half. His yukata dons a familiar shade of solid navy, the ends of his fair hair barely brushing his collar.
Basking in the resplendent glow, the human shines, inside and out. Just like how a God does, only better .
Something alerts the man as to Souma's presence. Maybe it was the sharp intake of breath, or the untidy clattering of stopped geta, or the choked words that don't leave his lungs.
He turns half a step, drawing the sunflowers closer to his chest. Cold, cautious gaze directed at the offending stranger who'd interrupted his solace.
Crystal blue eyes widening at the sight of the dated kimono.
"You - ," Clamps his mouth shut, rethinks. "Why show yourself to me ?" The question is quiet, fragile. Almost frightened.
Just like how it was long, long ago.
"Because." The reply is just as quiet, just as fragile.
They stare at each other a moment too long, too caught up in answers that don't match the questions in their heads.
"They're an offering." The blond starts, all too suddenly. Tucking the flowers closer to his face to hide the embarrassed flinch of such a conversation starter. "For...you, I suppose. I was told to float them in the river, but now…," He trails off, looking towards the river once more.
The three steps Souma takes to close their distance is deafening. The blond cautiously looks back towards the approaching God.
Stops just shy of the vertex, so the God has to look up to meet the human's eyes.
"My name is Takumi."
I know , Souma wants to breathe, comb his hands through woven gold and press his forehead to the human's, inhale the citrus scent that clings to him.
Instead he curls his arms around the stalks of the flowers, pulling them from outstretched arms he longs to fall into.
"I'll treasure them." He doesn't know what else to say, that won't seem overtly intimate or doesn't consist of incoherent weeping.
The sunset pours warm shades over every crook and cranny of Takumi, and the sight burns Souma's eyes.
And the smile that blooms on Takumi's face sends a shock thrilling the bassline settled deep in his heart.
.
.
.
Souma is quick to learn that the bridge is always deserted.
"It's holy ground." Takumi explains, feet tapping against the rail. "They say life was brought back here, when the Sun God descended at the pleas of the princess who'd prayed for seven days and seven nights for her ailing land."
To the breeze that blows past, Souma wishes to shut his eyes and soak in the cool air, the comfortable atmosphere woven by Takumi's clever words and vivid stories. But he doesn't, chooses to let his gaze to linger on Takumi's form instead
Certainly, life was brought back here. Just not the humans'.
But that wasn't the point of the story. "Princess?" Amusement leaks into Souma's voice. Takumi nods, unusually serious. Legends about his hometown brings that out of him, apparently.
"They also say Erina is her reincarnation." That, garners a crook of a smile to crack Takumi's stern expression.
Souma allows himself to mull over this fact. Quite plausible, even if he didn't remember granting any princess' wish. Then again, he doesn't make a habit of remembering every human he comes across, of every wish he grants.
"Your cousin does have quite the stare." Souma mutters after a while, and Takumi chuckles.
"Right? Sometimes I don't know if i'm glad I don't have that look. It could come in quite handy."
"Does it?"
Takumi snorts. Funnily enough, it's a noise Souma appreciates. But lately, what about the human does he not?
"You'd be surprised. Being part of a family said to be somewhat intimately related with the worshipped God attracts people. The worst kind, most times." Takumi scuffs the toe of his shoe against the bottom pipe of the railing he's seated upon. An almost ugly frown marrs his face.
Somewhat intimate, huh.
Somewhat.
How ironic.
"Your stare isn't anything to be underestimated either." Souma chooses to say instead. Something still squeezes his heart tight enough to pop, grip unrelenting.
Takumi turns to face Souma, blinking slowly, clearly not understanding. Soft blue, softer than the gentlest wave, trained on barely translucent skin.
His stare is captivating, in a different sense altogether.
In the distance, a crow shrieks. River swirling lazily below them, over and under rocks, tangling between cattails that sway and bend.
"Why do you carry yourself that way?"
A not really sudden question forces it's way into the atmosphere.
"How?"
"It's almost like," Takumi's hand raises to sweep red hair away from downcast golden eyes. Then remembers, and his limb lowers. "You're afraid."
"Maybe I am," It comes out, barely a whisper, barely brave.
Of what, Takumi doesn't ask.
As if he already knows, somehow.
The crow calls, again.
Precariously balanced on the railing, Takumi leans back to follow the bolt of black soaring through the sky.
Neck craning, arms straining. Soles slipping, feet accidentally kicking out.
With a startled gasp, backwards he falls.
And Souma's half-stretched arms, faltering feet, uncertainty, falls with him.
