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Aphrodite is the goddess of love.
People come to her temples, they crawl on their knees, and beg for love because life is so fleeting, because life is only worth living if it is shared. When people think of love, they think of happiness, tenderness, adoration, but they forget — there is romance in wanting what you cannot have. There is a reason all the greatest love stories ever written end in tragedy.
(Aphrodite is the goddess of love, but she is not kind. She loves all love — unrequited love, lost love, forbidden love. They too fall under her jurisdiction and she holds them close to her heart.)
Gojo Satoru is a hero destined to save humanity.
Ares offers power, transforms him into a divine being, imbued with the spirit of battle. Hermes bestows speed, he becomes fleet-footed and untouchable as the wind. Apollo steals a part of the sun and places it inside his chest, his eyes, his skin — so that he may be a beacon of light to his people on the dark days that are to come.
Aphrodite lays a gentle, delicate hand on his head and gifts him with beauty. She crafts him carefully from nothing but flesh, blood and bone and knows that he is to be her magnum opus. She steals color from the skies and places them into his eyes, pale blues as vivid as robin’s eggs. From the clouds, his hair turns white as snow. From the red of the setting sun, his cheeks become rosy and smooth.
Satoru is almost beautiful enough to rival Aphrodite herself.
(Almost — because no one can be as beautiful as Aphrodite. Akhelious had tried, once. He had dared to say that he was more beautiful than she and now he swims in the depths of the ocean.)
Athena gives him a title; the prince of Athens. He will be raised with the best scholars in Greece, trained in the arts of science and philosophy. Intelligent, quick-witted and insightful, as all heroes are, as all heroes must be.
Heroes are not usually Aphrodite’s domain; they fall under the protection of Ares, who thirsts for war, or Athena, who values cleverness. She knows all too well — there are no happy endings for heroes that fight for love.
It becomes certain when Apollo sends a prophecy to the oracles, sets his tragedy in stone. Satoru will kill the person he loves the most to save humanity.
When Satoru is born, gray clouds cover the surface of the mortal realm. His eyes open and the sun breaks through, reaching for the skies hidden inside Satoru, a single golden ray on the small child.
Honored One, the mortals call him. Blessed One. Savior of the Greeks.
A burden no child should have to bear.
Yet, Satoru does. A young boy with the favor of the gods. He grows, trained by warriors and scholars from every realm. He surpasses them all with his eyes closed.
(The sun seeks a home in Satoru’s eyes, tries to reclaim those spare pieces of sky.)
Bards sang songs of his existence. The world’s reverence, laughter and praise — it was his at the cost of friendship, at the cost of love. No one wants to be a victim of prophecy. Others are too envious, jealous of the greatness forced upon him. Others still fear his strength, his prowess in battle.
Intellect is valued but war is more so and in war, Satoru has no equal. He runs as if he has wings. He wields a sword, but no shield — he needs no protection. They say that his blood is golden, inhuman, divine.
No one can say differently until Artemis‘s gift arrives.
On the day they meet, Satoru is on a hill covered by a blanket of grass. He is training, swinging his sword against an imaginary foe.
An arrow, faster than light, grazes Satoru on the cheek, drawing a thin line across his skin. He freezes. Blood drips down his face, falls like pomegranate seeds into his hand. It is the first time he has ever bled and it is not the golden ichor of gods, but red as berries. He discovers he is human.
He turns and spots a man holding his bow, arm still outstretched in the same position as when the arrow was shot. The bow is sleek and as bright as the moon.
Suguru’s eyes are the color of night and in them Satoru sees constellations: the wildness of Cetus, monster of the sea; the valor of Draco, dragon guardian; the fearlessness of Hydra, immortal serpent. His hair is woven from ink and starlight; it cascades down his back in waves and flows as freely as poetry.
Satoru’s thoughts escape before his mind can stop him, “You’re beautiful.”
Suguru laughs and the sound is musical, more exquisite than harp or lyre. Satoru wants nothing more than to capture it in glass bottles and keep it for himself.
“And what else?” Suguru asks, approaching. His voice is smooth, melodious as bird song. He places a hand on Satoru’s cheek and brushes the blood away, tears a part of his own shirt to clean it. His hands are steady and firm.
“What else?” Satoru repeats, cursing himself inwardly for sounding like a fool. His education, it seems, is useless against a pretty face.
“I’m beautiful,” Suguru says. “What else? Surely you do not choose your companions based on beauty alone.”
He frowns. No one can match him on the battlefield. No one has dared to try. “I have none.”
“Then let me be your first,” Suguru says. It is a bold statement to make. “Let me join you.”
His words are as sure as flowers in spring, as sure as ice in winter. Words, however, can be fickle.
“Spar with me,” Satoru says in challenge. Victory runs through his blood, the blessing of Ares. Loss is almost certain. The mere thought of fighting Satoru would make even aged, scar-ridden warriors balk.
But Suguru simply sets down his bow, takes out a sword and says, “Okay.”
