Once, a God fell in love with a human.
Beauty is a possessive weakness no God can escape. And the human is beautiful, overly so.
Man named gold after the sun, yet the God himself has never seen finer upon the head of the human just turned twenty. Ivory skin and slender limbs matching lithe figure. Carved marble, the God thinks.
Fire flows where his veins line, and the flames lick and purr whenever familiar gold catches sunrays. Golden eyes flickering, burning, following the every step of the human with his arms full of flowers to be sold and mouth full of pretty, pretty words.
The human doesn't pray. Not since his brother passed Winters ago.
The human doesn't smile often, either. A pity, with looks like his.
Gods don't show themselves to mortals easily, but even Gods get greedy, even Gods get careless.
And love is a terribly careless mistake.
( "why did you show yourself before me?"
laughter.
"It's been a long time someone last questioned me.")
.
.
The human, Takumi, the God learns, isn't cold. He's the furthest thing from it.
After all, for all his resentment, he asked the God for a name.
( "i can't just call you whatever!
names are important."
"...well, i've always liked the sound of 'souma'." )
.
.
Sunflowers. Miles and miles of them stretching in the backyard of Takumi's house, and Souma snickers at the irony.
Takumi sells them stalk by stalk from morning till noon, conversations cordial, polite. Plastered on smiles, patronising laughter. It's almost painful to watch, so Souma doesn't. He's content enough with the view he gets outside of business hours.
However, one early morning when Souma first opens his eyes, he's wandering through the sunflower field and spies Takumi from the corner of his eye. He's sitting on the porch, leaning against a beam, eyes sleepily downcast, a blanket drawn over his shoulders, a warm drink nestled in his hands; cradled by the hues of purple black, oranges and reds beginning to seep in from the edges, a glimmer of a smile tugging on his lips.
The sunflowers were all facing Takumi, then.
Gods aren't bound down by mortal inconveniences like breathing, but with a material body, Souma is.
( but at that sight, he forgets. )
.
.
Mortals come up with the silliest games.
Souma watches Takumi poise his hand, toss the pebble that heads straight into the lake.
Displeased frown, picking up another pebble, and Souma can't be bothered to tell him fifteen isn't the charm.
The pebble arcs beautifully, plops once, twice, over the surface before sinking and he laughs aloud. It's short and surprised.
The delighted sound fills the clearing, chases away a bird resting nearby. Among the sudden shower of leaves, Takumi futilely ducks, then laughs, softer, but again.
So lost in the unusually mirthful laughs, Souma doesn't realise he's staring until Takumi pokes him in the forehead and tells him he doesn't need holes in his clothes.
("where do you see fun in this?"
"where do you gods see fun in messing with our lives?"
"touché ")
.
.
Words are just empty promises.
Many have prayed to Souma, lying through their teeth for what they would do in return for their granted wishes. Souma is a bored and benevolent God, so he closes both eyes and grants their wishes best he can either way.
Takumi's words are anything but empty.
They're loud and packed to the brim with emotion, brusque and blunt, clement and careful. Used to heal, used to hex, used to fill in empty spaces.
Most of all, they're honest.
Tender and unfamiliar honesty is to the ears of a God as taken for granted as the God of life, health and bountiful crops.
Soon, Souma starts to crave for more than just a morning greeting and brief conversations; snatches at the lazy afternoons with Takumi, basking in the warmth of his voice.
( "if i keep talking, ill get a sore throat"
"im the god of health, you'll be fine.
now tell me what happens after the witch frees the princess.")
.
.
It's a superficial love.
Beauty is fleeting, after all.
Takumi tells him as much, his back to Souma, fists loose. Staring at the sunset, eyes burning, watering.
And Souma, with his fading hands and translucent figure, agrees. Still, there's something that curls in his middle at the thought of never seeing the blond again.
Before he can put a finger on it, the sun sinks beyond the horizon.
( "i'd miss you if you died. all of you."
a pause. a sleepy blink. the first silver of light pierces through the curtains.
"would you miss 'me' when im old and wrinkly?"
"i would still love you, then." )
.
.
One afternoon, they find themselves in the middle of a wheat field.
Trespassing is against the law. Souma is the law, so he just winks at Takumi and beckons for him to follow.
In the midst of golden grains, both blend in easily, in demeanor and appearance.
Souma is whirling around, admiring the farmer's work, paces and strides faster than Takumi.
Turns around to tell him to hurry, stops instead when he sees Takumi rooted to the spot, eyes unable to tear themselves away from Souma's face.
Blinks, and a tear falls. Another blink, another tear. Soon, Takumi is hiccuping as tears relentlessly fall from his eyes.