A crashing splash splits the serene silence in two. The unsightly heap of bodies in a sacred river tears apart the untainted image of holy ground a little more.
In the water, Takumi coughs, splutters.
Above, Souma stares.
Somehow, with the faintest grace he knows, pushed forth by an unnamable force (it is not courage) , he bends forward, kissing wet lips.
Souma's own tremble, and so gentle was the kiss, it was as if a mere feather had been pressed against lips instead.
Pulling away, drops of water cling to his hair, softly dripping into the river. Takumi is splayed below him, unmoving. Eyes wide, shallow breaths escaping his mouth parted in shock, in -
Things Souma is afraid to want, to ask for.
"Somewhat." He says instead, a mocking smile ripping his face apart.
But who is he mocking - the foolish God who clings to a human that routinely forgets him, or the human who has a God walking on a tightrope of thinly wound heartstrings - he doesn't know.
.
.
.
Their little adventure in the river lands Takumi bedridden, red nosed and puffy eyed.
Lain amongst cushions and layers of blankets, steady sunrays dipping into folds and spaces in between. Barely much of the actual patient can be seen, the only hint of one actually in bed the struggling breaths one after another.
The croaky greeting that barely makes it out his throat hits a little too close to Souma's pained heart.
Collapsing to his knees beside the bed, Souma feels the words he's kept locked for so, so long rush out in a tangle, a helpless plea.
"Don't die."
Takumi's flaky smile is sad, almost knowing. "I won't. Not from this."
Silently Souma screams, 'this is already a promise you've broken once.'
And the heartbreaking way Takumi smiles seems to say 'i know'.
"Don't," A sneeze. "Worry. I'm not worth as much as you like to think I am." Smile gaining a faraway essence of incomprehension.
"I would burn down countries for you." Souma disagrees. "Even the skies and the oceans."
In Souma's strong voice, here's a desperation tainting the lilting notes that Takumi cannot kiss away.
"Are you always this cruel?" Hush voiced, Takumi asks. Lifting a flimsy arm to cradle Souma's face.
A hand of Souma's overlaps Takumi's. Pushes himself into the touch, fervently.
"I used to be."
Takumi's eyes slip shut, a heavy breath sinking out his lungs. "Used to." Short laugh, no mirth. "I wonder what changed."
Cloudy blue eyes half open. Too warm fingers knead into Souma's skin, a thumb tracing the underside groove of his eye.
"I'm sorry." He says, soft but not weak.
Why, Souma wants to ask.
But he doesn't, as if he already knows the answer.
So he remains kneeling, living a moment more for every sunken breath that enters and leaves the fragile man.
.
.
.
Humans nowadays are not so weak as to die from an illness. They suffer their side effects instead. It may not happen in a day, but surely, in months, years, decades - Souma realises, this is a part of the inevitable.
It starts with a dull tingling at the tailbone.
It does not end there.
.
.
.
They're over the river again.
Only this time, the railing is empty, the gray-blond seated in a wheelchair instead, the redhead who hasn't aged a day standing beside him.
Silence reigns. A late afternoon sun dips gently over the faraway shophouses that are quietly dimming to sleep.
"I used to dream of you," Takumi says, "When I was younger."
Eyes drooping close, a nostalgic smile. "You were enchanting. Are. I'd never seen that many reds, never woke up after every dream feeling so warm. Like i'd been sunbathing." Arms unconsciously being brought up to his chest, cradling a non existent warmth. "Yet I was always so confused. I had nothing to offer, not like the others. Why me?"
Souma can think of million and one reasons, but nothing makes sense, except " because it was you ".
"Do you still dream of me?" He asks instead, replacing his yearning words with meaningless ones. Like so many other times he's done in this timeline, still afraid, still hurting.
"No." The answer is regretful. "My powers weren't ever much. And maybe…," Takumi glances up, meeting Souma's eyes. "With you beside me, there wasn't a need to."
"But I can't dream."
Painfully, Souma swallows back the selfish thought and tries to smile back. It's forced and ugly.
Understanding, lovely Takumi smiles in his stead.
"Souma." His voice is beckons, curling like waves. They are not commanding nor sharp, but Souma finds himself listening aptly all the same.
Takumi raises his hands, and the God lowers his head. Cupping Souma's face, leaning upwards, Takumi presses his forehead against his, pulling their faces close.
Citrus envelops Souma's senses, and oranges of every hue cloaks Takumi, gently melding into every angle.
Worn hands tangling in red, breaths slow. "It's alright," Takumi whispers, "To forget about me. To move on."