(“Artemis,” Athena says. “What have you done?”
Artemis furrows her eyebrows in confusion. “I sent him a friend.”
Aphrodite smiles. “You’ve sent him more than a friend.” It is clear in the way they are drawn each other.
“This will ruin him,” Athena sighs.
Aphrodite waves a hand. “Let him ruin himself for love,” she says, “There are far worse things in life.”)
Stories spread on the tongues of townspeople. Though every kingdom sends a princess and an offer for marriage, the prince ignores them all in favor of his new companion. Together, they are a sight to behold.
The prince’s better half, many say. Suguru is kind, beloved by all who meet him. He defends the people when Satoru mocks them with biting words, responds with sharp jabs just as quickly. It is an act that is blatantly disrespectful and one that should be punished with death, but Satoru considers him his only equal and Suguru escapes unscathed from the threat of execution.
Satoru is arrogant, but he has reason to be. The gods placed upon his shoulders the weight of the world and for his people, he wears it like a crown. Perfection is ordinary. His face is art itself, made of elegant lines and perfect curves. He is golden, as bright as the sun itself.
It hurts to look at him. Suguru notices what others do not — how the light he carries is demanding and greedy, devouring everything in its path. Satoru balances his people’s hopes in one hand and dreams in the other and has time for nothing else. He is alive, but not by any measure worth living.
Scholars may have taught Satoru how to read and solve mathematics, but Suguru takes it upon himself to teach Satoru everything else.
In the mornings, Satoru’s servants are sent away. Suguru brushes his hair, puts rouge on his cheeks and clothes on his back with careful touches. Here, Satoru learns tenderness as Suguru brushes his hands against his skin, gentle and warm.
During walks, animals approach Suguru eagerly, sensing the blessing of Artemis. On a particularly sunny afternoon, he places a fluffy white cat into Satoru’s arms and Satoru’s expression — pure, unbridled joy — is a sight Suguru wants to see for the rest of his life. The cat purrs, nuzzling its head into his chest; Satoru looks at Suguru with a mixture of disbelief and delight. The realization crashes over Suguru with the force of an ocean tide and he wants to laugh and cry all at once — falling in love with Satoru is as easy as breathing.
(There are whispers that a war is coming.)
The world asks Satoru for protection and gives nothing in return; it is an injustice that burns through Suguru’s veins. He wants to steal Satoru away and take him far away, to a place untouched by war and politics. He wants to build a home with Satoru, one that is filled love and laughter and warmth, one with open doors and crackling fires and food for sharing.
The dream slips through his fingers like mist evaporating in the morning sun. Satoru is not and will never be his — he belongs to his people, to all of Greece.
When everything is too much, Satoru sits on Suguru’s lap and buries his face into his shoulder. Suguru envelops Satoru in his arms and holds him close, steals these tiny moments in eternity, tries to bandage together fragments of the boy he loves.
Their first kiss happens impulsively. They are laying on fields of flowers underneath a canopy of stars and their hands are twined together, tickled by violets, poppies, and daisies. Satoru is watching moonlight spill onto Suguru’s face, gleaming silver on his skin.
“Satoru,” Suguru calls him. Not honored one or savior or prince. His lips form those three syllables like it is is a language of its own, like his name is something to be savored and Satoru cannot help himself.
He kisses him. Their lips meet; the night quiets. The kiss is strange, awkward, and clumsy, but his name has never tasted so sweet.
Their love is new and young; it blossoms like a flower bud in spring. At the end, they are both breathless, and Suguru is laughing. Satoru leans forwards, touches their heads together and smiles so widely it feels as if his face might split in two.
The prophecy lingers in the back of his mind but it’s hard to think when Suguru is caressing his face, pressing soft kisses on his eyes, his nose, his cheeks. He is the strongest. He will fight the fates if he has too.
Satoru loves as he does everything in life — with confidence and reckless abandon. The weight on his shoulders does not lessen, but when he goes into Suguru’s arm, it fades away. He allows himself to forget. Being with Suguru feels like freedom and Satoru never wants to let go.
Satoru has always been reckless and impulsive, but when he proposes to Suguru, it’s the most sensible decision he has ever made.
The council of elders will never acknowledge their marriage, but they gather jeweled fruits — emerald pears, amethyst grapes, ruby apples — and give offerings to Hera and Aphrodite so that the gods will recognize that their souls are bound.
They exchange rings in secret as the sun sets behind them, flooding the sky with pink and orange. Suguru bathes his hair in sacred water, Satoru lights fires for protection and they recite those ancient binding words, finish by tracing them with each other’s lips.
“I love you,” Satoru says. It is a promise that Suguru answers with a kiss and a smile.
The peace does not last. Soon, too soon, they are sent to war. It is a war between gods, orchestrated on the mortal realm by kings.
Together, they are a sight to behold. They fight seamlessly, two halves of the same soul. There is never one without the other.
