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The God sits at the head of His table.
Before Him is a sacrifice, prepared by His most humble worshippers on a silver platter. It is fresh, still wet with saltwater and stuck to the bone. Diced into neat parts, for the God’s ease and pleasure, though some parts still twitch when He goes to peel off a piece with His fork.
Pink and raw- unblemished by fire, untouched by hands other than His own. The large portion before Him shudders, spasming muscles clinging to the life it so easily gave. It reaches for Him- it drips red onto the golden tablecloth below.
The God’s lip curls in disdain. His worshippers are loyal and good, for He made them so, but their sacrifice is less than impressive. A convulsing, shivering mess atop a beautiful platter that only serves to highlight the severe incompetence of the preparation. No matter- a sacrifice is a sacrifice, and He is hungry.
As He brings the first bite to His lips, slick with red and and water and salt, the sacrifice gasps His name. It reaches again, scrabbling for the edge of the plate, staining even more of the cloth beneath it.
What an unworthy sacrifice. Did it ever truly worship Him, if it is so unwilling to die for Him?
It sputters His name again. Red dribbles down its lips and hangs on its chin, stubbornly clinging despite the weight. The voice that comes from its throat is mangled and broken- why, then, does it not give in? Can it not see He is trying to indulge in His gift?
A drop lands on His own lip from the fork above, and He swipes His tongue experimentally. Iron and salt bloom in His mouth. He licks His lip again.
The sacrifice lets out a keening whine that almost sounds like a laugh, and the God lowers His fork in annoyance. He asks what it wants- perhaps even a sacrifice would try and make one last wish.
It laughs again, red bubbling at the corners of its mouth and catching in the copper-brown hair that brushes at its cheeks. “We were friends, right?” it asks, voice suddenly impossibly clear. It does not stop reaching. It has made it halfway across the table now, and the gold is stained red, red, red, in its stead.
The God frowns. It did not answer His question. He asks again.
“I think we were,” it says, casually evading what the God asks of it. “Do you hate me?”
The God loves all His children. He asks why He should hate it, for even the most unworthy sacrifice once believed its cause to be true.
“You tell me,” it grins. It should not be able to talk at this point. The God thinks maybe this sacrifice is terribly wrong, somehow.
He asks one more time for what it wants, twirling His fork between His fingers. He is starting to get impatient. He is so, so hungry.
“What I want, huh…” It closes its dead eyes and thinks. “I want you to be happy, I suppose. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”
Then its wish will be granted shortly, the God tells it. Few pleasures meet that of indulging in a gift of devotion from His people. Surely, now it can rest. It is very close to His hands now.
It shakes its head. “This won’t make you happy,” it sighs, and it sounds almost mournful. “I made a mistake. Will you forgive me?”
Is that its wish?
“Not a wish. I’m asking.” It reaches towards Him, trembling with an exertion He can see is running out. It asks again, voice still impossibly clear through the red. “Will you forgive me?”
The God is tired of these games. He is so hungry.
It calls His name again.
The God does not answer. Instead, He brings the fork to his lips a final time, and places the meat upon His tongue.
It is not covered in scales. It is not flaked and brackish, touched with salt water and sand. It tears between His teeth like meat from a swine, and it bursts with iron. The skin that meets His tongue is pink and smooth, not unlike His own.
The first taste of the sacrifice goes down like lead. He looks to it, waits for it to say something more, but it has gone still. Its hand, teetering above a propped elbow, clatters in front of Him at the very edge of the table.
Up close, He can see its eyes are green.
Red. There is so much red. Red staining the golden cloth, red pooling in the center of the platter, red draining from the mouth of the sacrifice. Red coating His own mouth.
So much red. His throat begins to fill with it.
He feels- He feels-
He finds that He is no longer hungry.
Kanata wakes with a gnawing pain in his stomach and the feeling of not being able to breathe. He sits up quickly, grasps at his neck to free whatever holds it, then at his mouth, for there is the phantom taste of iron and salt pooling over his tongue.
The constricting sensation expands to his chest- gnarled thorns pricking at his lungs and threatening to pop them. The taste in his mouth- the memory of tearing at meat-
His breath comes out in a short burst, and he clamps a hand over his lips tightly. He thinks he knows this feeling. It is terror, it must be, but so unlike the exhilarating terror he had felt when experiencing his first hug, or was asked to stand on equal ground as a human being. This terror is unforgiving and malicious- it seeks to punish him, he thinks, if the black spots in his vision from lack of air have anything to say about it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but instead of black he sees the dull green eyes of Mikejima staring back at him. Dull, green, dead-
There’s some sort of sound beginning to fill the room- a high pitched siren, animalistic in nature but unidentifiable, until he realizes it’s him, it’s his own throat vibrating, his own lips trembling beneath his hand, and he tries to swallow it down. Fear is unbecoming of a God-
Meat, grinding between his teeth.