The dreamseer never had much power, but he understands love and heartache and grief as much as the God does, from lives not his own and hearts he has never felt.
"It's alright."
But it's not, Souma wants to cry. Because it'd be impossible to forget, impossible to let go and move on and forget.
How cruel a wish to ask.
How utterly cruel .
"How." A single truthful word amongst all the lies that've split.
It's cruel to say, too.
And the tears that slowly, slowly trail down Takumi's sunken face, worried lip replies -
"I don't know."
(he dies that night.
there is no poetic way to say it
(if there is,
it cannot be found)
and the god who cannot be there
at the final hours
burns)
"You can't continue like this." Akira murmurs.
"Once more." Souma insists. "Just once more."
Akira pauses. Tightens his hold on tanned hands that pale day after day. Souma's breaths fan over his shoulder, forehead cold and sticky where their skin meets.
He hasn't moved for hours. The sun should be up by now. Yet somehow, Akira cannot bring himself to tell him.
Emotional toil is a foreign concept that shrouds Souma like arrogance once did.
"You're getting worn out." Akira says. Not knowing what else to. No one does. Not even the Goddess of Love herself.
"Not that easily." And the words are the firmest he's spoken in days. "Not that easily."
A bitter hardness lines the repeat of words.
Silence cushions, and the moon cradles the sun, tucks him closer into the crook of his neck, the curves of his side. Tears a piece of their churning velvet backdrop that melds into his cloak, of stardust and broken pieces of constellations to shield them both.
The world will not freeze without the sun for another few minutes.
"You let him go?" Alice muses.
"Again, yes." Akira replies, glancing through the clouds. Another fruitless day spent wandering around town aimlessly, it seemed. Another day the sun sets early.
"Hm." Alice peers down as well. "He looks so sullen i might laugh." Her lips are pulled in an expressionless line.
The prayer of Gods don't have much effect, when they're the ones granting wishes. But Akira looks down upon the lonely God, and wishes , for even a sliver of hope for the lonely god.
And that hope collides right into Souma.
"Oh, Akira." Alice murmurs, fully aware of everything, as always.
Akira shrugs, ignoring the twinge of pain that comes with twisting fate. "He was born under a full moon. So his twin is too."
There's a heavy pause.
"It's the least I can do."
.
.
.
"I'm sorry!" The man gasps. He runs a hand through his raven hair, sticking out his other arm to help Souma up.
"I'm alright." Souma replies shortly, ignoring the offered hand. The crumpled orange leaves beneath him sizzle, and he quickly pulls his hand off.
With a sound of affirmation, the raven drops his limb naturally. Oddly, tway he moves is familiar, but not, at the same time.
As the stranger's blue eyes flicker from Souma's head to toe, he seems to realise something.
"There's an art gallery just round the corner." He suddenly blurts out, looking stricken. "Would you like to go? For free, as an apology for bumping into you."
Souma shakes his head. He had better things to be doing. Like setting the sun and moping.
"No, please. You have to come." There's a slight of urgency in the man's tone. "There's a painting I think you'd really want to see."
The quiet, sure insistence piques Souma's interest. "...Which one?"
"The innermost alcove." The man smiles, soft yet sharp. It's familiar, but not. Again. "You'll know it when you see it."
.
.
.
The exhibition theme plate displays 'dreams' . A familiar name is carved into the nameplate beneath.
Souma traces the faux gold nameplate, feeling the grooves and dents.
It's exhilarating new.
For a weekend, the museum is sparsely filled. People mill about, speaking in hushed voices and snapping photos.
The works are lovely, for sure. They're whimsical and airy. Almost as if pulled straight out a, ha , dream, delicately woven into paintings.
As Souma trails down the corridors, he notices the gradient moving with the paintings, crisp cool melting away to radiating warmth. Quite fitting, for the current Fall season.
By the end, the canvases are packed with every hue of warmth imaginable.
Perhaps that was why the sombre background of dawn surprised Souma so much, when he rounds the corner to the last alcove.
The three-canvas painting stretches from ceiling to floor, delicately unframed, fragile.
Rows upon rows of sunflowers stand against the rising sun. Paints of blacks and purples with oranges and reds bleeding in. Amidst it all, stands a wisp-like figure with fire for hair and melted gold for flesh.
It's stunning and heart wrenching and mortal needs become inconvenient, once again.
"What do you think?"
Despite the sudden voiced intrusion, Souma can't tear his eyes away. "...It's beautiful."
A bubble of laughter. "Thank you."
As Souma finally turns to face the voice, the artist sticks out his hand, smile as stunning as before.
