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nutteu · 1 year ago

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from these hands (your sins will bloom)

[AO3] [moonsea series]

The thunderstorm was raging in the desert, and Steven sat on the balcony of a ransacked room that held too much memory of a life he tried to leave behind. And yet, in this realm and the one beyond, he would wait, still—for a shattered piece of his heart, for a fragment of his soul. In this eternity, he would wait for salvation that could never reach a condemned soul.

(Or, the end of Steven Grant, told in thirty-two fragments.)

[Anubis/Steven; Marc/Steven; Jake/Steven; canon divergence; published 2022-07-14; word count: 16,812]

He didn’t know what made him do it. But he found himself sidelining Seth the moment he took control of the body. Marc was rioting against him, exhausted and worn down after he bared his heart in front of the gods. Steven shot the man with a pleading look. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Depending on the person’s taste. He found that the easier they fell for his begging, the more they had a penchant to fall into something darker than their thoughts in the waking hours when they were supposed to be asleep.

Seth considered him, then sighed. Supposed Steven reminded him of his son; supposed Steven reminded him of a long-lost lover. Supposed Steven reminded him of a pathetic thing on the verge of death, and this was his last wish.

A blink of an eye, and Steven shivered from the sudden emptiness in him. No Marc, no Khonshu—nothing but his fractured soul and the presence of another god so close he could taste it like a thunderstorm on his lips, electric and condemning.

“I need a favor,” he said, stepping closer. Seth allowed him.

The answer didn’t satisfy him. It was not feasible, though it was possible. He kept it in a chest on the back of his mind, with Seth’s promise that it wouldn’t be able to be pried open by Marc. He left with the sour taste of disappointment and the bitter tang of a god’s essence on his tongue.

ii.

There was someone else inside of them, Steven was aware of this. If it wasn’t him, if it wasn’t Marc, yet the deed was still done by the same body, then someone must be there. When he was pushed, however, Marc clamped down tighter than when Layla appeared, and Steven could feel the unbidden love, the anguish, the desperation when they set their sight on her. Marc Spector was a man lost in the harsh tides of the waves, drowning, and never shouted for help even once. He thought that he wasn’t deserving of salvation, and Steven was endeared, was saddened, was angered by this.

But Steven was a curious creature, nurtured by life, suffocated by Marc’s adamancy in keeping him oblivious towards a world that could harm him. But the world wasn’t out for his blood; it didn’t care, it didn’t discriminate, everyone suffered in equal manner, in one way or another. Steven thought that it was such a brusque thing, to blame the world when human’s misery had always been created by themselves.

So, he pushed, and Marc’s anger felt like an acid rain. His body was locked up, lost in thoughts as the fury that wasn’t his coursed through his veins, Marc’s scream rang throughout his mind; an inescapable echo that Steven cradled with a broken heart. I locked him up! I locked him up! He’s not supposed to be here! He’s not supposed to exist anymore!

I killed him, Marc didn’t say, but Steven heard it loud and clear through the aftermath, as he panted and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know how to tell Marc that you could never kill a part of yourself, no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t erase history, and you couldn’t possibly hope to simply throw away something that was born from your innermost desires, your strongest emotions. Marc had never wanted to admit that he was a being shaped by violence and heartache.

If Steven was everything that Marc never had, had never been, then this someone else, they held everything that Marc was, everything that he had never wanted to be, yet was.

“Don’t—don’t ask about this anymore, Steven, please,” Marc whispered.

Steven didn’t look at the mirror, eyes still staring up at the ceiling. He let the tears fall, and said, “Okay, Marc.”

iii.

Sometimes, there was someone else staring at him from the mirror, and Steven smiled at him. The reflection didn’t smile, didn’t blink, staring at Steven with eyes so dark in brown they were almost red. He reached out a tentative hand to caress the cool surface, then leaned forward to press his forehead against his reflection, whispered gently, “Don’t leave.”

His reflection didn’t answer, but he stayed, and Steven didn’t need anything but that. It didn’t matter if Marc didn’t want this part of him. Steven had learned to accept Marc, and he would learn to accept everything that he was. Even if it was something he condemned, even if it was something he feared, even if it was something he had never wanted.

In the reflection, his lips moved without sound, and Steven smiled. This was enough.

iv.

Marc smelled like gunpowder and the rain when Steven had him in his arms. There was a touch of desperation in the clutch of Marc’s hands, the whispers of something close to plead on the lips pressed against Steven’s neck. Steven held him tighter, tighter still, unwilling to let go. Marc felt warm yet empty, felt strong yet fragile, felt real yet so far away from the touch; he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Marc again, now that he knew that Marc was home.

“Don’t touch it,” Marc warned, but Steven didn’t listen.

The sarcophagus felt familiar, felt like another tug deep in his gut, felt like another tendril of home. Marc was wrenching his hand away from the lid, and slammed him against the wall. “Don’t,” he growled, low and colored with threats he was reluctant to carry.

“Let him go, Marc,” he said, didn’t mind it when Marc tightened the grip around his wrists, didn’t mind if they would be bruised. He’d keep the bruises, the way he kept everything about Marc close to his heart. Because this was a person who knew Steven, who tried to protect him, who had wanted nothing but peace and the tempting allure of eternal rest.

Marc looked at him, then his lips trembled. “You knew,” he said, almost a whisper, fear and nausea clear in his voice.

“And I want to have him, still,” Steven said, gently, and cradled Marc’s face when his wrists were let go as the man wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s alright now, love,” he said, and pulled Marc into an embrace. “It’s going to be alright.”

Marc shivered, and Steven kissed his temple to soothe the tremor wracking through the man’s body. The sarcophagus was still, silent after the incessant banging heard from the inside; as if waiting, as if knowing that whatever hell was trapped within, it would be unleashed soon.

And when it was, Steven would take it into his arms, too.

“Why is there a child in a room filled with people that you’ve killed?”

Both Marc and Jake looked away, and Steven’s heart ached. So, he ran, and he followed to where their nightmares led him, to a past he wasn’t intended to know, to experience. To know that his life was built on lies, that he was only a fragment of someone’s soul and mind, the heartbreak upon a realization that, perhaps, he wasn’t even real, couldn’t compare to the way Marc broke apart in Steven’s arms.

It didn’t matter whether his life wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place, it didn’t matter whether he was the one owning the body or not, it didn’t matter what Marc had done and what he had wanted to forget. The scale wasn’t balanced, and Steven had made a decision.

vi.

“There is no way to kill a god as long as someone still believes in them,” Seth said, caressing the side of Steven’s face as he knelt in front of the man. “But there is a way to keep them away long enough, until they’ve gathered enough strength and essence to build a proper form.”

Steven nodded, and lowered the zip of the neatly pressed slacks. “But?”

Seth laughed, and it sounded so wrong on the face of a man. No matter how good they blended in amongst the humans, gods were simply an entirely different creature. But Steven preferred it this way. It was easier to know that he was trying to please a god than a human, to know that whatever desperate measure he took, it would be justifiable in the face of a force stronger than logic.

“But a human can’t possibly win against a god in their own realm,” Seth said, and Steven closed his eyes, wrapped his lips around the hardening cock. “You know that already, don’t you? What’s the real question here?”

He didn’t say anything until Seth had come undone, until Steven had to grip his own thighs hard to keep himself from drowning, from suffocating. He was breathless, but it felt good to know that a god could still be left feeling bewildered and bereft because of a mere human—a mere fracture.

“Whom can I ask to be an ally?” he asked, then, as Seth was back to an impeccable image, while Steven was still kneeling on the floor, the aftertaste of semen on his tongue, voice rough and wrecked.

“Anubis, perhaps,” Seth said, then smiled, a glint in his eyes. “If he likes you enough; if you dare enough to ask for his help.”

A suicide, Steven deduced. For the god of the dead wouldn’t dwell within the living realm. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t feasible either. It was a card he could never lay on the table. He nodded and left, thinking that he would be daring enough if came down to Marc’s life and freedom. He just didn’t think that he could do it if he were dead.

vii.

But he was dead, now, Steven thought as the scale tipped in an imbalance of a soul. He looked at Jake, and sidled closer to him, closing his eyes as Jake caressed his cheek with his knuckles. He considered Steven for a moment, then nodded.

“If you’re sure,” he said, and Steven smiled, leaned forward to press a light kiss on his lips. How he loved this man so, for protecting them, for bearing the burden and the nightmares of Marc’s childhood. “If you can’t find me, then at the very least, I know how it feels to have you in my arms at last.”

Steven pressed harder, swallowing everything that Jake couldn’t put into words, remembering the scent of old blood and the fury within, trying to feel as much of Jake as he could. He took the man’s hand, and Marc was staring at them with horror once realization dawned on him.

“May we meet again,” Steven said as he backed away, hand in hand with Jake, and jumped before Marc had a chance to say anything. He didn’t think he could bear it; didn’t think he could prevent himself from staying if Marc were to ask. Marc’s scream reverberated through the Duat, the sight of him struggling and being held back by Taweret was becoming smaller and smaller as Steven ran and ran, leaving Jake behind to fight off the condemned waiting to claim them as one.

When his legs could no longer move, when he could feel his limbs slowly turning into sand, Anubis smiled down at him and said, “What a foolish child.”

Steven closed his eyes, and smiled. It was alright, after all, even if he had to sacrifice something greater than his own fractured heart.

viii.

Jake’s hand had never felt so warm, so cold, and Steven held on as they walked towards the Gate of Osiris. When his eyes found Marc, crying, crying, crying, holding a heart that couldn’t beat anymore, Steven fell apart.

He couldn’t save the condemned, and it hurt him more than anything else ever could.

ix.

“Come back,” Marc whispered against his lips, vehement and terrified. “Tell me you’re going to come back to me.”

