#All stumbly like a newborn deer (not helped by long limbs and body all differently proportioned & more limbs lol)

[tejoxys]

Play House

Eldritch blacksand, finally. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at this for years; I actually started this piece when I was house-sitting for friends of the family in... 2014. Damn.

----

The Dark comes down when the Light calls, down into the house where the Light wants to play. The humans are gone; the house sits far back on its long lawn redolent with sleeping flowerbeds, its peaked rooftops shiny with the rain tapping at dark windows.

-windows!- The Light leaps into them at once. The Light loves these gooey spans of sand bending light, sand flowing, sand made liquid pretending to be solid. In the temporal sea where the Light and Dark swim, the glass has already completed its crawl to the ground, the ground reclaimed by lava, the planet dashed into the sun—but here, where they focus their attention, the spans hang rain-kissed and shimmering.

The Dark is delighted to find that this house is full of wires, the new, clever wires that talk inside the walls—that talk across the world, distance less and less a barrier, edging closer to the way the Dark and Light talk to each other, close enough and strange enough to be oh so interesting—and dives for the nearest outlet.

A clear ringing reverberates from the windows, -wait-

Image of sparks, image of fire. The concept that this is bad. Bad means no. No means don’t do it.

The outlet hums back, -Why?-

-humans-

-The humans are gone.- Hesitation, a question.

-yes/no-

-Define instance of gone.-

The Light pulls down like an overhead projector screen the concept of linear progression, applies it to the house, narrows its scope to encompass the humans’ projected ownership of the house—do we know ownership? yes/no, disregard that part—, sets tags at either end to mark the boundaries of when the Dark is absolutely not allowed to cause damage to the house. A vague allusion to the concept of vacation, which is relevant, but so specific as to be painful, so they both drop it.

Something very like a sigh. -Yes.-

The matter settled, they race through the house like dolphins at play, the Light and the Dark.

They rejoin inside a lamp, at the twine of glass and wire. Abruptly, the Light leaps comet-sprightly to the center of the room. Calls for a game they last played where/when there were no wires or windows, where/when there were no houses. This game is a few strange rocks in the sea, raising their sun-bleached heads above the water, seldom visited.

The Dark hangs back. Unease. Concept of like and dislike, concept of novelty, dislike applied to novelty. This is one of the few differences that make them two, not one. The game will separate them further still, the fragments of themselves that are here/now cut off even more, if only for a time, but time will matter; that’s the point.

The Light sends out a call to the dirt below the house, and offers, -but fun-

Materials gather; in moments, the Light means to seal itself away, whether the Dark chooses to join in or not. Unease. U N E A S E. The Dark relents.

Two human bodies build themselves on the living room floor, amid dust mites and animal hairs on the glossy wood. Scanning up and down the house’s timeline for clues, they build themselves in the owners’ images. It takes several tries to iron out a workable nervous system, lungs that feed both heart and throat, and something like blood that flows. They don’t need to get so fancy, but the game is more fun when it’s realistic. Agonies crackle, spark-white behind eyelids wet as newborn butterflies, and then it’s done.

To pull a mask over one tiny spark of oneself and leave only tiny holes through which to gather sense, to leave the rest outside, pulsing, calling in muffled tones, waves breaking on rocks—it’s incomprehensible. Maybe their hearts first beat in response to how terrifying it is. But the first thing their bodies do, on opening their eyes, is laugh. The wild glint of teeth in open mouths is so shocking that the laughter redoubles on itself. Limbs flail; they both forgot proprioception. They edit accordingly, and engage in a messy fight with gravity to stand.

The bodies lurch around the darkened living room. They sit on every piece of furniture, laugh, open and close every drawer and cabinet, take turns trying on a pair of fleece slippers by the overstuffed chair, laugh some more. One stumbles, begins to fall; the other automatically reaches out and steadies. Marvels that the drive to help is built into the neural wiring. The one who nearly fell is mildly disappointed; was curious to feel gravity’s action on the glass-topped coffee table. They are both distracted by hands on skin.

The Light is fascinated, just as every time before, running hands slowly up and down long arms. These forms built of matter, the same as the house and everything in it, nothing but molecules that vibrate and collide but never collapse into one. Nerves that insist someone is there, someone is touching me, but they’re only ever right in the way that bodies can be right.

The Light is sad. The Dark knows what the Light would say, if they could hear each other now: -they never touch-

But the Dark likes it, the screaming contradictory signals. Pulls the Light closer so they lean together, twining wires that bounce their voices into orbit and back down to other wires waiting across the globe, but can’t speak to the ones running parallel beside them. So strange, so interesting. Sways the two of them, gently; sways again. The Light looks up, smiles like sunshine—expression of delight built-in. This game! Yes!