"My name is Takumi Aldini. It's a pleasure to be of your acquaintance."
.
.
.
Takumi speaks surely, going off on tangents about the workings behind the modest exhibition and circling back to Souma every so often.
Souma hangs onto every word, interjecting only when prompted.
Almost sure there must be a catch to this.
All good things that come easy do.
"Oh, pardon my manners." Takumi stops rambling, embarrassed. "I didn't even ask for your name."
"I'm -," For some reason, the ever familiar introductory line sticks in Souma's throat. "Souma." Without meaning to, he continues. "The God of the Sun."
In recent time periods, religions and faiths in olden gods like himself have waned.
But the disbelief that flares up on Takumi's face remains the same, unchanging.
A little too unchanging.
"You're...a God?"
This is the most anti climatic reaction Souma has had to this revelation yet. Usually there's more confused laughter and fluster and 'repeat that? sorry, this is - what?' s.
"Yes."
Takumi pauses for a long while. Contemplating. "Hm, and i'm the creator of the universe. Is this some elaborate joke?"
And the frown his lips pull into, the creases between his brow, the unhappy tint in his eye -
Oh, no. No no no no no .
"It's been - ," Souma nearly strangles himself with his words; this is such a stupid, unfair thing if it's true, " - a long time since someone last questioned me."
Takumi's brows shoot up, and this is the most unfair thing Fate has pulled on him; which was saying a fuckton considering all the bullshit Fate has pulled on him so far.
"Wow. Huh." Takumi looks at a loss for words. Unblinking, hard gaze trained on Souma, and oh, this is painful .
"Souma's an interesting name." Takumi says instead.
"I liked the sound of it."
There that fucking catch is.
.
.
.
Despite the initial disbelief, Takumi is (un) surprisingly quick to accept the manner of Souma's existence.
In fact, he brings it up whenever possible (typical) and asks questions. Packed with emotion, with - . With things Souma doesn't want to think about.
But he does, any time Takumi opens his mouth, words falling out in a melodic, similar annotation.
("won't your voice get hoarse
from asking so much?"
"ive always had good health, and
you can always bless me,
can't you?")
.
.
.
Takumi is working on his next exhibition when Souma thinks - braves - to ask about the previous theme.
"Dreams are made of fiction and wishes," Takumi slowly begins, dipping his paintbrush onto his palette. "I thought...if I put them out there, they'd be a little more real, somehow." He lifts his brush, pauses.
"It's mainly romanticism, though," Takumi continues explaining. "For example, I've never actually seen the red headed figure in my dreams. It's an interpretation, a...wish. Someone I just...knew that they were there. Like the sun."
"Like the sun." Souma repeats, decidedly not lulling on the irony.
"Mm. Like you." Takumi grins, returning his focus back to the plain canvas.
Idly, he adds a stroke of paint to the canvas. "But sometimes….It feels kind of superficial. That I only painted what's beautiful. Or that I change what's ugly in my dreams into something beautiful, when I feel I should be showing them as they are, bared."
Souma stirs.
"But the feelings behind the changes, the feelings in your paintings. They aren't superficial." He argues, a little more heatedly than he feels he should have. "They aren't fake, or trying to hide away. You're just...trying to hold onto the good of it. It might have been ugly, but you saw the beauty in it, and chose to appreciate it for that, instead of condemning it. You saw beauty in something that couldn't, shouldn't be loved and -. And that's not. Superficial."
It's only when Takumi looks up, wide eyed, that Souma realises he's stood up. His jaw feels tight enough to pop, fists clenched so hard they shake.
Souma turns away from their locked gaze.
"It isn't."
The weak words almost fade into the air in comparison to the passionate ones uttered from the same mouth a moment ago.
Takumi blinks, lowering his brush. Then smiles, tender and open.
"I believe you."
.
.
.
(he says,
"thank you."
later on, as well.
souma doesn't know why.)
.
.
.
There is hesitation in the way Takumi moves.
Not out of fear, or reverence. But rather curiosity. Unaware of boundaries, unknowing of lines drawn when and where.
But it's a bold sort of hesitation, that makes him constantly question, constantly come back to the one thing he's so afraid, so curious of.
It's so terribly similar.
It's so terribly, freezingly, frightening.
.
.
.
(gloved hands twining lambent fingers,
cold, wet hands on flaming jaw.
alike, one and the same.
it isn't supposed to be.
it isn't supposed to be.
he isn't supposed to be - !)
.
.
.
Another day, another abandoned field.