Steven swallowed, and nodded. Marc leaned forward in a firm, deep kiss, fingers framing Steven’s face in an unwillingness to be parted. In the moment when he knew that he couldn’t keep his promises, Steven had never felt this loved, this wanted. But there was still something needed to be done, and so, he stepped back as Jake and Marc stepped through the gate.

He turned away, and Anubis looked at him. Steven said, “What else can I offer you?”

Anubis laughed, indignant yet curious. “Nothing,” he said. “You cannot offer me a soul, cannot offer me a heart, for you do not possess any of those.”

“Eternity by your side then,” Steven said.

“I have enough servants,” Anubis said dismissively, but he wasn’t saying no, and Steven walked up to him.

He tiptoed, reached out to cradle the god’s snout. “But not me,” he breathed out as Anubis leaned down to bridge the gap in their height. “I need to kill two gods,” he whispered as he was heaved up into strong arms.

“You cannot even kill a mere man, Steven Grant,” Anubis said, though he let Steven place a palm on his bare chest. “What makes you think you can kill gods?”

“What makes you think that gods are immortal?” Steven asked back. “Your existence might not be something created by humans’ hands, but your power came from them. What makes you think that a human can’t kill a god when they could be so weak that they’d disappear once no one believes in them anymore? There is always a power imbalance in something built from belief.”

The laughter that came from Anubis was terrifying, something so loud that it echoed in Steven’s mind, something that made his blood curdle from the sheer intensity of power underneath the muscles under his palms, the easy assurance that he could have Steven dead even before he could take his last breath. This was a god, older than time, bigger than the universe, more powerful than any of humankind’s fantasy. In a blink of an eye, Steven could turn into mere dust, could be tormented for eternity for his hubris, could be condemning all his loved ones from one daring thought alone.

But Anubis’ fangs were bared, and he took Steven in, closer, closer still that he could smell the scent of death and ashes wafting off of the god in waves. He shivered, and curled into Anubis’ arms, gripping his shoulders tight as the edges of his vision darkened, the harsh bristle of the sand caressing his skin—the start of a thunderstorm on the faraway horizon.

“Very well, Steven Grant,” he said, as Steven started thrashing once he felt fingers sinking deep into his rib cage, reaching for a heart that didn’t exist. “I will let you play god for once, and in return, an eternity you cannot escape from.”

Steven waited and waited, left alone in a palace full of the whispers of the condemned. The room he was left in was a mess, a replica of the place that Jake had ransacked when they went to Egypt. It was comforting, to have a semblance of familiarity in a world so far away from the living realm, where Jake and Marc would be. The thunderstorm was raging outside, and Steven would wait on the balcony, sitting with his arms curled around himself as he waited, and waited.

At times, Anubis would come, and he would take Steven in an imitation of an embrace. He would whisper, “You take Khonshu away and your lovers are vulnerable. No gods to protect them from mortal danger, from the consequences of their bloodthirst.”

Steven closed his eyes and leaned back against Anubis. “They will have me.”

“And what makes you think that I will let you leave?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t open his eyes. They both knew that Anubis still wanted him to perform, to provide the god with silly entertainments clad in bloodbath and massacre. He held the large palm pressing against his chest, and let the roar of the thunder lull him to sleep.

xi.

“You will find no peace in death, Steven Grant,” Khonshu said as Steven stood above him, watching the god disintegrating into sand.

“No,” Steven said, gaze roved over the god that had held such control and power over the three of them, now lying still and on his last breath, felled by a mere human. He didn’t want to look at the mangled remains of Ammit; didn’t want to think that he could do so much worse than he actually did. “I suppose I don’t deserve it, either.”

When he came into Anubis’ arms, there was exhilaration akin to Jake’s thrumming underneath his skin, and Steven melted into it; let himself be caught in strong arms, let himself be laid down as he tainted the sheets with the blood of the gods. When Anubis touched him, he was burning all at once—a suffocating heat that gripped his lungs so tight until no air was allowed to be given, to be let out. He was trembling, from a sudden emptiness and the severity of breaking a bond with a god so forcibly, even if it wasn’t his soul that was tied to Khonshu.

“Let me take it from Marc,” he pleaded, and Anubis’s grin was a show of fangs dripping with ichor.

“You will not be able to bear it,” the god told him.

“Then let me be torn apart instead of him.”

The god tilted his head, watching over Steven’s shivering form. “Your devotion to him is not something that you should have. You do not know him, and his love for you is built from a belief in his mind.” And there is always a power imbalance in something built from belief.

“I know,” Steven said, as the pain lanced through his body. He was helpless, weak, no more the slaughterer of gods, and was only a mere human with an unimaginable magnitude of pain wreaking havoc upon his fragile vessel. “But he’s—he’s the only real thing in my world, a world built of lies.”

“You are hopeless,” Anubis said gently, and let Steven clutch at him, trying futilely to alleviate the searing pain all over his skin. He held Steven close as he shuddered and moaned in pain. “Humans are such fickle creatures. Foolish, fickle, little creatures.”

Steven whimpered, and burrowed deeper into Anubis’ embrace. He was consumed by agony, sweat breaking all over his body as Marc’s pain descended upon him, tearing him apart by the seams until he could no longer recognize the mangled pieces. The storm raged harsher, louder, and Steven wished that he was lying in someone else’s arms—the arms of a foolish, fickle creature.

xii.

“I found him,” Layla said, and cradled Steven close. Her voice was wobbling, fingers carding gently through curls damp with sweat. “He’s not—he’s not in a good condition, Marc. Please, come here.”

He was lifted, then, and he groaned weakly for such a small movement brought the churn of nausea in his gut. He faintly realized that he was keeling over, that someone was stroking his back as he heaved and heaved even after nothing was left anymore in his stomach. He was shivering, cold sweat drenching his temple and back. He felt so cold, cold, cold even if he was burning to the touch.

“It’s enough, Steven,” Layla said in a hushed voice, on the verge of tears upon seeing his pathetic state. “It’s alright. Come on, we’ll take you somewhere safe.”

He didn’t remember much of the trip, only awake enough to retch and dry heave as Layla held him throughout the ride. She was crying, Steven realized as he was laid down on a soft mattress. He reached out to wipe the tears from her beautiful face, and she turned her head to press a kiss on his palm. He wanted Marc to be here, to take him into his arms, to tell him that it was going to be alright, that the thunderstorm would cease soon enough.

But he didn’t want to see the same heartbreak on his face. Marc’s heart had been broken enough times, and Steven feared that there would be a time when he couldn’t gather the pieces anymore, for they had turned into dust, blown away by the wind of the desert.

“Don’t go where he can’t follow,” Layla whispered, pressing a kiss on his forehead, eyes tightly closed to prevent more tears from falling. “Don’t go where he’s not allowed to follow you, Steven, please.”

He closed his eyes, and felt his own tears fall. It was too late for such promises.

xiii.

“Let them see you like this,” Anubis said as they stood before the Gate of Osiris, Steven barely holding himself up as he leaned against the god. “Let them see how futile their attempts would be in saving you. Let them feel the hopelessness of having you in their arms, only to realize that you cannot be saved by anyone but me.”

“Why—” Steven started, and stopped himself as a cough forced itself out of his throat. He could feel the tang of blood on the back of his tongue, and he grasped at Anubis’s hands, looking up at him through eyes blurred with tears.

“Because your heart and your soul, your devotion and your life, still belong to Marc Spector,” Anubis said, gently as he knelt and embraced Steven. “In time, you will learn to fulfill your promises, Steven Grant. In time, you will realize that there is no salvation but my arms. Is that not what you have offered me?”

He closed his eyes, and let out a desperate sob into Anubis’ shoulders. The storm wouldn’t cease—it was only starting.

xiv.

Marc’s arms were bruising around him, holding him close until Steven felt that he was going to suffocate. But he held back, clinging tight in desperation, in relief of finding Marc again after days spent in Anubis’ palace, waiting and waiting for something he knew he didn’t deserve. The familiar scent of gunpowder and the rain filled his senses, and Steven was burning, burning still. He didn’t think there would ever be anything that could break the fever, not when it could only come from a decision that Steven didn’t think he could ever take.

To give his life, his heart, his soul, his eternity to a god was one thing. But to let himself be another’s but Marc’s was something that he repelled with his whole being. Not when Marc was holding him with such fear, as if Steven would disappear if he let up even just slightly. Not when the sense of belonging, of coming home, made his restless heart feel at ease even if his body wouldn’t.

“Never again,” Marc said, promised; voice low and dark. “I’ll never let you go again.”

Steven whimpered and wailed as he felt heartache consuming him whole. He was condemned to break Marc’s heart, over and over again, in the end.

xv.

He was moved, again. When he opened his eyes, Jake was staring at him. A half of his eyes was red, red, red, like the light that bathed a room when something ominous had happened; like the blood on Steven’s hands as he stood on top of the carcass of the gods he had slain.

“You found me,” Jake said softly, and Steven smiled, feeling so serene even when he was wrecked by agony.

“I will always find you,” he said, and let himself succumb into the darkness, hoping that he’d be granted a respite from his pain even just for a heartbeat.

xvi.

“No,” Steven mumbled, tongue heavy and lips stiff. “No, take me home,” he said, begged. “Take me home, Marc. Take me—”

He was cut off with the harsh coughs that were dragged from his chest, he pulled away from Marc so abruptly that the world swayed for a moment. In the next moment, he was sprawled on the floor, Marc’s shouts muffled in his ears through the blood rushing so deafeningly in his head. There was blood and bile splattered on the floor, mixing in together that Steven didn’t know whether it was just all blood after all. He hacked and hacked, hitting his chest even when there were arms preventing him from doing so.