Spare photons tumble down to roll across the walls in diamonds and whirls. Static charge gathers in the basement to come rumbling up through the floor in rhythmic spikes. The bodies clasp hands, and begin to dance. A strange scent rolls out from the house, too-sweet stargazer lilies thrown on hot coals, scorched metal or blood and a breath of the sea; five deer grazing on the lawn bolt for the woods; a neighbor half a mile away across a field sees lights flashing in the empty house, and reaches for the phone.

The vastnesses of themselves they left outside know all of this, but the two sparks inside the bodies sway and spin, smile and know nothing else. The bodies gain grace with every step, balance improved a great deal when the Light and Dark pause to craft delicate aquifers deep inside the ear canals they forgot to connect to the outside, wincing through the crackle of drums and hammers forming, leaning on each other, laughing. Their blood is warm, the room is spinning.

The slick hissing of wheels on wet gravel never reaches them, but the slam of car doors does.

More swiftly than brain matter can react, the swirling lights are gone, the pounding music quenched, and the Light and Dark flat on the floor.

Knocking. More insistent knocking. Harsh rattling at the doorknob. “Hello?” Footsteps outside the windows and an arcing flashlight beam. “Police! We know you’re there.”

The Dark and Light look at each other; the whites of their eyes glint in the beams being swung through every window. To disperse these forms, or not? It’s a knife’s-edge of a question, such a precarious thing that more of their greater selves bleed through unbidden, but they silently agree not to. Besides, there’s still something the Dark wants to do; information running through hands, concept of limited time, fondness, sparkling eyes. Meanwhile, the voices outside are already descending to an uncertain murmur amongst themselves: Had the lights been inside the house, or behind it? Had they really heard music in the fast, unpolished rumble? Had they seen or heard anything at all?

The Light grips the Dark’s hand tighter for a moment, grins, and takes a breath.

“Well, there’s no footprints. No signs of a break-in—look at that!”

Murmuring and scuffing noises on the driveway.

“That was ball lightning. Swear to god, ball lightning. That’s rare.”

“Shit!”

A few seconds of silence drip by, measured in the raindrops still sliding from the shingles.

“Well, I guess that answers that. We came all the way out here for a little thunder and lightning.”

“But there’s no storms in the area I’ve heard of. No one else got any, just rain.”

Someone rattles the doorknob one last time. “Look, there’s nothing here. House is secure. Let’s go on back to the car...”

The deliberation moves down the driveway. It is decided that someone will drive by the house later on, maybe stay and keep watch if there’s nothing else to do. Car doors again. Tires hissing on wet gravel. The night closes around the house once more.

The bodies sit up very slowly.

-Stay here?- asks the Dark, taking advantage of the lowered barriers between them to speak directly.

-yes/no- Despite having answered in the same way, the Light frowns at the Dark. -spoiling the game. turn it off-

-Want use speech? Ears? Really?-

The Light tries several times, mouth working, before a passable, if squeaky, “y Es” plops out.

Heavy sighs come naturally to the Dark. -Miss you,- the Dark complains.

“On e  niG ht,” the Light says, beginning to smile.

-Yes.  Miss you.-

The Light reaches out and twines both arms around the Dark; hands find and cradle a skull, strum soft hair; the Light quivers when the Dark does the same in return. “Wh a t?” the Light asks, referring to the thing the Dark wanted to do. The Light has a pretty good idea, because the Light has been waiting for a chance to try it, too.

It’s a smile and a breath, this thing that some humans have begun to do, not as recently as wires inside houses, but not so far back that eternity has taken much notice. It’s a tilt of heads, like flowers following the sun, and the sun is the other’s face. They lean their foreheads together, pulses still hot from the dance; it’s a slow, delicate roll, and mouth finds mouth. Strange, so strange. Shivery touch. They have to learn teeth, learn pressure—not too much of either one—until nerves sing pleasure. Lips are so good at the illusion, so, so good at pretending that they touch for real, much better than hands, better than other kinds of touch they’ve tried before; and still the knowledge is there, made painfully sharp, even, that there are empty fields of static between everything capable of touching and feeling, but this touch, this touch is the one that promises that if it can only last long enough, if they can only press close enough and love hard enough, the two of them can become one.

The bodies are weak when they finally lean back, such a curious thing, so much more tremblingly vulnerable to time rolling heavily over them – they could do this forever, but they don’t have it. The humans will return; the dawn will break. Already a greasy golden line on the horizon sets an ache growing in the hollows of their eyes.