Is that what it means to be a God? He thinks, heart rabbit-quick in his chest and only getting faster. Would they have done that to him?
Would he have let them?
He swallows again, throat burning from the inside out, and reaches with unsteady fingers for his phone. Mikejima- something could have happened to him, that dream could have meant something- what if his followers had gotten to him?
The phone dials three times, and Kanata nearly calls the police before remembering that would be pointless.
“ ...Kanata-san? ”
“Mikejima,” Kanata says, breath coming all at once, and he sucks it through his teeth like water. “Mikejima-”
Nothing else comes out.
“ Kanata-san? ” His tone is more urgent now. “ Are you okay? You sound weird. Talk to Mama, it’s okay. I’ll even let you off the hook when you call me a rogue. ” The humorous lilt in his voice does little to hide the worry that clouds it. “ Kanata-san, seriously- ”
“I-” Kanata starts, then stops. The thorns are so tight. “-Is Mikejima okay?”
“ Me? ” Mikejima asks, surprised. “ I’m always okay, you know me. Tip-top shape. ”
Kanata gnaws at the knuckle of his pointer finger, but stops almost immediately when the feeling of skin in his mouth triggers a lurch in his stomach so violent he fears he could vomit any moment. “Mikejima,” he says again, clinging to the name, to the sound of his voice, “have I- has there ever been-”
“ Breathe, Kanata-san. Breathe with Mama. In, out. ”
He tries to breathe as Mikejima says. “S-sacrifices,” he whispers. “At home. Tell me. Please.”
“ Sacrifices? ” Mikejima sounds confused, as if the thought never could have occurred to him. “ As in gifts? You got those all the time. ”
“No,” Kanata says, shaking his head in a motion that feels more like shaking his whole body. “Don’t say that. Don’t say it.”
“ Okay, ” Mikejima says immediately. “ Hey- Kanata-san, do you- I mean, I know you don’t usually want to see me, but do you need help? ”
Help. Mikejima is offering to help him.
Kanata flicks his eyes around his empty dorm- Rinne, gone who knows where, Hiyori, on a trip he can’t recall. It is dark, and very, very quiet, aside from his own frantic breathing.
Help from Mikejima shouldn't sound so appealing.
“I want to keep talking to you,” he says in lieu of an answer.
“ Mama can do that, definitely. ”
Except that he can’t think of anything to say. There are so many words right there, and none of them come forth. His mouth can’t seem to work right.
“ Are you in your dorm right now? ” Mikejima asks lightly. “ Can your roommates hear you like this? Careful not to wake them up, young men need their beauty sleep, you know. ”
Kanata shakes his head. “I am alone,” he whispers. “They cannot hear me.”
Mikejima makes a sympathetic sound. “ Well, Mama’s here now, ” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “ Did I tell you ‘bout what happened at practice the other day? ”
They are both fully aware that neither of them have told each other banal things about their day for many, many years. “No,” Kanata says instead of reminding him.
And Mikejima launches into a story about a day from last week, where the young pink-haired boy spent the first half of their time together barely speaking a word, making Mikejima worry, until he managed to get him to admit he had burned his tongue rather badly on some takoyaki before practice.
It is a silly story without much substance, but Kanata finds that the thorns in his chest have lessened their force. His shoulders begin to relax- he had not realized they were tense to begin with.
“Mama has a lot to deal with,” Kanata murmurs. He knows he is one of them.
Mikejima’s laugh crackles through the speaker. “ That’s what being a Mama is, isn’t it? ” he asks, and Kanata can picture his rakish grin.
(Grinning, laughing, a high keening whine that breaks around a shredded throat, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth, dull green eyes, dead, dead, dead- )
It’s only when a sob threatens to leave his lips that he realizes he’s crying at all. “Mikejima,” he whispers again, clutching his phone as close to his ear as he can. “I- help. Please.”
“ Oh, Kanata-san, ” Mikejima says, and any shred of humor is gone. “ I’m almost there. Just hold on a little longer, okay? ”
“Okay,” Kanata says. He hadn’t asked him to come. There is nothing in him at the moment that can tell him to stay away. His lip crushes between his teeth, inciting the sickly lurch in his gut but he can’t seem to let go. Words spill from his mouth, sticky and red, and even he is surprised to hear it when he says, “I don’t want you to die.”