They're sprawled side by side, watching clouds drift.
"Did you know," Lightly, ever so delicately, Takumi traces the shape of Souma's face. Temple, cheekbone, jawline, chin. "Sunflowers follow the sun?"
As if mirroring the gentle touch, Souma's golden gaze follows the slopes and gentle angles of the painter's face.
Eyes deep, drowning blue, sunlight glittering off long lashes. Quietly contrasted by flushed cheeks, tickled with grass. Wheat gold hair pooling around his head like a glowing halo. Pale lips, curled into an oddly endearing smile.
Souma's chest rises. Falls.
"No, not always."
.
.
.
Reincarnations are always a little different from the last. Meeting different people, having different experiences. The same road can lead to many other paths.
Yet occasionally, personalities overlap. Mannerisms just a smudge of a difference, so minor they might as well not be there.
It's in the hard lines of Takumi's face, the way he bends his wrist, the odd crook in his fond smile.
It's the captured ocean in his eyes, the spun sunshine in his hair.
And every time Souma stutters a breath, he smells rows upon rows of sunflowers, sold by the stalk every noon.
And every time, the breath stutters until it threatens to stop.
(a breath apart, and takumi asks
"is it fine to love you?"
how odd, for him to be asking
when souma has always been the one seeking
back then, and even now
"only if you let me love you back.")
.
.
.
Winter comes, as much as Souma dreads it.
With it comes the blizzards, below zero temperatures and a higher rate of death.
"You worry too much." Takumi says, blowing on his cup of tea. "I'm fine."
"And your coughing fit has lasted for more than a week now." Souma snidely shoots back. Just an irritation of the throat, Takumi had reassured him, despite the pangs of pain that his chest has been protesting about.
"Hmm. They do say young talents die early." Takumi takes a sip, oddly pensive. He tries to laugh away the tension he's built himself.
The strained look on Souma's face clearly does not appreciate the morbid humour.
"Sorry." Takumi hides behind his cup of tea. "Bad joke?"
The look intensifies.
"Okay, okay! I'll stop making jokes like that -," A cough, then another. "From now on."
Easily, the irritated expression melts away into concern and wariness. "Takumi, I really think you should go see a doctor - ,"
And the cup slips from the blond's grasp, shattering into a million pieces on the floor.
Everything slows to a halt, skewing.
A hand twisted in the fabric of his sweater, another cupping his mouth dripping mucus stringed with blood.
The horrified look in Takumi's face is a jarring parallel - .
And again, Souma's too late.
.
.
.
(advanced technology and medicine
cannot cure someone broken by twisted fate.
amongst the beeping machinery and wires,
takumi repeats,
"take care of my 'sunflowers' for me?"
and souma
nods.
.
.
.
it's only fitting (ironic, painful, inevitable, unfair, unfair, unfair) he dies
the same way 'he' did)
.
.
.
Souma drops like a rock into Akira, who catches him effortlessly, routinely.
The sun has set, although the nightingales are still not awake.
"Souma, you can't do this anymore." Akira says, low and pained.
Souma doesn't speak, can't.
Akira's arms tighten around Souma's torso. Sighs, rubbing soothing circles onto his back.
"I don't know how to help you," Akira confesses quietly. "But I can't watch you waste away like this either."
Raw truth is hard to edge out of the moon god, but that's all Souma seems to hear from him, lately. Tremors from the arms wrapped around Souma ripple through his body.
"Souma, give up ."
Skies still an orange-purple hue, they have time yet to talk.
But Souma finds his eyes closing, his body losing itself to numbing sleep.
He can think about all these tomorrow.
He'll always have tomorrow, even if Takumi didn't.
.
.
.
Somewhere, deep down inside, Souma knows.
He can't keep yearning for something not his. He can't keep abandoning his post for a single human. His celestial body cannot handle all the foreign emotions that toil his non-existent heart day in and out.
He can't keep chasing after a mortal like a lovestruck fool when he's the God of the Sun.
If only -
If only.
.
.
.
There's a theory, almost forgotten amongst Gods and Goddesses drunk on power and wine.
"If a God wishes rid of their divinity, they may do so by finding another soul to inherit their position and strength."
For the umpteenth time in his life, Souma is tempted to believe in unsubstantiated theories.
.
.
.
(it's romanticism and idealism and nothing godlike
but what he's been reduced to -
isn't anything godlike either.)
.
.
.
A finger restlessly taps against forearm.
"He's been like this all this time, huh?"
Akira purses his lips, forces his finger to come to a halt. Hums an acknowledgement for Alice, who leans against his side.