They climb the stairs slowly, to where there is a bed – they are familiar, at least, with the use of a bed, for sleeping is a most exciting game – pausing to kiss on the stairs. Again. And again. There will be more kissing the next time they play, it is decided. And at the top of the stairs, to sleep—only sleep? Speech bleeding away in anticipation of sleep, image of rolling raindrops, of rain-drenched irises in the garden nodding heavy purple heads that smell like licorice, golden light in the first window of the attic, a question?

The question is weighed, and the question is dropped, heavy as bodies into the welcoming billow of comforters. They ready their senses for the plunge into sleep, arms wrapped around bodies, touching-not-touching, closing the eyes and the ears and all the rest, one by one, alone, more alone. Once they have finished sleeping and concluded the game, the bodies will dissipate and leave nothing for the homeowners to find but silver dust in the sheets and a ghost of metal in the back of the throat.

But now, now they come to the reason that sleep is so exciting. They have found nothing else like dreaming—and perhaps they do not get it quite right, as those who dream regularly might tell them. Or perhaps they, being what they are, are able to know something that mortal dreamers only sometimes feel to be true—that dreaming is a place inhabited by all, beyond molecules, beyond plurality. As they retreat further into deadening flesh like nesting dolls, they dive toward it like desperate fish leaping from a ship’s deck—the water sparkling below them, and once they reach it, nothing will keep them apart, no barriers of flesh or time or difference. They never dream alone.

That would truly be asking the impossible.

[sunnybimbo]

for @hunkshipweek day 2, magic/supernatural!

ship: shunk (shiro/hunk)

word count: ~5k 

Read it on AO3.

“You don’t have to do this.” Pidge says to him, just as the dawn begins to settle. He’s surrounded by faceless people, or atleast it feels that way with how little they look at him, so he focuses on nothing but her. Heavy makeup is traced across his eyelids, golden lines echoing the whisper of sun beams that paint his skin.

His lips are doused even heavier in it, shinier still, and he tries not to mess up the hard work everyone went through to make him pretty as he says, “I kinda have to.”

He reaches over with his free hand, the one not dipped in oil and painted with intricate patterns, pressing their palms together. “If all goes well, you’ll see me next week.”

Someone harrumphs behind him, and he hears a mimicking, condescending, “If all goes well.”

Which was fair. Truly, if all went well, he’d be gone before the end of the day, snatched up by greedy gods who demanded their prize. It wasn’t often someone was chosen to be sacrificed, only one every few years, and even less often that people disappeared.

But, when those years pass and someone never returns, the crops are always abundant and plentiful, and the village prospers. If all goes well.

Pidge’s eyes are wet, but tears don’t fall past her clumped eyelashes as his hand is plucked away to be painted to match the rest of him.

It’s because of her that he’s here.

Not purposefully, of course. He’d volunteered, after she was called upon by the village head to take over the duty as the chosen. She came to him, terrified not just for herself but for her family.

Ever since Matt had gotten taken, she’s the only one left in her family that was spritely enough to make money. Her father was deeply ill, always, and her mother struggled enough with the despair she felt in her heart after losing one child.

Hunk had come to the village alone as a child, not necessarily abandoned but it felt that way sometimes. But he didn’t have people depending on him as much as Pidge did. It was only natural.

Hunk never considered himself to be the brave type— and in fact, his stomach was trying to claw its way through his gut as he sat on the throne that may just as well been his crypt— but he put on a mask to broadcast as much for her.

His head is jerked away, breaking their gaze prematurely, and he feels himself blush as his robes are tugged away so they can mark the rest of him, exposing him completely nude. Pidge hardly batters an eye, but she does turn away for decency’s sake.

“I’ll miss you.” She says, after a quiet moment of listening to the faceless group swarm around him like flies homing in on a rotting carcass. His hair is tugged from scalp to root, forced straight by a fire-hot comb. “I’ll keep your house clean.”

“Thank you.” Hunk says, honestly. “If I don’t come back…” He hears Pidge’s sharp inhale, but he continues over her with, “You can have all my stuff. Even the stuff I pretend to hide.”

“Not like I haven’t snooped through it anyway, like you do me.” Pidge gripes. Neither of them mentions the way she sniffles, wiping at her nose with her short sleeves.

It was nearing fall, the perfect time for crops to flourish before winter hits hard, but the weather was unforgiving. Hot and sticky with mist from morning to noon and on, it more often than not led to people wandering to the nearest body of water and floating until they pruned like sour grapes.

Hunk supposes he should be thankful that he’s expected to be naked, then, instead of wrapped in layers and layers of heavy, uncomfortably ornate robes and gowns. He’d cling to little mercies like that until this entire thing passed.

