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Once upon a time, the sun loved a man, and a man loved the sun.
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It was just a bit of fun in the beginning. A way to escape the shackles of boredom that eternity has tethered to him.
Every few decades, he’ll slip on a human skin and descend into the dust and dirt of the mortal realm to see what trouble he can get into.
Humanity has always caught his interest in a way the petty squabbles of the gods never could, mortal souls burn so bright and strong before they fade away. Messy and wild and uncontained.
He’s drawn to them, like a moth to flame, chasing that flickering light that is both so unlike his own, and all too familiar.
“Did you hear? Someone challenged the Hawk.”
Touya raises his head as a murmur of excited energy ricochets through the tavern. Frenetic whispers bounce off the walls as patrons start to rise in flurry of movement, drawn to the siren call of promised bloodshed.
Humans are such strange creatures, he thinks. So easily excited.
Touya finishes his drink, and follows the crowd.
In the sparring circle scored hastily through the dust covered town square, a man shines almost as brightly as Touya himself.
So distracted by the light of the mortal’s soul, it takes a moment for Touya to notice what has captivated everyone else's attention and drawn such a crowd.
Sprouting from the man’s back are a pair of great red wings.
Ah, he thinks. The Hawk.
The winged man is squaring off with another—less winged—man, their leathers and chest plates marking them both as soldiers. From the grins on both faces, Touya gathers this is a friendly bout and not one for honour or vengeance.
Beside him, an onlooker leans in to whisper like it’s sacred knowledge, “that’s the Hawk, Keigo Takami. They say he’s sun-blessed by Dabi himself.”
Touya does not snort. But it’s a close thing. He would definitely remember blessing a man as captivating as this.
Although, he thinks, as he watches the Hawk run playful circles around his opponent, golden hair glowing, feathers glinting in the sunlight like flames, he can see why people think this man has his favour.
The match ends with Takami’s opponent in the dust, a boot pining him to the ground.
The crowd cheers. Takami looks up, and his smile is blinding. In his chest, Touya’s traitorous heart begins to warm like a stoked ember.
Oh no. This was not the sort of trouble he was looking for.
Touya slips quietly from the crowd, back into the hidden paths between realms, and vows to stay away from bright boys with pretty wings.
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The fates seem to delight in his misfortune, because every path he takes leads back to trouble, and it’s name is Keigo Takami.
A city by the sea, the sun high and bright. Takami laughs, and it sounds like music. Touya lingers a moment before turning away.
The court of whatever king the winged mortal is serving. The courtiers listen with rapt attention as Takami spins a story. Touya doesn’t hear a word, too busy watching the graceful movement of Takami’s hands. Dark honey eyes flick towards him for a heartbeat, and Touya slips back into the shadows before he does something foolish like let the mortal see him.
The third time it happens, Touya steps onto a battlefield. The air is thick with blood and steel and dust.
Touya’s eyes, as always, seek out the brightest person on the field.
The way Takami fights now is nothing like the play spar Touya has witnessed. The Hawk fights with controlled savagery, cutting down each enemy with ruthless efficiency before moving on to the next. He is the most dangerous thing on the battlefield. The enemy realise it too, a cunning soldier moving to flank Takami while he is distracted, spear held high.
Touya acts unconsciously.
Sunlight glints bright off the polished metal of the spearhead. Bright enough for Takami to catch a glimpse of the danger and turn, sword sweeping out to slash through the soldier’s gut in one fluid motion.
Watching Takami is like watching a muse create poetry for the first time.
The fourth time, Touya gives in to fate. He can hear the ladies laughing already.
He slides into the empty seat across from Takami at the tavern the next time a path spits him out at the feet of the infuriatingly bright mortal.
“Takami,” Touya says, “Or do you prefer The Hawk?”
“Please,” Takami winces at the title. “Keigo is fine.” He blinks those big amber eyes and tilts his head like he’s trying to place Touya’s face. Behind him, feathers rustle. “Have we met?”
Touya shrugs. “I’ve seen you around.” It’s not a lie.