"Ever since then, yes."
Alice 'hm's. Her stare wavers on the Sun God's spacey figure, glossy eyes. "This isn't a very happy sight."
Akira is tempted to snide Alice, but tiredly decides not to. She doesn't mean any harm, and words said out of anger are better left unsaid.
"Don't worry too much, Akira." Alice pats his forearm, covering his hand with her own. "Leave this to your elders. We'll figure something out."
At this does Akira turn to look down at Alice's winning smile. Unwittingly, he meets Alice's undecipherable stare and swallows dryly.
Suddenly, he remembers how much longer Alice has been a Goddess. How much longer she's watched over the Earth, the people and her counterparts.
He wonders how many others she's watched waste away, tired of duties and immortality.
Akira hates pushing responsibility, hates feeling useless and helpless. But he's reaching the end of his rope, and Souma has already let go of his.
"...I hope you do."
.
.
.
(the moon was young when he met
the sun
as young as he
that blinding smile
of faith and good cheer
burns bright for the moon
even if the now jaded sun
has already forgotten it)
.
.
.
Kurokiba visits Souma.
His coming is as quiet as his voice.
"A mortal who can fit your criteria will die in another forty to fifty years."
It effectively snaps the redhead out of the trance he's been caught in for the last few weeks.
"Wha -,"
"Everything that leaves the mouth of a God has to hold a certain truth, remember."
A quiet chill settles by Kurokiba's feet. It dissipates into the ends of his robe as he turns around.
"I've done what they've asked me to do, so i'll be leaving."
"Wait - ,"
And before Souma can get another word out, Death fades away into thin air.
.
.
.
(lately the sun has found
his glow again
and the smile the moon
so dearly loves
is no longer a memory.
it's too bad
the moon won't get to see it
for much longer
(the moon has always been better
at letting go
or at least,
hiding the pain
that comes with partings) )
.
.
.
"Akira."
"What is it?"
"I'm going to leave."
"Have you found a replacement?"
"I have my eye on one."
"..."
"Don't get too lonely without me, alright?"
"Ha, i'd appreciate the quiet."
"That's awful! Do the thousands of centuries we've had mean nothing to you?"
"There you go again. ...Be happy, Souma."
"Yeah. You too."
"Hmn."
"...Akira?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
"...There's nothing to thank me for. Just get going, and don't mess it up."
.
.
.
The replacement boy is much younger than Souma expected. He glitches - for a lack of a better word - in and out of the space.
Staring pleasantly at Souma like he's another stranger on the street, the humanoid figure floats. Souls are typically more wisp-like, having lost their vessel. It's odd how the boy is able of being anything but an effervescent sphere.
Then again, for someone with the capabilities to become a God, this must be expected.
"Is this the afterlife? It's much brighter than I expected."
Even if the ability to so clearly retain their memories and logically articulate thoughts is definitely not.
"I always though purgatory would be darker. This certainly isn't Hell, and I assume i'm also right that this isn't Heaven?"
"No, it isn't." Souma finally speaks.
The boy smiles knowingly. His perceptive rose red eyes flick to the left of him, then right.
"Limbo, then."
"If that is what humans call it."
The way the boy observes Souma makes him jittery. How the boy looks so comfortably at home after, mind you, dying is extremely uncomforting.
"Limbo." The boy repeats. Nods once. "Alright. So you're God?"
"One of them." Souma corrects. "I just happen to have business with you, so I came to greet you."
"How welcoming." The boy grins. He crosses one arm over his chest, rests his other elbow on it as the hand rests his chin. "More than one God - I supposed I shouldn't be surprised."
Something akin to melancholic fragility flickers across his face.
Taking a deep breath to settle, Souma decidedly ignores it. His worry is better reserved for his own issues. Since it soon won't be his problem whatever this soul has troubles over.
Hopefully.
Closes his eyes. Opens them, gold flaking embers. A cloak of offensive haughtiness he's long since shed drapes itself upon Souma like a second skin. Fire rushes underneath his skin where veins should lie.
Slowly lifting a pointer finger, till it reaches the height of the gap between the boy's fascinated eyes.
One last time, Souma allows his voice to thunder.
"I came to ask if you would be a God - The Sun."
Quite clearly, this is the first time the boy has been shocked since his arrival. His eyes widen like dinner plates, mouth parting.
"Oh, this is certainly...not what I expected." He tousles his white hair. Shortly, softly, he laughs. "What a cruel trick to play." He murmurs, more to himself.