There was something stuck in his throat, and he wanted it out, out, out.

He was clawing at his neck, before there was someone kneeling in front of him, uncaring of the mess on the floor. Jake looked at him calmly, then pushed Marc away with only the slightest touch. “He still needs to let it out,” he said, and forced four of his fingers into Steven’s mouth, down his throat, curling and coaxing him to throw everything up.

The fingers were coated in saliva and blood, and when Steven retched, Jake pulled away his fingers calmly, wiping away the vomit on his trousers as he gripped the back of Steven’s neck. “That’s it, little dove,” he crooned softly, and took Steven into his arms once he was done, once he could do nothing but breathe heavily, limp and drenched in sweat. “We’ll be home soon.”

xvii.

The fever ended as soon as they stepped into the familiar apartment in London. Steven sat in the bathtub, staring at the tiles with thoughts running through his head. The water was already lukewarm from how long he had spent the time in here, the tips of his fingers pruned when he lifted them out of the water.

There was something wrong with him, he knew. His movements felt stiff and inorganic, his thoughts felt so far away as if they were faint whispers; his body felt like it wasn’t his own. His skin was no longer burning, but he felt like he was trapped in the fever, still.

He thought that he should head out by now. He was starting to shiver, and he could feel the goosebumps breaking all over the surface of his skin. He leaned back against the head of the tub, and stared at the lamp of the bathroom. The brightness hurt his head, so he closed his eyes.

He should get out, he thought. He didn’t know what he meant by that.

xviii.

There was a man in his early twenties standing across the road. He was tall and broad-shouldered, olive skin gleaming under the rare sunlight that had graced London that morning. The golden studs he had on his ears glinted, and Steven found himself staring. The man didn’t even look like he was supposed to be called a man, for he hadn’t grown completely into the features of his face, yet. A boy, was more precise, with his sharp grin and unbidden curiosity in his golden eyes.

He wasn’t a human, Steven recognized. But he was familiar, enough that it tugged at the strings on the back of his mind. When he walked towards the boy, a car went by, and the boy was gone without a trace.

He felt nausea churning in his gut, and hurried over to the side of the road to retch out the meager amount of breakfast Jake had shoved down into his throat. They weren’t here, now, out working their supposed job because someone still had to pay for the bills, the rent, the daily needs. Steven was out of commission with how unstable his physical condition had become. He insisted that he wasn’t sick, but even he couldn’t deny that it was a blatant lie.

He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t think, couldn’t go for an hour without throwing up, as if merely inhaling the air of the living realm made him sick, and, perhaps, it did. He wasn’t supposed to be here anymore; he wasn’t supposed to be alive. But until he learned how to let Marc go, he wasn’t going anywhere, and this sickness would never end.

There were gods with cruelty so inherent in their blood, but Anubis wasn’t one as such. It was curiosity, that drove him to do this, to decide this fate for Steven. Something akin to a child’s innocent curiosity, one that knew no bound, no limitation. But the pursuit of truth had never been a gentle journey, and Steven had to pay the price for it.

He snapped up his head as a thought hit him. The boy was long gone, but if he inhaled deep enough, he could still taste the air ladened with the scent of death and ashes, of the thunderstorm on a desert. His god had come to see his suffering, to have a direct taste of it, and Steven heaved up the acid in his throat out into the pavement upon the realization.

This was the start of another nightmare, one that he had to go through in his waking hours.

xix.

He stared at his reflection, and nothing stared back. Jake and Marc were granted their own forms, the way Steven was. He leaned forward to press his forehead on the cool surface, and thought that it was cruel of him to wish for Jake’s voiceless whispers answering through the mirror. The separation felt like a chain instead of freedom, an emptiness that spread throughout his chest cavity, larger and larger still as his lungs and ribs were crushed under the inevitable heaviness of loneliness.

He pulled away and stared at the blood flowing down from his nose. He didn’t wipe it away; stared at it as if in a trance as it trailed down to his lips, his chin, seeping into the collar of his worn-down shirt. He wondered just how long it’d take for this body to break apart completely, to rot. He wondered if he would be able to make his decision when that time came, or if he would just cease to exist in his indecisiveness.

He wondered why he didn’t feel anything from that thought.

xx.

Steven ordered a hefty meal of burgers and French fries, milkshake and sodas, a meat pie and a cake. He scarfed down everything even when his gut churned uncomfortably. There was no longer a need for concern of the morality of consuming something that was produced by another living being, a feast through the butchering of a life.

He didn’t think it should matter, anyway.

He finished his meal, cleaned everything, and spent an hour in the bathroom throwing everything back out. He fell asleep in the empty bathtub, and wondered whether he was doing this to spite Anubis, or if he simply couldn’t be bothered anymore.

Marc and Jake were safe. Khonshu and Ammit were dead—or at least, would be gone long enough. He was home, in his apartment, in Marc’s arms. There was nothing else left for him to desire.

But as soon as he finished this thought, there was a sudden itch in his throat, on his palms. It was unbearable, couldn’t be soothed even after his nails came out bloodied, bits of torn skin stuck underneath after he clawed at them so hard to alleviate the itch. He looked down at his bloody palms, and laughed until it echoed throughout the bathroom, laughed until he couldn’t breathe, laughed until he was crying.

A condemned man wasn’t supposed to have peace, after all. In life, and in death. There was nothing but the cradle of torment and the darkness that would welcome him after he had thrown away this pathetic half-existence.

He wondered, still, if Anubis knew. If this was just another thing the god had anticipated for this weak, foolish creature to end up with. He wondered just how much of him was left in this rotting carcass, how much more would be turned and molded into something unrecognizable, until he was nothing but a husk of who Steven Grant used to be.

He thought that that shouldn’t matter, either. Steven Grant wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place. It was only right that he left this world as an existence that wouldn’t be recognized, wouldn’t be remembered. He thought that, perhaps, it would be easier that way.

xxi.

Jake gripped his wrists tight enough to bruise once he found the claw marks on Steven’s palms and neck. He was dragged to the bed by the grip of his hair, with Marc trying futilely to stop a furious man in a warpath. Steven let himself be thrown on the bed, stared at nothing as Jake fastened the ankle restraint hard enough that it chafed at his skin.

“You evidently can’t be left alone, can’t take care of yourself, won’t take care of yourself,” Jake growled out, his red-eye gleaming under the dim light of the apartment. “If I have to chain you like a fucking dog just to keep you alive, then so be it.”

Steven looked up, saw the stunned look on Marc’s face. But Marc wasn’t moving, wasn’t rejecting the idea. He leaned against the pillow and thought that they were trying to drain the water out of the sea. It was useless to stop the deterioration of his body and mind once it had started. Not like this, not in the way they were capable of.

There was always someone with him, then. He was never left alone, and Jake had come home one night with a collar and a leash, that he then closed around Steven’s neck. Marc still guided him by hand when Steven needed to go to the bathroom, but Jake dragged him by the leash, pulling it tight when Steven refused to move.

Marc would carry him to the sink whenever Steven started heaving, but Jake would let him throw up all over the floor, the dinner table, on Jake’s lap. He would wait until Steven was done, before he brought up another spoonful of food, and stared at him until he opened his mouth, chewing slowly and trying his hardest to swallow it through an aching throat and stomach constantly churning with acid and restlessness.

Marc had always been the gentler one between them, with his hands carding through Steven’s curls, with his arm draped over Steven’s waist in his sleep, with his lips pressing a fleeting kiss on his temple. But when they found out that he still scratched his palms until they were wounded, Marc was the one who brought the handcuff, with a small bar in the middle to prevent his hands from reaching each other, and gave him a hard stare when Steven struggled against the restraint. “No more, Steven,” he said, and his voice broke as he closed his eyes and leaned his head on Steven’s knees. “Please, don’t do this to me anymore.”

Steven paused; eyes empty as he stared at Gus’ tank. The fish had two fins, and the tank was well-kept. He didn’t remember any of them ever cleaning it, but then again, the days blurred and he could no longer differentiate between today and yesterday. It was hard to keep track of time when he couldn’t focus enough to be aware of his surroundings.

He didn’t say anything, even as Marc looked up with a plea written all over his face. Jake sighed and looked away as Steven stared ahead, not blinking, nor acknowledging anything but the fish slowly swimming through the fake corals and plants. Marc’s tears seeped into the fabric of his pants, and Steven thought that his pieces were already turning.

He wondered if he could recognize himself once he no longer bore a semblance of the man that Marc Spector and Jake Lockley had tried to save.

xxii.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” he asked one day.

Marc looked up from chopping up the vegetables and frowned. “Do you need to use the toilet? I’ll get the key for the handcuffs.”

“No,” he said, and looked down at the table, tracing the coffee marks left on the wooden surface with his eyes. “I just wanted to look at my face. I don’t remember what I look like anymore.”

The knife clattered on the countertop, and Marc turned completely towards him. “Steven,” he said, and his voice was thick with something familiar. Heartache, resignation, desperation. Steven could recount them all in his sleep.

“Did something change?” he asked, talking as if Marc hadn’t spoken at all. “Jake kept looking at me weird, and you had a hard time looking at me straight in the eyes. I just wanted to see if I can still remember how my face looks. Even if I know it’s your face, anyway. But I just wanted to see. Can I see it?”

Marc heaved a deep, trembling breath, and walked towards Steven. He looked torn, but he also looked like he was the camel with the last straw falling on his back. He brought Steven to the bathroom, and looked away when Steven stared at his reflection.

There was no one looking back, still; no smile and soundless words. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones prominent after he constantly threw up everything that had been fed to him. His lips were dry, his curls limp and messy. It was the approximation of how he would look like, in his mind—a confirmation of the decay. The eyes that stared back at him, however, were brighter than they should be. Golden, like the sand; cold, like the thunderstorm. Steven understood, then, why Marc couldn’t look at him for too long, for he, too, had realized that Steven was beyond saving. This change was just another piece of him turning, a change that was so real they couldn’t run away from it.