And really, this was a good thing. If best came to best, he’d be pampered all week long and then, better still, taken care of for the rest of his life. The chosen ‘few’ were never abandoned by the village, as per tradition.

Really, it would have been a more fought over position if not for the even rarer few that disappear.

 ---

 Pidge is dismissed out of the room that has nothing more than a stone throne. She would have gone kicking and screaming if she hadn’t been asleep after sitting with him for nearly seven hours.

Hunk watches her get carried off, but his gut instincts tell him that she’s going to be just fine. As for himself, however…

The caretakers position him down to the hair on his arms, giving him a sharp slap on the thigh if he even twitches his nose. It’s uncomfortable and demeaning, and the tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but he sucks it up because he does not want to sit through getting his makeup redone.

He’s draped in silk, wrapped to be enticingly teasing across his lap and his shoulders, but he feels like he’s drowning in delicate threads. It doesn’t help that he’d been bathed in oil for so long that his bones feel like jelly. He could hardly smell anything other than the overpowering florals meant to last for the rest of the week.

A caretaker pins his hair too tightly to his head, the final decoration to the centerpiece that Hunk was. It nearly overwhelms him, and his fingers twitch to rip it out and run off into the forest, but he somehow convinces himself to stay put.

The group leaves, silent enough that he doesn’t realize it’s happened until his heartbeat fades into the quiet and he’s left alone with nothing but the faint drip of water from the nearby pool.

Hunk rolls his neck, vindictively satisfied when he feels a lock of hair fall out of place.

He hadn’t realized that the quiet would be the worst part of this, but it’s only five days. Five days of being a living doll for a greedy god and his self-proclaimed lackeys.

He grips the armrest of his throne and lets his eyes flutter shut.

Just five days.

 ---

That first night, Hunk disappears.

---

 He blinks just once, it feels like, but everything changes.

Hunk rolls over, realizing that he’s in a bed rather than on a stone slab, and the pillows pull him in to their sinful embrace of woven satin and fluffed feathers.

The room he’s in is something fit for royalty, grand and tall. The windows are layers with thick glass, but they’re somehow warm to the touch when he pads over to look out of them.

He’s on some sort of island, he thinks at first, until he realizes that the rolling blue he sees isn’t an ocean, but the sky itself. Clouds circle past him, misting the ground with dew, and Hunk feels faint.

He sees a city, off to the left. It’s far enough away that he can’t make out all of the details, but everything looks to be outlined in royal starlight, and Hunk is sure he’s lost it.

He’s still dressed as he was before he… was kidnapped? The shawls cling to his skin as he starts to nervously sweat all over, but his makeup doesn’t run. He takes an unsteady step across the plush carpet, and he can’t resist wiggling his toes against the soft fuzz that gathers between them.

He stumbles to the door, like a newborn deer seeking freedom.

The hallway is just as grand as the room, sconces lining every stone and illuminating them in rainbow hues, but Hunk doesn’t get a chance to focus on them because he runs directly into another person as soon as he steps out.

He stumbles, but the other catches him before he can fall. A chill cuts through him as he takes in the skin, and he suddenly feels like a lonely figure alone in the dark in the middle of a freezing winter.

His vision blurs, but he doesn’t realize that they’re tears until the person— the god— in front of him wipes them away.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He’s told. “I would have given you more warning.”

“Um.” Hunk starts, focusing on the dark hand that releases its hold on him. He swears he sees stars dancing across those fingertips before they fade into the pale skin, further up the forearms.

He belatedly realizes the god is missing an arm, then.

“Um.” Hunk repeats, head jerking to look him in the eye. “Did I die?”

“No.” The amused god assures, hooking his arm in Hunk’s to lead him down the hall. “Nobody dies here.”

“Oh.”

Hunk pauses, going green around the edges, and the rest is a blur.

 ---

 He learns that 1) he truly isn’t dead and 2) Shiro chose him to be his sacrifice.

“More of a gift, I’d like to think.” Shiro murmurs, running his thumb across the curves of Hunk’s cheeks after his nausea has passed and his skin isn’t as pale.

He was carried, and yes that is literal despite the god missing a limb, to a nearby pasture— a plateau of sorts that overlooked the entire kingdom. The grand city Hunk had seen from his window was apparently one of three, and each was overlooked by a different god. It went completely over Hunk’s head, or maybe he didn’t want to focus too much on the logistics of it.

He focuses, instead, on Shiro. Takashi Shirogane, the technical ruler of his entire village, that preferred to be known as Shiro because it made him feel less intimidating despite the gnarled scars running up his half-arm and the wide expanse of his shoulders.