“Oh?” Keigo looks him up and down. A smile tugs at his lips as he cradles his mug of ale. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
It would be oh so easy for Touya to smile back, take this bright little mortal’s hand, lead him upstairs for a tumble, and be done with this little infatuation of his.
“I was curious,” Touya says instead. “People call you sun-blessed, but you don’t wear the symbol of any god.” Touya nods to Keigo’s blank chestplate.
There’s a thread of Touya’s own selfishness in the question. Have any other gods claimed you?
Keigo leans back in his chair, his smile turning wry. “Ah, you’ve heard the stories. Always seemed foolish to claim fealty to someone I’d never met. I’m not any kind of blessed, the wings were a parting gift from my father, at least that’s what my mother told me. Besides, I don’t think the simple act of painting a sun on my armour would get me the attention of a god,” Keigo says, taking a swig of his ale.
No, Touya thinks, you already have it.
“No,” he says out loud. “Probably not.”
Keigo’s friends choose that moment to return, voices jubilant and arms full of more drink.
A woman with dark skin and white rabbit ears that mark her as an envoy of Touya’s sister grins slyly at Keigo. “Who’s your new friend, Keigo?” Her gaze falters as she looks at Touya, like she can sense he’s not who he’s pretending to be.
Keigo turns to her, distracted.
Touya slips away from the table as the mortals all try to talk over each other at once. A warm hand catches his wrist before he can escape.
“Hey, wait! You won’t have a drink with me?”
Touya glances out the window. The sun is setting.
“Next time,” Touya says.
Keigo studies him, and then gives him one of those devastating smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Touya’s heart grows warmer still.
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He tries to keep his distance, but as always, something keeps drawing him right back to the mortal like an ocean current pulling him out to sea.
It becomes his new game. How long can he last without speaking to Keigo again? How many blades and arrows can he deflect before Keigo grows suspicious of his good fortune.
The game turns into a dance between them. Months, maybe years—the mortal passage of time has always been an abstract concept for him—pass like this, Touya protecting Keigo in battle, doing his best not to be noticed, until inevitably the brightness of Keigo’s smile draws him too close. More and more he finds himself talking with the mortal, basking in his company like a cat in the sun. They share words, and warmth, and eventually each other.
He can’t stop, no matter how dangerous it is.
Touya tells himself they’re just friends, of a sort, but his warming heart knows that’s a pretty lie.
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Of course, gods are not meant to love mortals.
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The fates tear them apart with the tides of a war Touya is helpless to stop.
The battles that scar the mortal realm now make all the other skirmishes look like child’s play. Keigo and his men win every battle in the light of the sun, Touya makes sure of it, but even he can't protect them from the night.
Touya is blind in the darkness and when the sun rises he can find no trace of his mortal, bright light hidden from his gaze.
Keigo has disappeared.
The warmth in his heart bursts into a raging fire. Touya scours mortal world, and in his wake cities burn. Either Keigo is dead, or another god is hiding him and Touya refuses to believe he's gone, that he wouldn’t feel that light being snuffed out, that Keigo would ever go quietly into the night.
The frustration builds like a wildfire, Touya can see everything under the suns light but he still can't find the man he—
The pretty little lie he tells himself turns to ash under the weight of his rage.
He loves Keigo. He loves Keigo so much his heart burns with it.
Both worlds will know just how much.
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Touya abandons the mortal realm to search the paths gods tread, listening to the whispers for any mention of his champion. There is no doubt now that Keigo is his, with the way he has branded his claim into stone and earth.
“Your mortal hasn’t entered the Halls, Dabi.” The God of Death looks put upon to have Touya in his realm, cracked lips twisted into a grimace. “I would remember taking something with your brightness.”
Touya does not say Keigo was full of light long before Touya found him. Time, once inconsequential to him, is slipping away faster and faster.
He slips between realms and walks long forgotten paths, but nobody, not god or spirit has seen his mortal.
In the end, it’s a Fury—one stinking of blood and love and vengeance—that points him towards a path he had not thought to take, though perhaps he should have.