“Oh,” he said. Then, “Nothing changed, after all. I still look the same.”

“Yeah,” Marc choked out, and stood behind Steven. There was a palm, then, covering his eyes, and Steven welcomed the familiar darkness as Marc placed a kiss on his neck. “You’re still Steven. Still my Steven, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said, because even if everything else was lost on him, this was still something he held onto with broken nails and fingers torn to shreds. The only thing that tethered him to this half-existence; the only thing preventing him from spending his eternity in the palace of the damned. “Yours.” Always, he wanted to say, but then, he wondered why it felt like a lie on his tongue.

When Marc turned him around, gently, at odds with the harsh kiss they delved into, Steven kept his eyes closed. He couldn’t touch Marc with the handcuffs still bounding his arms, but he didn’t need to. Marc touched him enough for the both of them, running rough hands over clothed skin; a touch of desperation instead of desires, as if he wanted to feel that Steven was real.

He hoped Marc could get an answer, because Steven didn’t even know whether he was real, or if everything was merely a figment of imagination, and he’d wake up in the balcony of the ransacked room, staring at the thunderstorm.

Marc didn’t bring him to the bed, he pushed everything off the sink and heaved Steven up there. He hadn’t bathed for nearly a week, because he slipped underneath the water last week and Jake was so furious that he punched the wall until the tiles cracked. Steven stared at his torn knuckles, and Jake was utterly angry that he couldn’t find a word to say. He was only allowed to wash his face, and not even that, sometimes, because Jake had taken to wipe his body with a wet cloth. This was the first time he had been in the bathroom when he didn’t need to use the toilet.

“You try it again and I’m going to hold your head under the water myself,” Jake had said, anguish and hopelessness glinting in his odd-eyes.

Steven didn’t open his eyes to see the crack on the tiles, to see Marc kneeling between his legs, to see the same emotions brewing in those dark eyes as Jake’s had. He tipped his head back as Marc took his cock out, soft and unwashed yet as of today. When Marc licked the shaft, it was more akin to cleaning it than coaxing an arousal out of Steven. He cleaned him thoroughly; his cock, the scrotum, pressing his tongue harder on the perineum, before he licked the skin adjoining Steven’s crotch and thighs.

He shivered, soft moans slipped past his lips as Marc kept sucking, swallowing him deep enough that Steven could feel the yield of his throat. There was a gagging sound, but he couldn’t tell whether it came from him or Marc, because his gut was churning again. He felt nauseous, he felt ravenous, he felt like he just wanted to slip under the water for the last time.

When Marc wrung an orgasm out of him, Steven opened his eyes for the first time, scrambling to keep his balance as he keeled over to the side to retch. He watched as the bile poured out of his mouth, tinges of blood mixing into it. Marc sighed and stood up, held Steven steady as he heaved and heaved, trying to get rid of everything stuck in his throat. His hands were pulling against the handcuffs, and he could feel the chafe, could feel the constant pull bruising and tearing at his skin.

Marc pushed him back to lean against the mirror, and held Steven’s jaw open, angling his head down, as he pushed in three fingers into his throat. Steven felt the prickle of tears on the corners of his eyes as the fingers pushed at his gag reflex, couldn’t even muster a wince of disgust as he vomited all over his shirt, his abdomen, some of it splattered onto Marc. He was too used to this; they were too used to this.

Marc kept his fingers curled there until Steven’s shuddering lessened, until he hacked out the last of the acid and could only let the mirror hold his weight as he lay there, exhausted and resigned. He didn’t say anything, and Steven was too afraid to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out.

“It’s about time to bathe you, anyway,” Marc replied, and he tried to be steady, but Steven caught the edges of the tremble, still.

He just nodded as Marc pulled him off of the sink, divesting them both of their clothing; to be washed, to be burned, Steven didn’t know. He was led to the bathtub, and Marc filled it with warm water, slipping behind Steven and leaned his head on his nape. More than anything, more than any word, this felt the most like him giving up.

Marc cleaned him swiftly, then brought him back to the bed. He didn’t dry Steven like he usually did. He simply reached for the key for the handcuffs, and threw them to the side as he took the chafed wrists. It stung, when Marc placed open-mouthed kisses on them. Steven pulled him into an embrace as Marc pressed two fingers against his hole, wet and slick by the water and soap, wasn’t enough.

But this wasn’t about enough. This was about the last desperate act of keeping Steven here, of attaining the remaining pieces of him that hadn’t turned yet. Steven bit his lip tight when Marc’s fingers entered him, dry and rough, pushing in and loosening the muscles. He pulled away from Steven for a moment to spit on his fingers, before he pushed three fingers in, and Steven tasted blood as he tried not to cry out. He wanted to savor the pain, wanted to have something that could give him the memory of Marc’s touch for an eternity to come, wanted to feel something else but the yawning emptiness in him.

Marc was trembling when he coated his cock in saliva, when he held Steven’s legs up and pushed into him. Steven didn’t know whose tears he could feel on his face, when Marc kissed him. He couldn’t tell anymore, with the pain of the insertion burning through him. The stretch was unbearable, and he wasn’t loosened enough, wasn’t wet enough, but he locked his legs around Marc’s waist, his fingers gripping tight on the shoulders wracked with sobs.

Marc fucked him as if he wanted to tear Steven apart and pick up the pieces, cradle them close to his heart, take them home and keep them locked away forever. He fucked into him as if he was begging Steven to stay. He fucked him as if he was trying, trying, trying so hard not to give up.

Steven swallowed his own cries, and held on. He could feel the thrusts easing, slicked by precum and something else that he knew would stain the sheets red. He didn’t think that it should matter, either. What mattered was Marc, in his arms, so real and so unattainable. What mattered was this fornication, born out of desperation and hopelessness instead of love and burning desires. What mattered was Steven, finally feeling something, finally feeling like he was real and here and in Marc’s arms.

What mattered was that they both had accepted this as the sword piercing through their hearts.

Marc came inside him and stayed there as he steadied his breath. He licked the blood off of Steven’s lips, and kissed him, tender and tragic—the way Marc’s heart was. Steven held him there, until Marc fell asleep, until Steven couldn’t hold back the sobs dragged from his sore throat. He held him there, as if this was a farewell, and this was his last chance of feeling Marc’s skin underneath his fingertips.

On the back of his mind, from a balcony overlooking a thunderstorm, someone whispered, perhaps, it is.

xxiii.

The apartment was empty, and Steven knew that it was a dream, because Jake and Marc had never left him unsupervised anymore. The living room gave way to an open balcony, the thunderstorm raging in the distance. Steven stared at it, then roved his gaze over the room, before he settled on a young man standing in front of the bed.

It was the same young man—the boy, from across the road. There was still that familiar grin on his lips, golden eyes brighter still in the darkness that was only lit up by the brief flashes of the lightning. Steven made to move, but found that he couldn’t. His ankles were shackled, his hands tied to the headboard, the collar around his neck preventing him from even leaning forward too far. He was bound, and he knew that it was beyond the restraints.

These were just a symbolism of his unwillingness to let Marc and Jake go, and the boy laughed brightly at him, as if he heard what Steven had just thought. Golden eyes met in a stare; one ladened with mockery and curiosity, one filled with resignation and grief.

There was a light tinkle, and Steven looked away from the boy’s eyes, to see a ring of keys hanging from the boy’s fingers. There is no salvation but my arms. Steven closed his eyes, and turned the last remaining pieces with his own hands.

The thunderstorm was louder, now, coming closer and closer. As it hit the balcony, as it wrecked the room, Steven clenched his fists tight to ease the familiar itch that he could no longer ignore. It was time that he gave in; it was time that he fulfilled his promises.

It was time that he learned to let go.

xxiv.

“Can I go out again?” he asked, looking up at Jake as the man chewed on the macadamia nuts and pieces of salami. He waited patiently until Jake was finished, parting his lips as the man descended to kiss him, pushing the half-chewed food into his mouth, keeping him in the kiss until Steven chewed on his own and swallowed.

Jake considered him, then looked at Marc, who was sprawled all over the couch, exhausted from a fight. In the effort of keeping Steven company, they both had resorted back to their old works in order to earn income. Jake as an informant, and Marc as the hired gun. It was easier to keep an eye on Steven if they didn��t have to worry about employers and schedules. Their benefactors paid them well enough for their efficient job, not knowing that they were racing against the sand in the hourglass.

In a way, Steven knew that Jake, too, felt the same way as Marc did. That instead of stitching the wound, they were only prolonging time until Steven bled out. The man sighed, and leaned forward to lick a smear of food on his lips.

“How can you guarantee that you’ll come back?” he asked, then.

Steven looked at him. “The same way you guarantee that both of you will come back.”

Jake grinned. “Touché, little dove,” he said, then set apart another piece of salami and leaves. “You can,” he said. “Just—be back before night.”

“Alright,” Steven said, smiling a little at Jake, who looked all at once relieved and heartbroken. “Thank you, Jake.”

“You don’t thank a man walking to the gallows, mi vida," Jake said tiredly. “You’ll only choke him even before the ropes could.”

xxv.

The boy was standing across the road again, when Steven finally ventured out a few days later. The itch on his palms came back with vengeance, and he hurried to cross the street. This time, however, the boy waited. He grinned at Steven and took his hand, golden eyes glinting in a knowing look when Steven shuddered from the sudden relief on his right palm.

He craned his neck a little, because even in this form, Anubis was a head taller than him. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you’re supposed to be,” Anubis replied calmly, and it was jarring, to hear such a deep voice coming from a face so young. The juxtaposition just made him even more inhumane. “Come along, ya amar.”

