prompt: fates intertwine

summary: he thinks whoever is in charge of fate has it out for him, specifically.

part 1

He doesn't notice it for a while. He's not used to counting years, but one day he notices the new, sharp tug anchoring him to the Near Shore. He tells himself it's nothing. There are a thousand reasons for him to be concerned with humanity, and all of them have to do with the clink of yen in his palm.

The fate of a god is not a complicated affair—nothing like the knots mortals tend to entangle themselves in. The fates of the gods soar far above that living, pulsing web, strung thin and silvery in the air like a telephone wire. Though Yato's has dipped into the world more than most, he comes out unscathed, unstrung. The day that suddenly changes, he tries not to think much of it.

This is not possible, so it is not happening.

Even when he feels the pull of an invisible string inside his chest, he mutters, "impossible," to himself. It's an impossibility that he could be tethered to something down there—unknown in the misty human world. Even as whatever it is drags him nearer and nearer, he pushes the thread aside. He doesn't cut it asunder, because to do that would be to acknowledge its existence. An existence that, Yato has said himself, is quite impossible.

It's not happening because it's not possible. It's not possible, so it's not happening. So why did he just say those words, those ringing, truthful words, to an ordinary schoolgirl?

It's a figure of speech, he thinks. It's just what I say. It's a tagline. My brand identity. Yato, the delivery god, who can charm the yen right out of your pockets. The first rule of good marketing, even as a god: always make it personal.

"May our fates forever intertwine," he had said to the girl facing him, spinning her five-yen coin between two of his fingers.

He tells himself, with limited success, that those words are no more significant than the slogans and bylines that decorate the billboards of the city.

"This is really starting to get old," he grumbles, pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his tracksuit. Iki, Iki, Iki, Iki. The name echoes in his ears like a distant bird call. He presses *answer*.

"Stop calling. I'm off duty."

*We both know that's not true. Will you please get to my job now?*

"Yeah, I'm definitely making it a priority. Maybe if you left my phone alone, I'd actually have time to complete it."

*Oh really? Are you working on it right now?*

Yato stretches his back against the hard surface of the shrine bench. Napping totally counts. He's replenishing his energy.

"Top of my list!"

He hears her sigh. This girl will not be thrown off, and Yato's almost forgotten what it feels like to be held accountable. It looks like there's someone who won't let him forget his responsibilities anymore. The thread pulling taut in his chest squeezes suddenly around his—strangely uneven—heartbeat. The girl on the other end of the phone line says:

*If you don't have it done in the next few days, I'll track you down and make you finish it.*

That might not be half bad, Yato catches himself thinking. So he hangs up on her.

The click as the call disconnects seems to mock him.

"Shut up," he says to no one.

He can't ignore it anymore. No one can ignore it anymore. Tenjin, curse him and his sharp tongue and his shrewd eyes, shoots him down from the perch of ignorance he was happily balancing in.

"You can't expect her to be happy in an entanglement with you, Yato. She's a girl—let her live."

That's what Yato wants. To let her live, and let her be happy. The strong, deeply knotted thread anchoring him to her causes an almost physical ache, but it's an ache he doesn't think he can survive without.

"So, will you do it?" Tenjin asks.

Yato closes his eyes and tries to picture it: Sekki's blade, diving like a serpent across the gap between himself and Hiyori, but the moment before it connects, the image in his mind pops in a distortion of color. He can't even see himself do it in his imagination, so what makes him think he'll be able to do it in reality?

Tenjin seems to understand, and heaves a great sigh.

"You're going to make life ten thousand times more difficult for her."

Yato feels like he's being ripped in half; one side of him listens attentively to Tenjin, recognizing the pragmatic wisdom there. The other side of him—the side he actually listens to—remains stumped by Hiyori's oxlike stubbornness, her human naïvete, her innocent trust in him. He kneads his temples.

"Well if it makes any difference, she's making life a pain for me too."

This is what happens when he's stupid enough to believe that good things can happen to him. Things like this happen instead. Whatever connection their fates might have had at one point is snapped in two, drowned under the weight of water and of earth. And in his arms, there's nothing but her fragile body.

"Hiyori!"

Please.

In his defense, it had been so nice to think that maybe his life could encounter someone else's, even for a few years. It had been nice to think that "may our fates intertwine" weren't just words built around an impossible promise. It had been nicer than he could ever have believed to look into someone's face and see right into her good, good soul. It had been nice for him. But look what it's done to her.

"Hiyori."

He cradles her head, touching her breakable, human self like it still holds something, like her eyes will open and she will smile at him and then probably follow it up with a Jungle Savate for how compromising his position over her is. Her name is still part of her, so he says it again, again, again.

Until her eyes do open, and she takes a long breath, like she's almost forgotten how to fill her lungs—like she's breathing in her favorite scent. When she speaks, he thinks he's woken up in a bright dream.

"Yato."

He's rapidly forgetting the meaning of the word, "impossible."

part 2

The lady of Yomi has many skills, but one in particular she can use to in lure in her prey—prey such as this intriguing, sharp-featured boy god, who still thinks he's avoiding her spider's trap.