Any patience left for riddles and obscure mutterings not intended for his ears has long since ran out. Souma feels patience literally trickle away from his frame, and the flames that dance under his skin threaten to erupt.
"Answer." He demands, louder than he intended.
The white haired boy looks down. Expression unreadable, unseeable.
Every second feels like an hour, stretched out against Souma's neck like a taut wire.
And all too quickly, all too slowly, the boy raises his head once more.
"I will."
Determination burns strong behind his words. Souma's smirk is cutting.
"But I want to know something first."
So close. Souma can almost taste it. Bites down on his tongue, endures.
"What is it, human?"
"Why would you give up your immortality and omnipotence?"
The question reels Souma back for a moment. He's almost tempted to tell the human to shut his impertinent mouth and mind his own business, but the boy's ardent look coerces.
"I found something more important."
It takes a minute for Souma to register that low, aching voice as his own.
The boy meets his eye, tilts his head and smiles wistfully.
"What a coincidence."
.
.
.
Passing on his mantle is a lot more underwhelming than Souma had thought.
Pulsing warmth, being emptied out a body that never existed. A few words, a few blessings, and the boy is now God, Souma -
Nothing.
Now all that's left of him is a single soul, waiting to dissipate into the light.
Pressing his hand to his chest, Souma sucks in a breath, lets it out.
A slow, sinking feeling has enveloped him for a while now. Weirdly, his skin flutters. A tiny, glowing sphere plucks out his skin, then another, and another.
Soon, he'll be nothing.
He already is, nothing.
Closing his eyes, he wonders if he's ever felt this cold.
Remembers.
.
.
.
(and then -
. )
.
.
.
Winter's sharp edge still remains in early Spring, prompting a curse as a lightly clad redhead busts out his front door.
Traffic light flashing in warning as he dashes down the lane towards school, breaking at least six pedestrian safety rules his mother had drilled into him since a child on the way.
Bumping into every obstacle imaginable, he yelps as he barely dodges cardboard cutout of a giant cartoon figure. There's a shout as he sprints past the corner shop, "Souma-kun, the display, don't knock it over!" .
"Good morning, Fumio-san!" Souma yells right back, shooting the old shopkeeper a blinding smile over his shoulder.
Normally he'd stay and chat, considering how much he had to catch up on his old hometown, but today is different.
Today is his first day of high school, and Souma is beyond late. He'd have a better chance at striking it rich in the supermarket lottery than getting to the entrance ceremony on time.
Sure, he lives literally ten minutes away from the place and has a track record, but nothing is going to save him when he's woken up at noon with the sun shining on his ass.
All dad's fault, Souma wants to yell as rounds a street post. Who's even heard of a father who takes his son's alarm clock in the middle of the night and use it as his own because, and Souma quotes, "better you late than me".
When the school gates come to sight, adrenaline effortlessly powers him up the gates, practically flinging himself over the gates. Souma makes a right turn, relying on nothing but intuition and dumb luck to lead his way.
Maybe if he's lucky they're still doing some boring speech and he can sneak into the gym and - his hopes are crushed .
Before his unsightly panting figure, the gym doors are wide open, showcasing a brilliantly large interior devoid of human life. Souma gasps with his hands on his knees, out of breath from both horrid disappointment and the impromptu half a marathon he'd just cleared.
He crouches down, groaning. Loudly, and for an extended period of time.
Now he'll have to personally go find the headmaster and thank him for accepting his last minute transfer. Which, by the way, was also his father's fault. Why couldn't his job just ground him to one specific location in Japan?
"What a way to start the school year." Souma stands, grumbling to himself. Sighing, he looks in the direction of the regale school building. From where he stands all he sees are the turrets of a certain wing of the school.
Suddenly, not having a map or any indication as to where the principal's office, heck even the main building, could be is settling at an extremely uneasy spot in Souma's abdomen. Tootsuki High's ridiculous spread of architecture is a renowned joke amongst students country wide.
Might as well get started on the long trek now.
Not even halfway on the uphill journey, Souma is already planning on how he should talk the headmaster into restructuring the school. Or at least add a few benches on the way. Now he understands why Tootsuki is also the only school in Japan to allow motorised vehicles and other forms of regulated transport within campus.
The only thing that's making this upward battle a little more bearable is the sakura tree that stands at the end of the slope, slowly revealing itself with each trudge.
Despite the tree not yet in bloom, even from this distance it still makes for a grand attraction, with it's humongous spread of cherry pink buds on the cusp of blossoms, deepening into differing shades depending on the fall of sunlight.