Between one step and the next, Steven found himself in a rundown apartment. There were people chattering in the hallways; children playing and bragging with their friends, teenagers playing guitars and smoking, mothers gossiping as they traded recipes and food, old men playing mahjong and slapping the tiles so loudly on their turns. As they walked through the hallways, Steven noticed that no one seemed to be aware of them. Perhaps they were simply ignoring the peculiar presence, but it was sort of hard not to notice Anubis, with his golden eyes and the curiosity that bordered on manic on his face.

“Why are you so curious about humans anyway? Aren’t you supposed to know them already?” he asked as they turned on a corner.

“Their souls, yes,” Anubis said without looking at him, roving his sharp gaze over the numbers painted on the doors as if choosing a lottery, choosing the poor sap to be a victor with ominous omens as the prize. “But not when they still dwell within this realm.”

“You’ve never been to the human world before?”

“I have,” he said. “But it has been a long time since I’ve taken an avatar. No one wanted to be trapped in the eternity of the afterlife, when they try so hard to reach the field of reeds. It is hardly fair to offer it, either.”

“And it’s fair to me?” Steven asked.

Anubis tilted his head, and it was such a familiar gesture that Steven could almost see the ears and the snout. He gave Steven another grin. “You were the one who offered.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Fair, I suppose.” Then, he looked around and found a living room, with two little kids playing with a wooden car toy, and a woman humming a tune in the kitchen. The itch on his palms was starting to make itself known again, and he felt a sense of dread, dulled by desensitization of everything that had happened to him. “What are we doing here?”

“Back then, I oversaw the souls both in this realm and the next,” Anubis started, ignoring Steven’s question altogether. “I guided the lost souls and those who were helpless when they were stranded in either realm. Over time, I resided in the gods’ realm, and trusted my avatars to take care of the lost souls in this world.”

He looked at Steven, then, and Steven swallowed. There was a sudden sense of déjà vu hitting him—of the room full of people Marc had killed, of RoRo standing in front of him. He knew what Anubis was trying to say, now, as his eyes were drawn to the little girl, her hair haphazardly pulled into a ponytail. She was so young, cheeks colored red and plump with fat, her front teeth crooked as she laughed at something her sibling said.

“She’s just a child,” he whispered, unable to look away from how happy, how at ease she was.

Anubis let go of his hand, and stood behind Steven, leaning his chin on his shoulders. “And yet this is her time. It is not her soul dwelling in the body. It is one that is lost from its journey to the afterlife. Would you rather the soul perishes at all? Forever lost, or ceases to exist, never to find a final resting place?”

“Why can’t we let her grow up first?” he asked, face crumpling in defeat as his mind unconsciously agreed with what Anubis had said. “Let her experience life, before we take it away.”

“If it works that way, then young Randall would not have died that day, would he?”

It felt like a slap to the face, like he was held underwater in a freezing lake. He gritted his teeth and nodded. This was how fate was supposed to work, to flow. Steven couldn’t apply what had happened to him, couldn’t bring any good will against something even more powerful than the gods. The itch on his palms were almost painful now, and Anubis guided him to sit next to the little girl, so oblivious to the other two presences in the room; unknowing of the destiny that fate had set her into.

Anubis took his hand, and guided it gently on the girl’s back. Steven thought that the girl would turn around, that she would feel the tap on her back. But it wasn’t a tap, their hands delved through the fabric, through the skin, finding slight resistance of the ribs before Anubis curled his palm, and Steven followed. He could feel the heartbeat, but they delved deeper than that, and the moment the tip of his fingers touched a wisp, the girl screamed.

Steven jolted, head pressing hard into Anubis’ chest as the little girl started thrashing on the floor, the temporary hold they had now cut off from the movement. Anubis didn’t look perturbed, however, he just guided Steven’s hand again, to reach inside the ribcage, until their fingers fully closed around something—a soul, he realized. He was holding the lost soul residing in the girl’s body.

The girl’s sibling and mother were wailing, crying out for help as the mother held her child to her chest. Steven closed his eyes, as Anubis closed his palm around Steven’s, and they tugged. All at once, the girl stopped thrashing, stopped moving altogether. Her wide eyes were glassy, unseeing. There was no soul left in that body, and thus, it could no longer dwell in this realm.

He swallowed a sob, and buried himself into Anubis’ arms when the boy pulled him close. He didn’t think that he still had enough of himself left to feel this way, this grief over a life that ended too early. He felt a gentle pat on his back, a kiss placed on his temple, as Anubis heaved them both up. The wails of the mother, the neighbors slowly realizing what was happening, it all suddenly became fainter in his ears.

When Steven opened his eyes, he was back in Anubis’ palace. There was a large fountain in front of them, filled with the same wisp like the one he was holding, swimming gently amongst themselves, the way Gus floated through the still water. It was sort of relieving, to see Anubis’ jackal head, to feel the hard chest on the back of his head, as the god led him to kneel, and to gently let the soul merge into myriads of others in the fountain.

“When the time comes,” Anubis said, caressing the side of Steven’s face, “you will guide them. You and I, together.”

When, Steven repeated in his mind.

“I’m still—” he cut himself off, not knowing what to say, how to say it. He looked at Anubis helplessly, and presented his palms.

The god laughed; fangs bared as he grasped at Steven’s hands. “Because we’re not done yet, ya amar.”

He pulled Steven in, and the world tilted for a moment. When he was let go, he was standing in a warehouse. There were young men playing cards, slapping them against the barrel they had made as a make-shift table. They weren’t the only occupants of the place, however. There were older men, with guns strapped on their hips and thighs and rifles slung around their shoulders. A corner filled with stacks of money—fake money, Steven realized—and another with what he recognized as marijuana.

“Sometimes,” Anubis said, and the hand that draped over Steven’s waist was that of a human. “The lost souls dwelled in this realm for too long, and they became corrupted through certain circumstances. This is only one of many examples, and the byproduct of it.”

There were screams, then, and Steven’s head snapped up to a closed container, where there were sounds of someone banging against the metal walls, the wails of women and young girls. He knew, at once, why he was specifically brought here.

“Corrupted souls don’t just stop at greed, ya amar,” Anubis said. “They would seek out to corrupt others, too.”

He could feel the itch, getting stronger and stronger. A sudden fury and bloodthirst seeping into his veins. But Anubis stood in front of him, and cradled his face. Steven thinned his lips, knowing that there was a reprimand in the god’s stare. He clenched his fists tight, and let out a sigh when there were lips closing over his. It wasn’t like the way Marc kissed him—desperate and firm—or the way Jake did—angry and demanding—because what he felt was a deep-seated calmness, a soothing balm to the torrent in the maze inside his mind.

“I am not Khonshu,” Anubis reminded, lips moving against Steven’s. “I do not need your vengeance. What I need from you is to punish these corrupted souls accordingly. In this instance, I do not need you as an extension of my responsibility, Steven. I need you as my sword. Keep your emotions under control, lest they will control you.”

Steven took a deep breath, and leaned into Anubis again; wanting to feel that split-second serenity, wanting to be held for a moment before he had to repress everything and complete this deed. Anubis kissed him deeper, no longer as gentle, and when he let go, Steven was grappling for breath.

“But I will never condemn your cruelty,” Anubis said, and the grin was back on his face, the curiosity shining brighter in his golden eyes.

Steven nodded wordlessly, and stared at the men when they finally noticed him. They were shouting in a language he didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to understand what they were saying to slaughter them all. They were all corrupted anyway, the way he was. Wasn’t it a perfect decision, to let him deal with them, as a sinner to another?

Anubis’ power felt different from Khonshu. Perhaps, because more people believed in him; perhaps, because he was an inherently significant deity; perhaps, because death had always been there, even longer than the moon had come to be. It crackled in his bones, like the thunderstorm. He could feel the familiar embrace of the darkness on his back, the shadows following him with every step that he took. But he wasn’t supposed to wield this power, he was supposed to become one with it, to be an extension of Anubis’ might. To become a sword that cut through those who had drowned in the murky water.

The shadows rose when the bullets were aimed at him, and as Steven grasped a man’s head on his palm, he wondered. When he clenched his fingers hard enough, there was a sickening crunch as the skull was crushed, blood gushing out of the mouth, the nose, the ears, the eyes. He let the man fall to the ground, understood, then. He didn’t need a weapon because he was one; he shouldn’t involve his feelings because a weapon didn’t need one.

He tore the limbs apart, thinking distantly how easily a human was torn apart. Even those who were strong, their muscles and bones couldn’t hold against a force stronger than they could ever be. It was terribly easy—to straddle someone and sink his thumb into their eye sockets, feeling the slight resistance before they yield; it was easy to go past his discomfort and fear when he looked back into eyes filled with nothing but blood. It was too easy to let himself be a weapon, and cut through these corrupted souls one after another.

When he came to the last man, Steven knew that this was the source. The soul was calling to him, a cacophony of screams and whispers, a dark miasma wafting off through the fabric, through the bones and the flesh. When he clenched the man’s jaw, crushing it with the slightest touch, and reached into the man’s chest, uncaring of his muffled screams and struggles, he could feel the pulse of the corrupted soul, before he closed his fingers tight around the wisp, and pulled it out, tearing the man apart in the aftermath.

The shadows came back to him, and he opened his palms as they placed the corrupted souls of the fallen men. He was clean, not a speck of blood on his body, because the shadows had protected him. It felt wrong, somehow. A close combat weapon had never been absent of blood, for it was a proof of victory and the battles that had passed. But he supposed there was time for that.

He stopped himself from mulling over what he had just thought about.