“ Eh? ” Mikejima said he was close. He is almost here. “ I’m not gonna die, Kanata-san. Not when I’ve- I’m not gonna die. ”
They both know he can’t be sure of that.
Neither of them mention it.
Kanata cannot tell whether it’s been minutes or hours since he woke when there is finally a knock at his door. He is unsure at first if he can stand- there is a joke about sea legs in there somewhere, something Kanata doesn’t really understand but can’t take the time to think through as he manages to collect his trembling legs into a passable stance and he staggers to the doorway.
When he opens it, first he sees light- only light, blinding compared to the oppressive darkness he has been sitting in. Then he sees copper-brown hair, pink skin, pressed, worried, lips, green eyes, alive, alive, alive, and he doesn’t see much else before shamelessly throwing himself into Mikejima’s chest.
“Woah-” Mikejima says, lets out a small laugh, but even Kanata can hear the layer of unease that sits beneath it. “Don’t know if I’ve ever gotten one of these from you before.” He hasn’t.
Kanata breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of dust, of trees and gasoline. There is no trace of saltwater. No trace of iron.
“Hey, c’mon,” Mikejima says gently. “I can’t stand in the hallway forever. Need help?”
Help could constitute a great many things, but Kanata doesn't bother asking as he nods his head. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break this spell of solace.
Mikejima smooths the hair at the back of his head. “As you wish,” he says, then dips down and lifts Kanata in his arms in one sweeping motion. His head is barely even moved from where it presses into Mikejima’s collarbone, that’s how carefully he moves.
“Couch or bed?” Mikejima asks. “I’ll make sure you’re all comfy and stuff, don’t worry.”
“Bed.” It’s silly, and he will not say it, but the couch does not leave much room for Mikejima. Kanata’s grip tightens in his jacket- he doesn’t want to let go yet.
“Demanding,” Mikejima teases, easing him down back where he had lay only moments before. “Do people still carry you around like they used to back then?”
Kanata squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t talk about them,” he pleads, and as Mikejima begins to draw away, he pulls him back down. “Stay. I want to...to hear you.”
“Hear me,” Mikejima echoes. “Okay, sure. Anything you want me to talk about?”
“Not that,” Kanata says, then presses his ear to Mikejima’s chest. His heartbeat is rapid, fluttering just under his skin, alive, alive, alive. He is alive.
He cannot see Mikejima’s face from where he lays, but he can hear the soft oh that escapes his lips. His hand comes to rest on Kanata’s back- feather-light, tentative, and when Kanata doesn’t resist, he splays his fingers wide and uses his other hand to comb away the bangs stuck to Kanata’s forehead.
“This is new,” Mikejima murmurs. “Kanata-san, are you okay?”
When he talks, his voice rumbles in his chest, and it rises and falls with his intake of air. Alive.
“I had a dream,” he says, breathing in again. Dust, trees, gasoline. “Mikejima, promise me something, please.”
“Anything,” he says, and Kanata knows that he means it.
“You will not sacrifice yourself again, right?”
The chest under him stills, and for a terrifying moment Kanata fears he can smell the brine of the ocean and taste red on his lips. Then it moves, tight and minute, but it moves, alive, alive, alive. He buries his head as deep as it can go.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Mikejima says carefully. “I never-”
“Do not lie.” Kanata clenches and unclenches the shirt between his fingers. “You are always doing it. I never wanted that.”
“Kanata-san-”
“I never wanted that,” he repeats, louder this time, and his eyes burn with it. “I do not like sacrifices. You were right. It does not make me happy to see you like that.”
Mikejima shifts under his cheek, sitting a bit straighter, a bit more tense. “Kanata-san, I really don’t know what you’re talking about here,” he says. He sounds helpless. He sounds like it is a terrible thing, that he doesn’t understand.
The terrible thing, Kanata thinks, soaking up the heat of Mikejima’s skin beneath him, the pulse of his heart under his fingers, is that it is himself who did not understand. “I’m sorry,” he says instead of answering.
“Sorry for what?”
“For letting you get so far away.”
Mikejima, inexplicably, laughs. It only lasts a moment, but it is choked, ringing with disbelief. “Is this a dream?” he asks, hanging his head to his chest. “Am I the one dreaming right now?”