Shiro watches him in return. He doesn’t say much, that introspective type. It makes Hunk nervous to have his every move watched, but Shiro has a gentle look on his face, so maybe it isn’t all bad.

“So… I’m not dead. I’m your gift? So, like a concubine or something?”

Shiro snorts— a god, snorting!— and quickly shakes his head. “Not at all, unless that’s what you choose to be.”

He tilts his head, dropping onto his knees besides where Hunk was curled in the grass. He has wings, Hunk realizes, that only show when the sun is directly behind him. They’re transparent like snowflakes, reflecting light, and they look just as fragile.

“I chose for you to come to this realm because I’m interested in you.” Shiro confesses. “I’m the selfish type, you see. I’d like to get to know you better.”

Hunk wheezes in surprise, probably in what’s meant to be a laugh. “You want to get to know me? A plain old human boy?”

���Yes.” Shiro leans closer, staring directly into Hunk’s soul. His fingers stray to Hunk’s makeup, seemingly before he can stop himself, and they rub along the paints staining his skin as he says, “There’s no one I’ve been interested in more.”

Shiro has been called many things in his eternal life, but he’s never been called a liar. He’d seen Hunk before— seen everyone and everything before, actually— but now, decorated and docile before him in sheer robes and adorning his sigils? He wasn’t just interested, he was smitten.

Hunk regards him cautiously, as if he’s seeing every bad ending play behind his eyelids when he blinks, but Shiro hurries to assuage his fears with a gentle touch to his hand and a, “As agreed, your village will prosper. I’ll send someone to bless the crops soon.”

Unfortunately, that seems to have the opposite effect he’s hoping for. Hunk’s eyes grow sad, wet at the corners, and he mumbles to himself, “So I really can’t go back?”

It hurts his heart to hear that, but Shiro is understanding. He’s a selfish god, yes, but not a cruel one.

He stands, tugging Hunk to his side, where he belongs. Then, he opens a portal, laying out the entrance to his temple. “I won’t keep you here if that’s truly what you wish.” Shiro says to him, pressing into his space until they’re chest to chest. “But also know that I won’t let you go that easily.”

He feels the mild onset of panic thrumming across Hunk’s skin, so he backs off with a disarming smile. “Let’s make a deal.”

He’d always been known to be a clever god, too.

 ---

 Hunk feels himself wake up, startlingly sudden. The hills are alight with the rising sun, and the sunbeams are warm against his freezing toes as his senses come back to him one by one.

He can see his caretakers’ shadows crawling across the wall like lizards, and Hunk is sure he must not have been gone long at all.

The glittery gold on his lips is smudged out of place, he can see from the mirrors lining the walls, and he can faintly remember Shiro’s thumbs smearing across it when they’d first met. He can still feel his touch, actually, omnipresent as if Shiro is just waiting for him off to the side.

It makes him nervous, but not in the way he was expecting. His heart jitters in his chest, nervous like someone confessing their love with a spring love letter.

Pidge is with the caretakers, Hunk can hear. She’s arguing to come in, from her tone, and Hunk fondly shakes his head. He couldn’t bear to leave her alone in this little village. Not that she would be truly alone, not with her mother and father who care for her so dearly.

Hunk remembers Shiro’s deal then, a gentle reminder from the god himself, probably.

“Fall in love with me before the week ends,” Shiro whispered, and it felt much like the moon eclipsing the sun. “And you must stay here.”

He’d circled around Hunk’s back, clawed fingers tilting Hunk’s chin up to have him look at the clouds. “If you’re able to resist, I’ll let you go with a wish of your choice for wasting your time.”

It sounds like a trick— too much of a win-win for Hunk and not for Shiro, but it isn’t like he has many options being a mortal toy in a god’s hands. And Hunk’s betraying heart actually trusts him, too, to keep his word.

Hunk keeps it a secret from Pidge, just in case.

 ---

The second night, Hunk is taken again.

---

 A bundle of wildflowers is placed in his hands, tied delicately together with a wrap of ribbon. The long grasses tickle his fingertips as he sniffs at the pollen in the center, only to sneeze a cloud of it away.

Shiro grins at him, pleased at the flushed, wide-eyed look Hunk gives him. “I learned this is something your kind does. Flowers for their beloved.”

One couldn’t blame Hunk for the dopey smile that stretches his lips, not when Shiro bashfully tucks one of the dandelions behind Hunk’s ear. If he squints, he could swear that the god was actually blushing a bit, around the edges.