“Are we going to let them go into the fountain, too?” he asked once he was within close distance to Anubis. The souls were floating restlessly in the invisible orb in his hands, pushing against the boundary, yet unable to escape.

Anubis laughed, and pulled a chair nearby to sit on it, pulled Steven along to secure him on the god’s lap. “That’s for you to decide. They are going to be stuck in the afterlife to pay for the deeds they had done in the living realm, forever in torment. But they are yours, now. Do what you want with them.”

Steven thought about it, then slowly plucked a soul out of the cage, and put it against his lips, swallowing it into his mouth and felt that it was akin to inhaling air, yet he could still crush it with his molars. He could feel the crunch of bones when he bit down on it, the screams echoing in his mind for a moment, before he swallowed it. It tasted like the ashes and thunderstorm; it tasted like the reflection staring back at him with golden eyes and a gaunt face. It tasted like how he thought he was supposed to.

Anubis didn’t say anything, but there was this peculiar surprise on his face; an expression torn between glee and fascination. He slipped his thumb underneath Steven’s shirt, caressing the jut of his hip bones as the souls were eaten, one by one. There was no nausea, no churning in his gut, no apparent need to keel over and vomit everything he had consumed.

Steven looked at Anubis when he came to another realization. He had turned even before he was aware of the change. He could no longer ingest what a normal human would, for he was already halfway a part of Anubis. It didn’t matter how much Jake and Marc had tried to force-feed him, when he’d end up throwing everything up anyway. Because that wasn’t what he needed. No amount of consumption could ever return the flesh that now had sunken in until Steven could see the outlines of his ribs in the mirror.

As he swallowed the last soul, Anubis pulled him down to kiss him. It wasn’t a kiss as much as it was an act of devouring, as if Anubis was trying to taste the remnants of the corrupted souls on Steven’s tongue. The skin of the god’s human form was soft, firm, and Steven wondered how it’d look if someone else could see them. A young man, with another man at least a decade older than him sitting on his lap, gasping and clenching on his lapels, looking like he was distraught and lost; like he was grounded and settled at last.

He was in a slight daze as he broke down the locks on all the containers. They all looked at him in confusion, before it morphed into horror once they saw the carnage he left behind. But then, a woman came forward and hugged him with everything her frail body could give, whispering a myriad of gratitude despite the horrendous act he had done. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around her, and closed his eyes when she cried into his shoulders.

If his condemnation could grant someone else salvation, then he thought that it was an important sacrifice. Even if he could never give the same thing for Marc and Jake—could never give it to himself.

xxvi.

“You look better,” Marc smiled, stroking Steven’s cheek with his knuckles softly. “I guess some fresh air really is good for you.”

Steven smiled back at him, hoping that it didn’t strain around the edges, and swallowed the salad that he knew would be thrown up once Marc stopped looking his way long enough. “I guess so,” he jested, jostling Marc’s shoulders lightly. It had been going better, with his body slowly filling back, with his skin no longer as pale, with his eyes no longer as empty.

Jake threw him a slow smile as he inhaled his cigarette. He was in a better mood, Steven noticed. The handcuffs were kept in the drawer, and on some nights, Jake let go of the collar around his neck, too. He had to admit that he missed the slight press of the leather against his Adam’s apple, sometimes. He supposed that Jake knew about it, too, because he wasn’t shy in tugging at the leash so tight when he fucked Steven from behind, pulling harder and harder still until Steven blacked out, at times.

Steven looked at them, gentle and adoring, and thought that the most painful thing about feeling alright at last wasn’t the fact that he had to hide what he was doing with Anubis. It was to see hope once again bloomed in their eyes, and was hopeless in the face of its inevitable shatter.

xxvii.

“That’s right,” Anubis whispered gently in his ears as Steven retched up his lunch and breakfast. “You don’t need that kind of sustenance anymore, after all. It’s alright, just let everything out.”

He thumped his fists against his chest, before they were taken away. Not even Anubis' gradual use of contractions in his sentences could distract him from the nausea, when it had entertained him before. Steven tried hard to swallow, saliva flooding his mouth as the acrid taste of acid and the bitterness of vomit lingered on the back of his tongue. Anubis tilted Steven’s head down slightly, and pressed long, graceful fingers on his lips.

“Is this not how they did it?” he asked. “To help you.”

He sighed, and parted his lips. It was familiar, the feeling of fingers crowding his mouth, reaching and curling on the back of his throat to trigger his gag reflex. He clutched at Anubis’ knees as he retched. It was pure bile, this time, no more blood. He didn’t know whether it was a good or a bad thing. Anubis patiently guided him through it, fingers staying in Steven’s mouth and not pulling away even when they were covered in spit and bile.

“Okay?” he asked then, and retracted his fingers from Steven’s throat. “Let’s clean you up, and then we’ll visit someone.”

Anubis washed his hands, then came up to Steven with a wet cloth and a glass of water. He cleaned the mess around Steven’s mouth, cradled the back of his head as he tipped the glass. It was oddly gentle, and Steven wondered if, in a way, Anubis was indeed still a young soul in this living realm; if he was only doing this because he knew that Steven couldn’t run away from him.

“Whose place is this?” he asked when they stood in front of a nice two-story house, with neatly trimmed lawn and a garden that was clearly well-loved.

“You will know,” Anubis said, an empty smile on his lips.

There was a family, sitting around a dining table. They looked happy, at ease with each other. The mother was gently caressing the noticeable bump on her stomach, her gaze adoring as she murmured softly to her unborn baby. By now, Steven knew better than to feel sympathy. This was just another part of his responsibility. But there was something niggling on the back of his head. There was something not quite right with the mother—there was a familiar scent of ashes coming from her, and Steven looked at Anubis.

“She is my past avatar,” he said without looking away from the family. “The soul, at least. She has escaped me numerous times. I suppose I taught her too well.”

Steven took a step closer, and Anubis let him. They were a family of five. The father, the mother, and three children—two daughters and one son. It was clear that they were taken care of, that they were given everything they might need out of love from their parents. It would be such a tragedy to place grief in such a peaceful place. But death didn’t discriminate, and it wasn’t biased.

Though, perhaps, this particular death contained more emotional attachments to Anubis.

“What about the baby?” Steven asked, and had to take a step back, right into Anubis’ arms when the mother suddenly turned to look at them. There was a frown on her face for a moment, but it was clear that she felt restless. Perhaps, she felt them; perhaps, she couldn’t immediately discern Anubis’ presence because Steven was there as well.

“Yours to decide,” Anubis said, and walked away.

This was the first time that Steven wasn’t guided, or watched. Maybe this was a test, maybe this was a tentative trust. He waited until they finished their dinner, and followed the mother as she went to clean the table. The father had ushered the children to the living room, aided by muffins and a jug of milk. Steven leaned against the table, and watched her humming a familiar tune as she washed the dishes. It was sort of calming, to wait for her. There was no anxiety, no guilt. In a way, he could feel that she knew he was there. So, he waited, and followed when she went through a door towards the backyard.

“Who are you?” she then asked as soon as the door was closed behind them.

“Steven,” he said, and stepped in front of her. “Steven Grant, from London.”

She smiled as she took his appearance in. “You look so delicate, Mr. Grant,” she said. “Too delicate to be involved with something like death. Has he forced your hand?”

“No,” he said. “I offered. I… needed to save someone I love. I was the one who sought him out.”

“I understand,” she said, and when Steven looked at her, he felt like his breath was punched out of his lungs, because she understood. There was heartache and longing in her eyes, warring with resignation and sorrow. “I wish I had more time.”

“We all do,” he murmured, looking down at her belly. “We are never allowed to have it, because no one wants to willingly part from the things dearest to them. It’s not supposed to be a hard decision. It’s just within human’s nature to think about it that way.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, and cradled his face gently. Her touch felt soothing on his skin, tender and loving. He wondered if this was how Marc felt once upon a time, before everything was razed to the ground by the storm that tore the Spector family apart. “You have given up, haven’t you?”

“I’ve accepted,” he said, but it felt wrong on his tongue.

She closed her eyes, an anguish for him, a tear for his sorrow. “My son,” she started with a trembling breath, as he let go of Steven’s face, and caressed her belly. “I wish for nothing but kind arms to guide him. Will you do that for me?”

“But he would be taken as well—”

“And you are Anubis’ consort,” she said calmly.

Steven was silent for a moment, and she smiled, a little wistful around the edges. “He gave you time,” she deduced. “He’s intrigued by you, by your nature. I know—I was once in your place. But I wasn’t as strong as you. This world is a cacophony of chaos, but I love it either way. I like living here, I like being a part of a gigantic cog in the machination of the universe. Even if I meant nothing to the gods, that’s alright, because I found those who could find meanings in me.”

Steven didn’t realize that he was crying until she looked at him with a trembling smile, reaching out to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. “Have you prepared yourself to part with your beloved?”

He swallowed, and was surprised when he felt conviction in his answer. “I have,” he said. “I’ve learned to let them go. I don’t know what’s going to happen to them, but I know that I—I’ll never lose them. Death is just a realm away, after all.”

“Death is as inevitable as it is an illusion of immortality,” she told him. “Love is more fragile, foolish and fickle—”

“Like humans?” he said with a small smile. “He thought of humans that way.”

She smiled back at him and nodded. “Like humans. But I think, exactly because we are fickle and foolish, that we understand love more than the deities could. If this is your decision, then I hope that you’ll find them again, one day.”

“I will,” Steven said, remembering Jake’s serene smile. “I will always find them.”

She nodded, a smile still in place, as she closed her eyes. Steven had never done this without Anubis, had never done this with the intention of giving a peaceful death, with how unnatural this end was. He held her close, and reached into her soul, soothing her with whispers in her ears as her body started to shiver. The soul he had his fingers wrapped around was old, but it was beautiful, and Steven carefully pulled it out, cradled it into his chest as he gently lowered down her body.