Still, things change. Satoru returns every night, bathed in the blood of his enemies and Suguru is tired, so tired. He wakes tired; the ache settles in his bones, drains his very soul. It’s an endless cycle. Resentment boils inside him and he stands on the edge of a cliff, connected by mere threads.
Satoru no longer sleeps, plagued by nightmares and visions. He fights until he is exhausted, until he can do nothing else but collapse onto the floor. Suguru drags him back to their tent and comforts him as best he can, runs his hand through white hair turned gray by ashes and holds him softly. Satoru does not bleed, but his eyes are hollow, as empty and barren as the endless desert. Suguru cannot remember the last time Satoru has smiled.
Satoru is still so bright. Suguru can only watch as victory itself wraps around him like a cloak, covers him with glory and praise. He fights with the brilliance of a dying star.
Suguru stands near Satoru and burns; there is no one to catch him as he falls, deeper into the abyss.
Icarus had flown towards the sun and smiled as his wings crumpled to ashes, laughed as he fell from the blazing sky. He had loved the sun. It had been worth it.
It had been worth it.
Satoru stands above him in golden armor, his sword pointed at his throat. Satoru’s hands tremble as Suguru smiles.
“What now?” Suguru asks quietly. His voice turns light and mocking. “Will you tell me you love me? Will you ask me to come back?”
Satoru’s face tightens. They both know Suguru has gone too far for redemption.
“Why?” Satoru asks. The question is harsh, demanding. It's the same voice he uses to command soldiers to march towards death.
No one has ever denied him anything, but Suguru has always been the exception. Suguru moves forward; the tip of Satoru’s sword touches his neck. The metal is bitingly cold against his skin. He does not give Satoru an answer.
“Kill me if you want,” Suguru says. “Isn’t that what you’re born to do?” Bitterness floods through his words like bites of raw lemon. Heroes are made to kill monsters.
Suguru is drowning under rolling ocean waves. Falling in love with Satoru was as easy as breathing, but now water is filling his lungs and it hurts. Love feels like chains tied around his neck, his feet, his hands — it drags him deeper and deeper.
Suguru pushes the sword away. It cuts the palm of his hand and blood trickles down the blade like crimson wine. Satoru doesn’t stop him when he leaves.
He loves Satoru. He does. The expression on Satoru’s face is open and vulnerable, confused and angry all at once. Suguru wants to comfort him, to caress his face and kiss him until they both forget the world around them, until nothing else matters, but he knows that it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t change the wretched world they live in.
Suguru is sick of the game played between gods, mortals, and kings. As he turns and walks away from the scorching sun, all he can feel is relief.
(Years pass.
Yuuta Okkotsu is the son of Hades. When Satoru fails to kill Suguru, Okkotsu is sent in his stead.)
The next time Satoru sees Suguru, he is sitting in the middle of a circle of white roses. Sunlight spills across the landscape like thick honey, paints it yellow and gold. There is a trail of blood that centers around him, his arm missing from his side. His lips are curled into a demure smile as he tilts his head up, long hair falling behind him like silk made from the night sky. He is staring at the sun.
Suguru’s eyes are black and they watch as Satoru kneels in front of him. Satoru wraps his unarmed hand around Suguru’s fingers, their rings clicking against each other. Suguru squeezes gently and Satoru chokes, tears pricking the back of his eyes.
“Sorry,” Suguru says quietly. He leans forward, resting his head on Satoru’s neck and Satoru clutches at him like a scared child. Stay, stay, stay. Please don’t leave me.
“I did love you,” Suguru murmurs. His breath is warm against Satoru’s skin. “I still love you.”
(What use is love in the face of war? What use is love against fate and prophecy?)
“I know,” Satoru replies, his voice raw, his throat flayed open. The dagger in his hand is a thousand pounds and he can’t, he can’t—
Suguru pulls back and smiles, taking Satoru’s hand and guiding the blade to his own chest. “It’s okay,” he says, soft, comforting. “I’ll wait for you.”
(“There will be a soul arriving at your gates soon,” Aphrodite says. “He will wait before crossing the river. Protect him until then.”
Hades smiles. “Another victim of your senseless war?”
Aphrodite smiles back innocently. “Not completely senseless.”
“You do enjoy your tragedies.”
“Love is always a tragedy, Uncle. I just decide how.”)
Satoru cries, strangled sobs that tear his lungs in shreds. Satoru’s heart is rotting inside his chest and he feels a wild urge to plunge his hand through his ribs to rip it out — maybe then the pain would lessen.
Satoru’s eyes bleed azure, sapphire, cobalt. As his tears fall, shards of sky drip onto white roses, stains their petals every shade of blue.
Satoru lays Suguru’s body into the soft earth and covers him with blue roses, his hands shaking as the thorns prick his fingers.
Blue roses mean the impossible, the unattainable, wishes that can never be fulfilled.
Aphrodite thinks there is nothing more fitting for Satoru and Suguru.