“Thank you.” Hunk breathes, fingering the soft petals against his thumb. “These are lovely.”

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to relay those same sentiments back at him, what with Hunk decorated the way he was. Gold jewels wrapped around his limbs, tinkling when the charms clink together, and his hair is tied up and dipped purple. That always had been Shiro’s favorite color.

He holds off, though, because humans do these things slowly.

“If I may?” Shiro offers his hand, the only he’s got, and takes Hunk out on a date.

 ---

 Shiro takes him to dance with the stars, first. The sun hums in the plentiful space between them, but Shiro keeps him steady as Hunk is spun on Saturn’s rings.

Hunk can’t tell his fingers from the stardust, but that doesn’t matter when Shiro shows him a triage of growing galaxies in the distance, glowing with colors that Hunk didn’t even know existed.

He’d never been one for travel, much too motion-sick to even joke with the idea, but he feels completely at peace millions of miles away from ground, merging with the universe itself.

Shiro brings him back before he disappears within the universe with a simple touch to his back, pulling him close.

“May I?” Shiro asks, quiet and loud. Hunk has no clue what he’s asking, but he agrees nonetheless.

The stars get replaced with jellyfish and the space gets replaced by cold water and a faint pressure on his bones. It isn’t uncomfortable, and Hunk isn’t drowning, but that doesn’t stop the mild fright Hunk feels when he realizes.

Shiro, ever so touchy, crowds in close so that they can drift together. “I’ve got you.”

Hunk had never learned to swim— never was old enough before he was trapped in a landlocked village, but Shiro is patient enough.

The fish seem unafraid of them as they swim pass in their groups, circling curiously to nip at Hunk’s fingers. They leave Shiro alone, for some reason, choosing to pick at the mortal boy who couldn’t get himself to stay floating on his front instead of his back.

Shiro laughs at him, and it’s an incredibly nice expression for him to have, in Hunk’s opinion. “Like this.”

He loops around Hunk to pick over his form, teasingly running his fingers down his spine just to see him shiver. “I should have asked if you knew how to swim before I brought you here.”

“Would’ve been a nice warning.” Hunk agrees, flopping onto the seafloor. A plume of sand puffs around him, disrupting the sandcrabs that hurry to run off. “But I don’t mind it. I’ve never been somewhere like this.”

He rolls over onto his side, lifting a few inches off the sandbed before floating back down again, and he runs his fingers across briny kelp that threatens to tickle his nose like the pollen did. A jawfish peeks at him from its burrow, but it runs off as Hunk passes his fingers across the hole it makes.

None of it feels real, and deep down it probably isn’t, but he feels himself getting overwhelmed nonetheless. The unending space around them— both of stars and jellyfish— is too close and too far, and—

Just as he sits up with the first panicked breath of many, he’s back in the room he’d started. Shiro sits on the bed with him, worriedly chewing his lip as his hand hovers the space above Hunk’s chest.

“I’m sorry. Humans aren’t meant to experience things so quickly.” Shiro climbs fully onto the bed, and Hunk realizes that it must not have been real because neither of them are dripping wet. “It’s so strange to me, that you live so long but experience so little of your universe.”

And really, Hunk would be offended on behalf of mankind if he wasn’t drained by his sudden existential crisis.

Shiro kisses his forehead, cautiously careful. “My apologies, Hunk.” And then, much like their first meeting, he wipes away the gathered tears blinding him.

Hunk squints at Shiro, suspicious all at once. “Why are you doing this?”

Shiro looks like he wants to play coy, at first, but his shoulders drop and he pulls his hand back to give Hunk his space. “I love you.”

The confession is so sudden and out of the blue that Hunk nearly jumps out of his skin. He does jump off of the bed, gathering his robes just to give his hands something to do. “Why ? You hardly know me.”

Shiro seems confused at the question. “I know enough. I know the type of person you are.”

“That’s not how it works.” Hunk says, exasperated. “Love is supposed to be slow— you wake one day after years and you realize that you never want to leave the other person’s side. That sort of thing.”

And really, that’s a lie.

Hunk couldn’t count on four hands the amount of times people have run through their village, wind-flushed and enamored with their partners as they search for a place to be eloped. Most of them had hardly known one another for maybe six months.

Hunk has a right to want things to be slow, though. Right? Right.

Shiro frowns then. Not angry, but introspective. He stands to Hunk’s height, just a few inches more, and tilts his head up so that they can look one another in the eye. It seems to be something he likes doing.

“Gods aren’t supposed to fall in love at all.” He says, finally.

Shiro is a fantastic creature. He’s translucent, almost, but his missing hand is replaced with nothing more than space itself. His wings match, and if Hunk could reach up and palm his scalp, he would probably find horns there, too.