There was another soul attached to it, and he separated them as carefully as he could. These souls were his to decide the fate of. He thought that he should put hers into the small goblet, filled with pure souls waiting for their time to be sent to the field of reeds. The soul of the son, he kept close.

When he left the house with Anubis, he could hear the anguish in the father’s cry as he held his wife’s cold body. He left behind the grief and sorrow, and cradled the small wisp of soul between his palm. This was his—as had been told by Anubis, as had been pleaded by the mother. He pulled it closer still, and thought that, even if he couldn’t fulfill other promises he had made, this one he’d keep until it was the time for him to reunite the mother and son in the nirvana in a tomorrow that seemed so far away.

xxviii.

“You’re keeping it,” Anubis said, as Steven put the small wisp of soul into a cradle of velvet blankets.

“Him,” he corrected gently. “Yeah, I’m keeping him. He’s mine, isn’t he?”

Anubis regarded him for a moment, and Steven didn’t know just when he found it endearing to see the jackal head tilted slightly to the side. “You’re going to raise him here?”

“Well, yeah? He’s dead anyway, isn’t he?” he asked, then laughed at how bizarre his sentence sounded. “Where else can I raise him?”

“The living realm,” Anubis replied.

He thought about it; thought of raising the boy with Jake and Marc, of having them close by, as a proper family, of never going to be able to be theirs completely. It was a worse punishment than to have him wrenched away from them forcefully. He was Anubis’ consort, not his avatar. He wasn’t meant to serve the god as Marc and Jake had with Khonshu. He wasn’t meant to stay with them, no matter how much he wanted to.

He looked at Anubis with a wistful smile, and said, “You’re even crueler than Ammit, do you know that?”

“I have heard of similar things said about me,” the god said without a hint of annoyance.

Steven shook his head slightly and looked back to the small wisp. There is no salvation but my arms, he remembered, so vividly as if it was only yesterday. It was better to have him screaming and fighting, because then, he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he had come to this decision all by himself. There is a stark difference between having his options taken away from him, and to consciously make his choice. Because then, he’d have to face the responsibilities, the aftermath.

“Am I going to stay here forever?” he asked. “I know I said eternity, but how long is a human’s eternity compared to that of a god?”

“As long as your soul is within my protection, then as long as I allow it to be,” came the reply. “You’re thinking about reconciling with them.”

“I’m thinking about how long I have until my soul disintegrates,” he said truthfully. “Might not even have enough time to see them, if I can get into the Aaru at all.”

Anubis was silent for a moment, before he moved closer to Steven. It was still so jarring, the difference in the god’s physique in this realm and the other. Steven had to admit that he had grown accustomed to the tall boy who took him by hand everywhere, who guided him to tear people with corrupted souls apart, whose palms closed around his to take away souls to be sent to an eternal, peaceful rest. Here, Anubis was more reserved, for he already had wisdom about this realm. But there was a certain serenity to be found in his strong, reassuring figure.

“Humans are such foolish, fickle creatures,” Anubis said, an echo from a memory from so long ago. But his voice was gentler, his touch careful as he turned Steven around. “I cannot have your heart and devotion. Not now, not for another eternity.”

“You can have my life and soul,” Steven said, and knelt along with Anubis as the god descended. “I can promise you that, at least.”

There was a large palm cupping the side of his face, and Steven leaned into it. With a decision in mind, with determination emboldening him, he kissed the rough palm, let his lips linger for a moment, let Anubis know what his touch meant.

“There is no going back from this bond,” Anubis said, though he was caressing Steven still. “You can, but you know how it will end up.”

He laughed, and framed Anubis’ snout with his much smaller palms. “You were the one who told me that this is an eternity I can’t escape from. Even if you've neglected to tell me that I’d end up as your consort, instead of your avatar.”

“I told you I have too many servants already,” Anubis said, and for a moment, Steven could see the young boy with golden eyes, a grin on his lips. Steven held him close, then, and the god entertained him, despite the difference in their stature. “Fickle, indeed.”

“That’s no way to speak to your consort, now, is it?”

Anubis’ golden eyes looked at him, for some reason conveying incredulity and fondness so well. Steven closed his eyes as he was carried. He remembered Marc’s touch, remembered Jake’s lips, remembered all the farewells he couldn’t say. He pulled Anubis into his arms as his back hit the soft mattress of the lavish bed. This, too, was an act of acceptance instead of desires; this, too, was a farewell that he could breathe into the lungs of a god who understood his grief and sorrow.

As he took Anubis’ hand, Steven finally allowed himself a salvation, at last.

xxix.

In the haze of pleasure and lust, Steven looked at the thunderstorm on the faraway horizon. Anubis’ fangs were as sharp as they looked, leaving traces of wounds on his skin; some stitched back together, some he left for his own amusement. Steven’s left shoulder was mangled after Anubis clamped down hard enough to tear skin and flesh, but he didn’t feel the pain. All he felt was the absolute exhilaration and mind-numbing pleasure.

He noticed, for the first time, just how small, how frail he was compared to Anubis’ staggering form. When the god lay his full weight on him, Steven let out gasps, body straining to press their skin closer together, feeling so overwhelmed as the familiar feeling of suffocation seeped into his mind. It was hard to breathe, but he was asking for more, asking to be touched, asking for salvation just slightly out of reach.

Anubis hadn’t spared him the mercy of his claws, tearing into his rectum as he slid his fingers into Steven. It was a weird feeling, to have the pain battling so closely with pleasure, to feel his flesh tearing apart and then healing in the same breath. He was slicked only by his own sweat and blood, grasping the sheets tight until his knuckles turned white, bit on his lip until he could taste copper across his tongue. Anubis lapped at his tears, whispering gently in his ears, a language that Steven didn’t speak, yet understood by heart.

It wouldn’t matter, Steven knew, because no amount of preparation could ever make his body ready for Anubis. There were just too many differences in their size and stature, in their power and status. This was the imbalance of power that could never be toppled over. And yet, even as another part of him was stitching itself back together, even as Steven cried out from the pain that soon after was replaced with pleasure without even a moment of respite, he didn’t think that he’d want to stop now.

There was heat, then, in the center of his stomach, so unbearable that Steven tried to curl into himself. But Anubis’ hold on his waist prevented that, he leaned down to lick into Steven’s mouth, his tongue filling the space until Steven choked on it. “You will need this,” Anubis said, trying to reassure him. “Your body cannot handle me.”

“I don’t care,” he keened out, halfway into a growl. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel beyond the intense pleasure and pain, couldn’t ask for anything but to be touched—even with claws tearing his skin apart, even with fangs turning him into mangles. He wanted everything, because this wasn’t just the act of fornication—this was Steven’s decision, this was the final step of his deterioration, this was him finally decaying to his last breath as the memory of a Steven Grant, who used to be Marc’s, who used to be someone who couldn’t do anything but be protected, even from himself.

This was the exchange of power and faith, of balances and imbalances, of lives and eternities.

When Anubis held him close, breaching slowly into him, Steven screamed, and screamed, and screamed until he could no longer tell his voice from the thunderstorm, until everything blurred in his sight, until he could feel nothing but the cage of Anubis’ arms, the hard muscles beneath his nails, the magnitude of sheer, unadulterated pain lancing throughout his body.

He could feel the muscles and skin around his rectum tearing apart, unable to bear the massive girth, his insides in a constant cycle of rupturing and healing as Anubis pushed in, deeper and deeper still. Each time that Steven took a breath and thought that it was the last of it, Anubis pushed in still, and he gasped in desperation as he growled and keened into the god’s mouth. The part where they were now connected felt warm and wet, both from Steven’s blood and the sheer heat of Anubis.

And yet, despite the pure agony, despite the thunderstorm roaring louder and louder still, when Anubis was at last completely inside him, when Steven sobbed and tentatively looked down to see his stomach stretched and distended to accommodate the god, there was a spark of pleasure that was lit up from within him, spreading and spreading until there was no corner left untouched, until Steven was gasping out Anubis’ name into the storm raging outside, until he was mindless from the lust clouding his mind, from the need to have more, more, more.

He held onto the sheets, onto Anubis’ arm as he was embraced so roughly that he felt like his entire world was tilting on its axis, until he could no longer tell where Anubis began and where he ended, until he could feel nothing but the harsh, relentless slide of the god inside of him. He was wrecked, torn apart in all kinds of senses, only to be reunited again as something more different than himself each time. He was mangled into unrecognizable pieces until there was nothing left of Steven Grant, the mild-mannered man who had never known a world beyond his apartment and the museum, into something else—something that he inherently recognized as a whisper of something unholy, something condemned, something godly.

He let go of everything in his past—his fabricated memories, the experiences he had throughout the journey with Marc and Layla, the feel of Marc in his arms, the soft smile on Jake’s lips when Steven found him, the days of painful hopes and denials, the gentleness of their eyes as Steven took the last plunge into the familiar, warm embrace of the darkness.

When Anubis stilled his hips, and Steven had lost his breath yet again; when he felt that he was filled with molten, searing liquid, so much of it that his stomach distended further; when he had to pull away from Anubis to turn his head weakly to the side as he heaved and threw up white, almost silvery liquid form his mouth—again, and again, and again until Anubis let out a deep breath, and slowly extricated himself from Steven, he thought that a blank slate had never looked so frail.

All at once, he felt the cum and the blood rushing out of him; the fatigue and the exhaustion, the pain that was healed slower this time around. He felt sated, satisfied; he felt like he had just lost something so important to him, and he wasn’t getting it back. Not now, not ever.

