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Language:
English
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Published:
2022-06-01
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858
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1/1
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44
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In the Fields of Enna

Summary:

You offer it to him in place of a ring. A promise, for he in turn is still promised to another.
He takes it from you with steady hands and breaks it open with two strong palms, clamped tightly. You watch with bated breath: perhaps the most important moment you will ever witness in all your eternal life.

Notes:

long time no see but iwaoi persephone/hades au possessed me

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

You find him laying amongst the narcissus blossoms, the place in which you always meet. He senses you without seeing and props himself up on his elbow, the sleeve of his chiton draping across his chest to grace his glorious shoulder. His chlamys flung out behind him, his barebacked mare grazing in the fields beyond. It does not run from you; like Hajime, it knows you well. 

Your beloved’s eyes dance when your gazes meet, his eyes as green as a fresh bone break. 

Hajime smiles, a soft thing. “Hey, you.” 

“Hey, you,” you say, kneeling down beside him to brush a lock of hair behind his ear, minding his laurel crown. You hum with pride for your love; this honor of his aptly won, for beating his fellows in sport and combat, for winning your heart so obliviously it could be nothing but by innate gift alone. 

He leans into your touch, humming. He is so golden brown, so favored by the sun in your pale palm. Your heart aches. He would match the complexion of another far more neatly, held in another’s arms in a manner less incongruent. 

“Are you sure? You could have anyone,” you murmur. A way out. It would kill you—a death god, struck down by love of all things—but you would set him free from you if he did so much as ask. 

“I could have him, you mean,” he says. 

You say nothing, but with Hajime you’ve never needed to.

Your beloved sighs, rolls his eyes. But these are tender movements, an affection reserved solely for you. “It’s only ever been you,” he whispers. “You know that.”

You sigh, and melt into him, soul to soul, joined again. You match together, you think, you know, but the sunlight and the snake song of the lyre always urges you to doubt. The pale edges of your palms, his warm countenance. You are not a kind king, a benevolent god—just, though, you hope—but he loves you and your law of the absolute all the same. 

The sun is setting, now. You meet in that golden hour before the day tips to twilight, a far cry from those long summer days in which you had spent your youth. He belongs to another court, now, and a steady kingdom begs for a busy leader, but this time has always been both of yours alone.

“Are you ready?” you say, tracing his bottom lip with a tender swipe of your thumb.

“Always,” he says.

You lean back—leaving him, every time you regret it—and twist your wrist, a meandering motion. A pomegranate, lush and scarlet, forbidden, forbidden, forbidden.

You offer it to him in place of a ring. A promise, for he in turn is still promised to another.

He takes it from you with steady hands and breaks it open with two strong palms, clamped tightly. You watch with bated breath: perhaps the most important moment you will ever witness in all your eternal life.

It is carnal—tender—how the covenant juice of the fruit trickles down his wrists then forearms, falls to his chest and lays there until it seems like Hector himself has struck your Hajime down.

You are not like them, you think.

(You are like them, you think, not yet united but promised to each other forever in an eternal underground world.)

He brings his bloodied palm to his mouth, having plucked a sextet of glorious seeds from the fruit. Six, half of twelve for half of the year, for even you could not forsake him his golden-green kingdom above.

You know he loves your world, with all of its asphodel and spruce, but your heart sings when he speaks of his beloved willow and sycamore above.

He places them in his mouth all at once. Quickly, like he can’t stand to be bound to you any slower. You watch the bob of his throat as he swallows, yearning, yearning, yearning.

The pomegranate is of you and you watch the pomegranate become of him: his heart shifting to the metronome beat of yours, the seeds as they pass through his pharynx to his belly, the pulse of his soul falling into step beside you.

Your foreheads come together, now, as you sigh in reunion.

Hajime is yours.

Suddenly overcome with a giddy bought of vertigo ecstasy, you tackle him; bowling him over backwards to the soft grasses and heathers beneath you both; nestling between his strong thighs; nuzzling him, infatuated, Cerberus at his cheek.

Your love laughs like a song.

You descend like a silly storm upon him, scattering kisses and I love you I love you I love you across the apples of his cheeks and the perfect tilt of his brow and the holy ground of his temples, jostling his laurels to a haphazard angle across his crown.

You stay there, drunk on your joint joy, until night falls again for the last time. Hajime will have to leave you once Polaris burns bright above, once Diana begins her hunt.

Soon, you will no longer have to hide your love.

Hajime is yours.

 

Notes:

soulmates.