He finds Keigo in an arena of the God of War. Tearing apart monsters and mortals alike, wings soaked in blood, unaware of himself in a way that speaks to a thrall. Keigo’s beautiful and ruthless efficiency in battle is gone, replaced with the crude and savage desperation of a wounded animal backed into a corner.
Touya is going to tear apart the one who did this to him. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
The god of War laughs in his face, refusing Touya's claim and his challenge.
He's barred from the arena, the laughter ringing in his ears. But Touya just smiles, hot and vicious, for wars end but the sun will always rise.
He finds the armies favoured by War and they burn, skin blistering under the sun, water evaporating, food turning to ash in their stores. The crops needed to feed the great armies wither and turn to husks as the ground dries out, not a drop of rain in sight.
The god of War finally comes to him in a rage, in a dry, dusty, empty desert. Scores of his soldiers dead, armies in ruins, not by the sword but by the sun.
"Give him back to me," Touya says, "or I'll burn every single army you favour before they can even wet their blades with blood."
The god of War is never one to give up without a fight, but the sun is high, and this ground has not tasted blood in years—chosen with purpose. He's weak here, and he knows it. He stabs his sword into the dirt and concedes.
But Touya’s father has always been cruel.
War always is.
“Fine, take him. He's of no use to me anymore. I don’t know why you insist on playing with such fragile toys. It’s beneath you.” His father spits, and then he’s gone.
And Keigo is there. His Keigo.
On his knees, blood staining the sand beneath him. New scars littering his skin. The shape of him wrong in a way that echoes through Touya’s bones like a shockwave.
His wings are gone. Two bloody wounds carve out their absence.
Touya falls to his knees beside him.
"Keigo," Touya touches his cheek softly, traces a new scar across his jaw, long since healed now. He doesn't know how long it's been since he last felt the warmth of his skin.
"Touya," Keigo breathes, his name comes out wet, blood paints Keigo’s lips. He leans forward, rest his head on Touya’s shoulder. "You're so bright."
He wants to say, don’t be silly, don’t you know you’re the bright one. So bright that all I can ever see is you.
But Touya shed his mortal form long ago, he forgot how he must look now. Radiant. Burning. He wraps his arms around Keigo and holds him close.
"Are you real?" Something in Touya breaks at the question, asked so hopefully, with an edge of despair.
"Yes," he whispers, bringing Keigo's hand to his cheek. "I'm here. I'll always find you."
“You’re so warm,” Keigo sighs into the crook of Touya’s neck. “Like the sun.”
Keigo had never asked, and Touya had never told. A truth they never acknowledged.
“Yes,” Touya says, throat thick. He can feel Keigo’s light slipping away beneath his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is my fault.”
“Don’t,” Keigo says, and kisses him.
The kiss is soft and fierce, it tastes like blood and sunlight and Keigo.
Touya does not want to give this up. He never wants to let Keigo go. But mortals are fragile, they burn out so fast, fade away so easily. Not like the gods, not like Touya, who will linger on, bereft of Keigo’s light.
Touya pulls back, a great and terrible sort of knowing building in his chest. His heart beats hot and fast.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Keigo says, blinking those pretty amber eyes at him, “Always.”
Touya reaches deep, grasping his own power, his soul, and rends it in half. It splits easily, like it knows, like it wants to be parted from him.
Fire licks at his fingers, wild and bright and burning, as he pushes it into Keigo’s chest, let’s Keigo’s light use his fire as fuel.
The flames grow and grow, consuming skin and flesh and mortality like a hungry animal.
Touya holds Keigo as he burns. The world burns with them.
When the fire finally dies, the sand for miles around them has turned to glass. A mark scarred into the earth by the birth of a new god.
Keigo stares at Touya, his eyes now a bright molten gold. Behind him, new wings fill the once empty space, feathers ethereal and shining like sunlight.
He’s just as beautiful as he always was. If Touya is the fire, then Keigo is the light.
Two halves of one whole.
“Will you have that drink with me now?” Are Keigo’s first words.
Touya laughs. “Always.”
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But there are always loopholes, if you know where to look.