He stared at the ceiling, with its intricate paintings and unnatural source of light, before Anubis loomed over him once again. Steven hadn’t even managed to catch his breath, before the sharp claw of a lone finger pierced through the skin above his heart. He let out a ragged sob and clenched the god’s arms tightly as Anubis connected the pattern on his skin, blood flowing through the rupture of epidermis.

It was an ankh, Steven vaguely realized, mind still hazy and reeling. The wound seared through him, burning him from the inside and out. Anubis was marking him, welcoming him into an eternity spent side by side, taking him into his palace as Steven descended into the underground. There were whispers, and Steven unconsciously repeated them in his mind; his voice and Anubis’ fusing into a unison of a thousand echoes.

When the time comes, I will take your hand and lead you to death’s altar, for I shall give the hounds the remains of my flesh. I will give you my soul, and I will hold onto yours for eternity, so I can be yours, and you can save my rotten heart for yourself.

When the time comes, I will give your heart and mine to the universe’s cold mercy. And so, I will take your hand, and be with you in the void of death, of a life in an eternity spent as yours—condemned and torn; at peace, at last.

The ankh sunk deeper into his skin, engraving into a heart that no longer beat, leaving a scar that marked Steven as Anubis’ consort, as a fellow god, as someone to lead a life in the palace filled with the wails of the condemned. There was no going back from this bond, until the end of which his soul would cease to exist, coming back as a dust of the galaxy, another speck in the gigantic cog of the universe’s machination.

He took Anubis in for one last embrace, and shakily raised his hand, sinking his nails into the skin of the god’s back, dragging the torn flesh to form a crescent—for he was still a child of the moon, even if he had killed the god by his own hands, for this fate would not happen if the moon hadn’t willed it so, for Steven was Anubis’ moon in the harsh thunderstorm.

When he was done, he leaned back on the cradle of Anubis’ arms, and let his eyes close; let himself curl in darkness’ embrace. For this moment, and the next eternity.

xxx.

When the blood splattered on the floor, Jake was the first one to look away. He heaved a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. When he walked towards Steven, he didn’t straighten his shoulders. This was a broken man, walking to his gallows on his own accord.

“What did he offer you?” Jake asked softly, wiping the remnants of blood from Steven’s lips.

“I offered first,” he laughed, and though his heart was broken into pieces, again and again the more he looked into Jake’s casted eyes, he felt a sense of tranquility washing over him. “I mean, he got the palace and all the glimmers, alright. Can’t really blame a man, can you?”

Jake scoffed, and chuckled weakly. “No, I don’t think so, little dove,” he said, and cupped Steven’s face gently. “Why can’t you stay, then?”

“I took away two lives, entwined,” Steven whispered into the scant space between them. “The mother asked me to take care of her son. And I will.”

“We can raise him together,” Jake said. “I will love him like he is mine, like he is ours.”

“I know,” Steven said with a sincere smile. “I’ll bring him to meet you, once I can find you again.”

Jake let out a long, tired sigh, and leaned forward to press his forehead against Steven’s, the way they did so long ago. But this time, it wasn’t the cool surface that Steven felt, it was the warmth of a man he had come to accept even before Marc had learned to forgive himself. The eyes blinking back at him slowly, the smile on lips beyond the reflection, the soundless words that Steven could hear loud and clear.

You found me, Jake had said through the reflection. You found me, Jake had said as Steven took his hand and led him through the gate. You will find me again, Jake said against Steven’s lips, before he kissed him tenderly.

When they lay together that night, with Steven’s shivering body surrounded by Marc’s and Jake’s strong, reassuring arms, only a touch away before they broke apart at the seams, Marc kissed the side of his shoulder, and asked, “Will we see you again? In this realm.”

“Sometimes,” Steven said, feeling his body gradually, steadily giving up; his heartbeat slowing down to its last dregs. “When I have to. There are a lot of lost souls still in this world.”

“Can we see you?” Marc asked again.

Steven laughed, brittle and weak, but laced with mirth nonetheless. “I’ll be sure to wear my best attire in times that we cross each other. Don’t want to look shabby now when I have a kid looking up to me, aye?”

“He’s going to end up as a nerd,” Jake commented lazily from Steven’s other side.

“Oi!” Steven protested weakly, swatting at Jake’s face, and ending up smushing the cheek instead. He huffed out a laugh when Jake took his hand, and held it close to his chest.

The world was starting to be blurry, and the whispers of the damned in the palace were getting louder and louder still. In the still air, in the pause of time when Steven offered them a sliver of salvation, Marc said, “Will you still be mine?”

Steven smiled, aching and endeared. But it didn’t feel like a lie when he said, “Always.”

Marc touched his chin gently, and kissed him soft and slow, as if he was trying to engrave the taste of Steven’s lips into his memory. “May we meet again,” he whispered, echoing what Steven had said back in the Duat.

Steven closed his eyes, and believed—that he could meet Marc again, that he would find Jake again.

When his heart stopped beating, the rain poured and the thunderstorm raged outside. Marc Spector and Jake Lockley held his lifeless body throughout the storm, until the sun finally graced them with its warmth late into the morning.

Steven Grant died in a thunderstorm; a soul and an eternity promised to a god, a heart and unwavering devotion and love left behind for two broken men in their last steps to the gallows. In time, he would be reborn anew as something different, the one made from the last pieces of him turned from fate’s decision and his own making. In time, he would wait for two souls that had held his heart to arrive in a realm where they could find each other—for the last time, for an eternity.

xxxi.

When Steven heard the first cry, he held the small hand and peered into the golden eyes staring back at him, shining with tears and a familiar curiosity. He smiled and cradled the newborn close to his chest as Anubis tilted his head and regarded the tiny creature.

“No claws,” Steven warned as he traced the baby’s soft cheeks with a careful finger. The baby had stopped crying, and Steven smiled warmly at him. “Hullo, Khalid,” he said, softly, ladened with adoration. “Welcome to the palace of the damned, which isn’t really a good place to raise a child, don’t know what I was thinking. But there is so much I wanted to tell you, about this realm, and the other.”

Anubis reached out slowly, claws retracted for once, as he held Khalid's head tenderly. Steven gave a small smile to the god, and looked back at the baby’s unwavering, curious stare.

“Why don’t we start with your mother?” he asked gently, and walked towards the balcony, where flowers had bloomed through Steven’s sheer stubbornness and insistence of growing a life in the land of the dead. The thunderstorm was still raging, but it was far away, on the horizon that no one could ever find.

Khalid held his finger in a tiny fist, listening to him as if he understood what Steven was saying. Perhaps, he did. But even if he didn’t, Steven would still tell him the same stories, over and over again—of a woman so gentle and loving, of realms filled with wonder despite the cacophony of chaos, of two men waiting to meet them both in whichever realm they would see each other again, of the cold, uncaring universe that would never cease to be majestic in its absolute existence and immortality.

And, perhaps, one day, Steven would tell him about heartaches and resignation, of life and death, of decisions and choices, of leaving behind and letting go. But in this moment, with Anubis’ presence enveloping them, with Khalid’s golden eyes mirroring Steven’s own, with the thunderstorm on the corner of their eyes, he could tell Khalid about how adored, how awaited, how loved he was, in this realm, and the one beyond.

xxxii.

Sometimes, when the rain poured down over London, and the citizens sighed and rushed through the droplets without even caring in the slightest, too used to this kind of weather, Jake Lockley would see a boy with golden eyes walking hand in hand with a young man with a sharp grin, and another, older man with gentle eyes and tinkling laughter.

If he stopped and tried to approach them, he’d find nothing but empty streets and the scent of thunderstorm and ashes left behind. So, he just stared at them from afar each time he saw them. Sometimes, he would feel eyes on him, and found golden eyes that he knew were supposed to be dark brown, gazed back at him with devotion and a promise in a loving smile.

His heart would ache and shatter apart, again and again, but he still waited for the time when he came across the young boy jumping and dragging the men as they explored the living realm; knowing that they didn’t come from this world, knowing that a part of his soul, his heart, would always be carried by the man in his stupid patterned shirts and golden eyes. Best attire, my ass, he would think, before he drove by without looking back.

Sometimes, when the thunderstorm raged outside, and Marc Spector was curling in his sleep, he would feel gentle hands caressing his hair, a soft kiss placed upon his temple, a hum of a tune that he would come to be familiar with. If he opened his eyes, he’d found nothing but the still air of the apartment, and the longing so stark on his tongue that he couldn’t breathe with it. So, he didn’t; let the fingers running through his curls lull him to sleep, kept the whispers of sweet nothings as promises to be fulfilled in the next life.

And, sometimes, after the thunderstorm had ceased, and he looked down from the balcony, he would hear a familiar laughter, and saw a man his heart could recognize anywhere, hoisting up a boy, their laughter joining in a joyful unison. There would be a young man accompanying them, and when he caught Marc’s eyes on them, he would stop, and whisper to the other. On those times, Marc would gaze into golden eyes filled with the same ache and longing; a gentle, sincere smile gracing the man’s lips as he told the boy to wave at Marc.

In Jake Lockley’s and Marc Spector’s death, separately, they thought that they could see the familiar sight of a small family—of the man they had waited their whole lives to be reunited to, of a young man with a grin and sharp, curious gaze, of a growing boy who looked at them with such solemnity on his small face.

When they crossed the Duat, and arrived at Aaru, they would meet a woman with startling resemblance to the boy they had been seeing all these times. They would sit down with her, and listen to her stories of the gods, of life, of the universe, and then they would wait.

For they knew that they would be found again, for they knew that their aching hearts would be soothed. For they knew that, this time, they could be whole at last. For this moment, and the next eternity.

#moon knight #shiki writes #from ao3 #anubis/steven #marcsteven #jakesteven #sick steven grant #dead dove do not eat #read the tags please #moonsea #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #anubis

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