But, besides that, he’s face is soft and his eyes are open. With the expression he has now, lips slightly parted, dark eyes darker when they’re half-lidded, Hunk feels helpless.

His touch is gentle, fingers sliding lower and lower down Hunk’s body until they catch themselves at his hip, and Hunk is pulled in by it.

He’s sure, for the longest, that Shiro is going to close the distance between them and kiss him on the lips— he wants that to happen— but they break apart.

“Let me take you home.” Shiro murmurs, urging Hunk towards the door. “I’ll do better next time.”

The door opens, not to the hallway but through a mirror in the temple, and Hunk feels oddly disappointed.

When Hunk hesitates, Shiro gives him the most charming of smiles and says, “I’ll listen to what you said. Don’t forget to come back tomorrow.”

Hunk isn’t even sure of how to get back on his own, but he nods anyway.

 ---

 He tells Pidge immediately what happened.

“I don’t know if what he wants from me is what he says, but…” Hunk sighs. “He’s sweet.”

Pidge’s eyebrows disappear behind her messy bangs. “The god that you were sacrificed to is sweet.”

She’s taking it rather well, in all honesty. Hunk isn’t sure he’d be as calm as she seemed, if the roles were opposite. “What do you think I should do, Pidge? I’m falling in love with him, probably, but if that happens, I’m going to have to leave.”

“There’s nothing for you here, Hunk.” Pidge sighs. She steps between the pillars that he isn’t allowed to pass, the ones that act as entrance to the temple, and she hooks her hands on her hips as she looks him straight in the eye.

“You’re here.” He mumbles, sulkily if not for the serious situation.

She rolls her eyes, exaggerated in a way that he knows is just to make him feel better— but it works. “Who am I to stand in the way of a god and his lover?”

She leads him further into the temple, familiar with it even though she didn’t want to be. Her fingers trace the engravings on the throne as she plops down on it, and Hunk sits on the ground beside her. That’s how it probably would have been, with her dressed up and taken away, if he hadn’t stolen her place.

“I convinced Ma that it’s best we leave this place.” Pidge says, after they get settled. “Right before this entire thing happened— when I didn’t even know I was gonna get picked. She’s all for it.”

She shakes her head, pulling her legs to cross in the seat. “We’re not going to be here much longer, Hunk. Once we get enough money for a cart, we’re grabbing everything we can and we’re leaving in the middle of the night.”

Hunk is struck, then, with a thought. Shiro had promised that if Hunk went with him, the town would be blessed— the crops would flourish, the town would thrive. Pidge would be able to get enough money with odd jobs alone, probably.

“I see that look on your face.” Pidge says, squinting at him like she does when she knows he’s doing something he shouldn’t be.

“I’ll handle everything, Pidge.” Hunk promises. “I know you and your family will be able to get out of here before the next season.”

“And what about you and the mistress?”

Hunk grimaces at the phrasing, and by the cheeky grin on Pidge’s face, he knows she did it on purpose.

 ---

Shiro doesn’t come for him that night. Even after Hunk has steeled himself long after Pidge has gone, and has paced the entire temple to tire himself out to fall asleep and meet with him, Shiro never comes.

Hunk doesn’t sleep well.

---

 That next morning, when Hunk looks at himself in the mirror, he finds Shiro looking back at him, instead.

“I know your plan.” Shiro says, after Hunk’s startled yell. Immediately, Hunk is on edge, taking a hesitant step away, even though Shiro isn’t even in the same realm as him.

Shiro looks defeated behind the glass, shoulders dropping. “I’m not angry at you.” But obviously upset, nonetheless. His eyes are heavy with heartbreak, and Hunk feels his own heart cracking down the middle just from that. “I understand why you would want to do it.”

Hunk can’t seem to get his voice to work immediately, and he must take too long to respond, because Shiro continues on with, “Our deal is rescinded.” He looks dull— no longer shaped with stars, but instead edged with opaque black. “I never meant for you to feel trapped.”

A greedy, selfish god, but not a cruel one.

“Shiro.” Hunk presses his hand against the glass, and it’s just as cold as that first touch they shared. “I… didn’t mean it like that.”

Shiro, somehow, is able to smile at him. “I know you didn’t.” It’s sad, a tad watery, but he’s resolute as he says, “I admire you a great amount, Hunk. No matter what’s happened. I will keep up my end of the deal— granting you the wish of letting your town prosper.”

He waves a hand— and nothing immediate happens, but Hunk can feel the magic thrumming through the wind.

“Good luck, my love.”

And then, he’s gone.