Kanata used to think that Gods did not have hearts. That they were different from humans, a completely alien set of functionality. He knows now that this must not be true, or he is not a God at all- if he lacked a heart, surely he wouldn’t be feeling it break like this.
“Mikejima,” he says, and his voice comes out very small. “I do not think I want to be a God.”
He does not respond for a few moments. Kanata counts the beat of his heart- one, two, three, still fast, but slower than when he had first lay with him. “Then don’t be,” he says, much in the same way one might say that the sky is blue and blood is red.
His knees curl up, pushing against and coming on top of Mikejima’s stretched-out legs. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can,” he replies, fingers ghosting along his temple and the shell of his ear. “If you’re an all-powerful God, just grant your own wish. ‘I wish not to be a God anymore,’ that’s what you say.”
“It is not that easy.”
Mikejima falls quiet again. “I know,” he admits. “But I want it to be.”
Is that your wish? Kanata nearly asks, but he bites his tongue. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because there’s nothing else he can say. He can still feel the taste of iron and salt on his tongue.
“Don’t apologize. Got nothin’ to say sorry for, not to Mama.”
He does. There are thousands of things to say sorry for, years of mistakes and hurtful words he hadn’t meant. Years of pushing away, far, far away, and years of Mikejima letting him. The burn in his eyes makes him blink- tears that had clung to his lashes finally run a path down his cheeks, staining Mikejima’s shirt.
“Oh, Kanata-san,” Mikejima pleads, in the same mournful tone he had over the phone. “Please don’t cry, you know I can’t stand to see you cry. Why are you crying?” A steady thumb smears the trail his tears have made, right under his eye. It brushes against his bottom lashes, but is careful not to make him flinch. “Please don’t cry. I didn’t want to make you cry…”
Kanata shakes his head. “It is not your fault,” he sighs. His voice is surprisingly even. Breathing in again, dust, trees, gasoline, he repeats, “I had a dream.”
“A dream…?”
“I think, if this were to happen some years ago, I may have called it a vision.” He lets out a snort of humorless laughter. “I did not believe Gods could dream, when I was small. Maybe they can’t.”
Mikejima’s fingers are hot against his cool skin. The hand against his back has stayed still, a constant, grounding presence, and the one that cleaned his tears has come to rest at the nape of his neck, cupping it in a way Kanata could almost see as protective. The thought fills his chest with a sort of warmth, warding the thorns into barely-there pinpricks. He tilts his head up to meet Mikejima’s eyes, takes in the way they slope with concern, and they’re bright green, alive, alive, alive.
Dull green and bubbling red fill his vision for a moment before clearing.
His mouth feels sticky with iron. “It was not a good dream.”
And Mikejima’s face- crumbles, breaks and shifts into pieces Kanata’s never seen. The hand on his back pulls him up, the one on his neck pushes him forward, and he feels Mikejima’s head fall onto his shoulder. Strange. He’s never done this before, not to him. His hair tickles Kanata’s cheeks, and his grip is a touch too tight, but there’s a light tremor running the line of his body, so Kanata decides he doesn’t mind.
“I’ve got you,” Mikejima says in a voice Kanata pretends doesn’t waver. “I don’t know what you want me to do, but I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
You’re already doing it, he doesn’t say. “I know,” he says instead, raising his own hand to run it through Mikejima’s hair. He threads it through his fingers, runs his nails against his scalp, and it dawns on him that maybe he won’t be going anywhere, either.
He feels Mikejima lean into his touch. “I’ve got you,” he says again, voice hot against Kanata’s collarbone.
Dust, trees and gasoline. It is still dark, but he is warm, far from the ocean, far from dull green and bubbling red. Mikejima is the only part of his home he has with him.
“I have you, too,” Kanata whispers into his chest. “Stay like this, with me?”
“As long as you need.” As if it is a selfless act. As if Kanata cannot feel damp lashes against his skin, shaking hands spread across his back and neck. As if Mikejima isn’t as unused to this with people as Kanata is unused to it with him.
“What if I needed this forever?”
“Then I’d be here forever.”
He says it as if it is nothing. As if it is everything.
Maybe it is.
“Forever, then,” Kanata whispers against the fluttering heartbeat beneath his fingertips.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. I want to sleep, Mikejima. I would like to have a good dream this time.”
Mikejima eases them back, so Kanata pillows on top of him instead of sitting in his lap. “Me too,” he says into Kanata’s hair. “Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”
Luck has nothing to do with it, Kanata doesn’t say. He only closes his eyes and listens to his pulse, one, two, three, and counts until he thinks of nothing at all.