He cries, about unfairness and life and death and how not even gods have the power to control when a life should be taken, he knows; how he's sorry and sad and wishes his brother were alive and can't blame anyone for anything, not even Souma, because it's not his fault, it's not. He doesn't want it to be.
He cries, and Souma can't even bring a single hand forward to comfort for he's far too afraid his touch might burn fragile Takumi into ashes.
Love is a careless mistake, Souma remembers. Love also aches like earth itself is shattering beneath his rib cage, makes the fire that line his veins blaze and hurt.
Gods are all-powerful and immortal, but not even Gods are immune to heartache.
( "im sorry" is tucked away, "
im sorry" is tucked away, "
im sorry" is tucked away,
"im sorry" is tuc- )
.
.
Crack of dawn, and Takumi sits on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, eyes red rimmed and heavy.
Souma wonders if he even slept.
( "is it fine to love you?"
"only if you let me love you back.")
.
.
Takumi's eyes have the glossy shine of turbulent waves, more blue than grey.
They hold wariness and fear and anger, and Souma understands why.
But with every passing day, every moment shared, the waves calm, mellow out.
Now his eyes hold smiles and acceptance and odd endearance, and Souma can't understand how.
( "your eyes are enchanting."
"they're just eyes. i mean, sure they're golden.
but they're just eyes."
a butterfly kiss upon the eyelid of the god.
a million more butterflies exploding in the stomach of the god.
"like i said, enchanting.")
.
.
It's impossible to walk anywhere without burning the ground; still Takumi twines his fingers between Souma's lambent ones, and shyly giggles.
Personification of heat and fire, yet Souma never knew another's warmth could feel unmatched, hotter than anything he's ever known.
And for a god who's lived for a very, very long time, Souma knew quite a fair bit.
( "it's dusk, i'll be fine for just a little while."
the next day his hands are gloved;
and he winces when souma kisses them
though he still blushes at the kiss )
.
.
They're by the lake again.
This time, Takumi has crumbled bread in his palm, scattering it to the ducks that waddle up to him by the lakeside.
He croons when they get close; squawks when they steal his entire sandwich and splash off into the lake to relish their stolen goods.
Takumi rolls up his pants leg and gives weak chase. When he returns to Souma's side beneath the tree, grumbling and soaked, Souma is rolling around in laughter.
Pausing to catch a breath, Souma splutters when wet hands grab his face. Leaning over him is Takumi, who casts a cool shadow over his upper frame.
Then the hands are replaced by lips.
Souma is spluttering for a very different reason now, but is easily silenced when the lips move along his jawline to his own pair of lips.
( "so the next time we touch, do i have to soak myself in water first?"
"that, or third degree burns. im just too hot."
"...im soaking you in water if you ever make that joke again.")
.
.
Hair is slippery and slips, slips, out of Souma's fingers. Sunlight is easier to control.
Paper crinkles as the book in Takumi's hands advance another page.
Weaving another lock of sunray into Takumi's fair head, and Souma wonders how a mortal can shine so brightly, inside and out, incomparable to even a God's holy glow.
Then Takumi's lips pull into a smile and even the sun seems dim in this deary afternoon.
( "you shine."
"like you?"
"no, better.")
.
.
Souma presses his lips to Takumi's, and Takumi pulls away; there's nothing to gain but fuel for a desire never to be fulfilled. But Souma tastes of lost summer afternoons and fresh honey, so Takumi leans back in, brushes his lips against the God's and murmur, "i wish i wasn't a mortal."
He replies, "i don't." and devours Takumi all over again, kissing the tears that fall from his eyes and tells him they taste like the sea.
Takumi kisses the corner of his eye and tell him he tastes like the finest salt a kingdom can offer, Souma laughs and says, "isn't that the same?"
.
.
Every legend, every folk tale of other worldly beings whisper a need of compensation for an audience with these higher creatures.
Gods are no exception. If anything, offerings should be made without being repaid at all. Out of respect, they say.
But who ever said offerings had to be corporeal?
("i love you"
"i love you, too")
.
.
The human has never worshipped the God.
The God has never worshipped the human more.
("stay with me," and the request is borderline greedy, demanding.
"until sunset." the promise would sound so inviting if he were not so far.
literally, and figuratively.
"and the next?"
"and the next."
"and the next?"
"...until the sun itself burns out.")
.
.
Once, a human fell in love with a God.
But mortals don't have an eternity, Gods' only company.
( "take care of my sunflowers for me")
.
.
Once, sunflowers didn't use to follow the sun.