 ---

 Hunk is left alone for that entire day, excluding the caretakers who don’t talk to him. It leaves him with plenty time to feel terrible, with enough to spare to think about a solution.

The caretakers are slow, with more than half the week finished. Tomorrow would be the last time for a few seasons that they would have to take care of a person instead of the temple, and they seem bored of their duty.

By the time they leave, the sun has set and Hunk’s toes are pruny with lavender oil. He waits longer, though, because if he gets caught he’s going to get in astronomical amounts of trouble.

When the moon is high, and most of the lights are out in the nearby homes, Hunk sneaks past the temple gates and out into the forest, towards Pidge’s house.

Rocks and twigs dig uncomfortable into the soles of his feet, what with him being barefoot, but he trudges on until the path smooths to stone and he can see the furnace outside of Pidge’s house burning low with dying embers.

 ---

 She’s surprised to see him, especially trying to sneak through her window once she comes in from bringing fresh water from the nearby spring.

She’s less surprised to hear what happened. More irritated.

“Hunk.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her glasses aren’t in the way, half-melted after she’d accidentally dropped them in her smithy.

Hunk is curled up in her bed, looking much like a kicked street puppy. She sighs for the tenth time that half-hour, lighting the oil lamp on her desk.

“I don’t know much about what’s going on.” She confesses. “I don’t know anything about gods, or magic, or love, or anything like that. But even so, I know that you’re kinda messing up your own chances here.”

She hops onto the bed beside him. “Don’t you go making yourself unhappy, Hunk. Not for my sake, or anyone else’s. I already have a plan to get out of here, and if you stay and I’m gone, what’s going to be the point?”

It makes him feel better and worse at the same time.

“Now I’m taking you back to that temple, and you’re going to kick and fuss until that ornery god-suitor of yours comes back and takes you on a honeymoon.”

 ---

 One would think, upon seeing Hunk in the middle of the day— of the final day as ‘sacrifice’— that he would hurry to call upon Shiro and fix everything and, if all goes well, have his happily ever after.

But he’s scared. There’s no guarantee that anything he says will fix it, or make Shiro feel better, and he’s not even sure if his own feelings are true or not.

Hunk knows, though, deep down, that he wants to be with Shiro.

He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them. Follows the length of the room to the left, and then back to the right.

It’s all just to kill time, or maybe his own body is having fun watching his heart and brain torture one another.

Eventually, he leans his forehead against one of the mirrors and heaves a sigh that fogs the glass. “Shiro…”

He hears a whisper of his name start on the window before he sees Shiro appear before him. “Hunk.”

He doesn’t look much better than Hunk feels, if he’s being honest, but he’s still a stunning figure, and Hunk ignores his nerves for once and trudges forward with, “I’m sorry.”

Shiro flinches at the words, pulling back. His image fades, but Hunk steps forward as if he could physically step through to pull him back.

“Wait! Just, let me say something?” Hunk rests his hand against Shiro’s jaw, tracing the skin as if they were actually touching. Shiro’s eyes flutter shut as if he could actually feel it. “Please?”

Shiro’s eyes stay shut, but he nods his assent.

“I’m not sure if I’m… in love with you.” He starts. “I’ve never been in love. Romantically. But I’m willing to try, with you.”

He feels a shift in the room, magic curling around his peripheries, but he continues on when Shiro’s eyes— languid grey instead of black— open. “You’re a very charming god.” Hunk says, cheeks heating. “And incredibly pretty. I’m not sure what I can offer, but… I’m offering what I can.”

Shiro seems stumped at the confession, stumbling past the second half. His eyes are wide with surprise, stance guarded, but he looks pleased anyway.

Hunk blinks, and he’s in Shiro’s castle. Shiro’s arm comes to wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him tight as Shiro softly confesses, “I was hoping I would get to see you again. I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon, with such… pretty words.”

He’s shy, Hunk realizes. His cheeks are dusted pink, he’s nervously fiddling with his hair when he pulls away, and he can hardly look Hunk in the eye. It’s incredible how such a romantic soul, who literally brought Hunk to see the heavens themselves, could be so bashful.

Hunk’s laugh comes out as a snort that startles Shiro, who hurries to say, “I think that you’re also pretty, of course. Beautiful. And kind, and— perfect.”

Just like that, all of Hunk’s preconceived notions of Shiro are gone, and he’s mesmerized by the man before him.

He presses a kiss against Shiro’s cheek, partly to save him from rambling himself into a puddle. “Can we start over? Before I messed up.”

And Shiro is a greedy god, a selfish god, a lonely god. But forever and always would he be a kind one.