Izanami can read the threads.

This time she follows the cord, thicker than hair, and more gossamer than a spider's thread, straight from where it twines around Yato to its connection with the human girl, who stands so far above them, wondering. Hiyori Iki.

She knows whose face to wear.

Dammit, Hiyori just keeps rescuing him. At this point, Yato knows the impossibility of them has somehow forced its way into reality, because there's no way someone who wasn't tethered to him by the crooked fingers of fate would have stuck with him for so long. There's no other way she could have guessed his real name. There's no other way she wouldn't have given up.

Then again, this is Hiyori he's talking about. It's hard to make predictions with her.

This is one of the thoughts occupying him during his time in recovery. This, and the effect his role has had in her life. When she comes to see him, he decides to find out, from her own mouth, whether that effect has been good or bad. He'll take her word for it; trusting her judgment is the least he can do.

"You look…pretty good," she says, after entering the room in Bishamon's house that has been turned into Yato's makeshift hospital wing.

"I think you meant to say, 'as always'," he quips. Whoops. This was supposed to be serious.

Her eyes travel over the bruises and lacerations that have turned his body into a patchwork map of bandages.

"No comment."

Ouch.

Hiyori seems to sense there's something more than just physical that's bothering him. It's still a thought he can't phrase correctly; he doesn't know how to ask her without sounding whiny or pitiable. He appreciates that she doesn't ask him about it, but just comes to sit on the side of his bed.

In his silence, she gazes around in awe at the spacious, well-lit room, and Yato suddenly feels a bit jealous. He's jealous of the house, for being prettier and in better shape than he is.

"This place is really nice," she says, and his mood lifts. He can't be negative when she is near him, and happy. He can try, but it's another impossibility he's tired of fighting.

"Yeah. Popularity pays…" he says, rolling his eyes. Then he realizes how bad that sounds, especially since Bishamon is voluntarily letting him stay here to recover.

He promptly backtracks:

"Not that being a popular god is bad! Ha, ha."

Hiyori looks extremely unconvinced, but lets it drop. Instead, she says:

"Well, popular or not, you both seem to attract the same amount of trouble."

He swallows. She's handed him the perfect opportunity.

"Yeah…speaking of that…"

I'm sorry you got tied up in all this. I'm sorry to make you worry. I'm sorry that I can't seem to let go of you.

"Sorry. About…those."

He waves vaguely at the faint purple that blooms over parts of her arms and legs. The arrival of Heaven's Punishers had been rough on everyone: humans, gods, and regalia alike. It's not really his apology to claim, but it's something.

She looks down at the fading bruises, as if she had already forgotten about them.

"Oh. Right. These aren't that big a deal."

Then she looks up from herself, and gives him a look that tells him how transparent his dodging is to her.

"That's good," he says, lamely. Then:

"You always get kinda banged up on these adventures of mine. You didn't have to come try to find me, you know."

Her hand, resting on the sheet next to his, jerks like she's been shocked. Yato swears he can hear her teeth click together.

"What do you mean by that?"

He tries not to cringe at the iron in her tone. But he's really stepped in it now, so he might as well see it through.

"You're a human. You don't have to get involved in dangerous stuff like this if you don't want to. I'm just saying…it's not like I'm asking you to—"

"Idiot!"

His jaw flaps open—then he snaps it shut immediately. Hiyori looks madder than he's ever seen her. And he's seen her get pretty damn angry. But this time there are tears swelling at the corners of her eyes, so the effect is even worsened. She's getting all red and splotchy too. He probably shouldn't mention that.

"I said I'd stick with you, didn't I? And besides, it's not like I'm really safe if I stop associating with you. Your enemies will always be my enemies. I thought you knew that, Yato."

Without seeming to realize it, she grabs his hand and presses it between both of hers—hard enough to reawaken the stinging pain of the wounds beneath the bandages. That pain he easily can deal with.

So it looks like he has his answer. Maybe neither of them had much of a say in whether or not their fates were tied together. But at least he tried to give her a choice, and her answer still rings in his ears. Later, when she tells him: "You've always been my god of fortune," the part he doesn't hear her say—the part he fills in for himself—is that she has made him one.

Another impossibility he's figuring out how to overcome is the idea that he can accomplish anything good through his own power. Still, he credits any blessing that falls in his path to the parts of her life that wound themselves miraculously around his. Though unintentionally, she led him to his hafuri. She carried and withstood his blight. She built him his first shrine. She believed in him—believed hard enough for a thousand worshipers—and remembered his name when he did everything he could to disappear from her life. The only time she ever called him "Yaboku"—the name he pushed away, along with the life associated with it—was to, once again, rescue him.

When Yato said their fates would intertwine, he didn't know he would wind up clinging to hers like a lifeline.

Hiyori looks up at him, and raises her eyebrows.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He remembers, quite suddenly, the thousand reasons for his concern with humanity—and he has to laugh as he confronts yet another impossibility. Every one of them is staring at him out of her eyes.