The sight brings a tiny smile to Souma's face. This sight, reserved for him alone, had to be the silver lining to his storm cloud of a morning.
Or perhaps not.
As Souma treks upwards, he can faintly make out the silhouette of another person leaning against the tree, fiddling with papers in one hand, a smartphone in the other.
Upon getting closer, Souma notices with delight that it's a boy his age, judging by the ceremonial corsage pinned neatly on his blazer. He's incredibly focused on his phone, even frowning a little in concentration.
Souma's approach seems to break that concentration, however. The freshman lifts his head, anticipatory.
Then he fully takes in Souma's figure, and simply smiles politely. The disappointed turn to his lips isn't lost on Souma, however. Clearly, Souma isn't who he's waiting for.
It hurts Souma just a little to see such bright blue eyes dim at the sight of him.
He wonders why, when he's never really been bothered by another's impression of him.
Well, Souma decides, quickly shrugging it off. He can brood over this later. Right now, his concern was navigating his way to...the actual school building.
In fact, might as well as the other boy if he knows the way. Souma would bet on a freshman rather than blind intuition anyday.
Souma approaches the boy, who eyes him warily.
"Sorry to bother, but do you happen to know the way to the main school building? Or the school in general?" Souma asks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.
Although the blond makes a little hesitant noise as he opens the pamphlet in his hand, he readily searches out the asked for location, clearly open to helping.
"Ah, yes. It should be...here." He points to a spot on the map, and Souma shuffles beside him to take a closer look. The faint smell of citrus as the boy's shoulder brushes his own catches Souma off guard.
Helpfully, the boy inches the map over to fully occupy Souma's field of vision. "Just keep going straight, then turn left at the first junction, and left again at the mural. You can't miss it."
"That's the plan. Thanks, you're a lifesaver." Souma grins. "And I thought nothing could be worse than missing the entrance ceremony. This school is an architectural mess."
The boy twists to properly face Souma, looking moderately surprised. "You're a new student, too? I didn't see you in the gym."
Souma awkwardly laughs. "Yeah, I got up late. Long story. How was the ceremony?"
"Alright." The answer is immediate, but the way the boy's eyes avoid Souma's gaze tells him it really wasn't. "Just a tad...long." He amends, after second thought. "I'm almost envious you missed it."
Somehow, the curt truth is refreshing. Souma chuckles. "I'm envious of the corsage you've got though." He says, longingly eyeing the flowers.
Following Souma's stare, the boy looks down at the customary flower corsage pinned to his blazer.
"It's a pity, I was looking forward to adding a high school one to my collection." Souma sighs, putting his hands behind his head. He'd been so careful about protecting his collection since kindergarten, too. One of the only things to have survived his constant moving about.
Without hesitation, the boy unpins the corsage from his chest, passing it to Souma, who stares questioningly at it.
"You can have this." His offer is inviting, but Souma shows proper restraint.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, my brother will have another one. And all my entrance ceremony corsages always disappear for some reason anyway, so doing this will complete mycollection."
Souma laughs, gratefully accepting the corsage. He immediately pins the corsage to his lapel, grinning at it. Another good thing to happen today. "Isn't it a little weird to only have graduation corsages?"
The boy's face grows pink. "I didn't mean for it to turn out that way!" He protests with a huff. The outburst of emotion makes Souma's laugh get louder.
Then he takes another proper look at Souma, and smiles.
"Hey, has anyone ever told you you look good with sunflowers?"
Somehow, the phrase twists at Souma's heart. He blinks, unsure of the sudden burning of behind his eyes, the swelling feeling beneath his ribcage. His fingers brush against the fabric petals of the spray of sunflowers pinned to his chest.
"No."
The boy shrugs, trying to play off his words, despite his growing smile. Cheeks flushing when the connotation of his words set in. "Well, you do. Not in a weird way or anything, I mean. Just, it really fits you, you know?"
Souma's heart is thunderous. Breath stuttering, stopping for a second.
"T-Thanks."
Spring is the beginning of things; the stark mark of an end of a season, and holding promises of new, brighter things in the coming one.
"Ah, right." The boy sticks out a hand, that oddly endearing smile etched wide on his face. "My name is Takumi Aldini. What's yours?"
Spring has already begun hours ago. But as light citrus fills the air, spun gold gets tossed to the wind and brilliant blue glistens, Souma thinks Spring only really starts, here.
"Yukihira Souma."
Souma grasps Takumi's hand, warm in his own.
"Nice to meet you."
.
.
.
A/N: Please review if you enjoyed! Bonus points if you can figure out who the white haired boy is :3c