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It’s telling, how people eat. Most people don’t realize that.
It’s bright, the best part of dawn. When the first rays properly crest the horizon, go blinding; when the wind can whistle and birds loose their songs. Hermes is sitting on a rock, knife in one hand, fig in the other.
“What do you think?” Hermes asks.
Death takes a bite of a fruit all jewel inside. Hesitant, uncertain, tiniest little nibble, brows drawn. Think he’s about to scald his mouth, the way he bites.
There’s a wind blowing, stirring Hermes’ chlamys, ruffling his hair; his feet itch to follow, because he likes going where the wind takes him. Likes being what he is.
But the wind’s also stirring hair blown lilac this morning, long and rippling with each tug, a silk banner spun long. Death, trying his first fig.
Imagine never having had a fig just because you don’t need to eat.
“It’s sweet,” Thanatos says, brows loosing surprise, tongue pink against his lips. Trying another bite, though still not all at once even with how small the piece is. “And...”
“Tart?”
“Bright,” Thanatos says.
“Yes,” Hermes says, and offers him another piece.
***
It’s not every blue hour he meets Death, but it’s a lot of them. Death likes stretching his wing before the sun’s proper up, before he goes off to be with his twin Sleep, goes off to see to souls.
Hermes likes to run.
He likes, especially, being what he is. Like the wind under Death’s wing--that broad white thing, feathered, gleaming with galaxies and stars, casting a shadow deep enough to hide in.
He’s not supposed to slip down to the Underworld, but he does all the same. Wind dies all the time, otherwise sailors wouldn’t swear at him so much. Least Apollo likes him enough sailors can’t help liking him, too, dying or not.
“Fig?” Hermes asks, breathing by an entrance he’s not supposed to know, outside a temple that’s still pretty neat, knife in hand, fig, the hour still blue, the wind still still.
Death likes to stretch his wing before the sun’s up, splash a bit in a river all crystal before it goes red under the earth.
Thanatos smiles, slight, hesitant as the way he eats.
“Sure,” he says, hair blown blue in its sheen when the wind tugs it loose.
***
Hermes tells himself, every dawn he ends up by a temple he’s not supposed to know, that this is going to be the time Death gets annoyed and sends him off. Happens all the time--he likes what he is, and what he is sure is a lot of chatter, lot of air, lot of breath.
He’s working on it. Snagged a little bit of heraldry, very gold, very noisy, good excuse to get loud and people like his loud, then. Apollo gave him a little bit of future, the good bit, the best bit, the secrets birds sing--didn’t need him to, since birds are always singing all their secrets to him anyway, but Apollo did it anyway.
Apollo loves him.
He’s got messages, too. That one was easy, his pop pretty much handed it to him without a second thought. Wind’s everywhere, always carrying everything, might as well carry thoughts light as air, too, keep him busy, least that’s probably what Pop was hoping it would do.
People get tired of the wind whistling in their ear. Always do.
But maybe if he brings enough figs, this star won’t send him off. That’s how divinity works, isn’t it?
Maybe.
He sure hopes so, light enough he thinks his chest might crack every time Death leaves a pretty neat temple in the blue hour before dawn to stretch his wing, sees Hermes, and says
“You’re here”
like Hermes isn’t a thing to tangle hair and shove over pots and steal loose fabric and be too--
“Fig?” Hermes offers, piece pinned between thumb and knife.
“Please,” Thanatos says, settling by him, smiling, hair tugged lilac, tugged blue, tugged a banner spun silk as the wind wakes up and Hermes’ chest cracks dawn.
Thanatos always eats each piece in three bites, neat.
Careful.
***
They race, sometimes. The dawn, they race the dawn. Hermes likes to run and Death likes to stretch his wing white and wide and starry. It catches the best wind and Hermes loses for it, but even losing he’s winning.
He likes what he is.
Thanatos does, too.
“It’s not like everyone has money,” Thanatos is saying, hair tossed more lilac than blue today, but still a little blue. Ripples over his face, but he only pushes it back unbothered, unruffled, stretching his wing to catch the breeze cool. “Economics aren’t very fair. Mother says that’s just how it is, but... Everyone dies, don’t they?”
“Except gods,” Hermes says, offering the last of this dawn’s fig.
“Right, some gods, but the rest of everyone. It’s not fair, is it, dying and then being stuck forever on a shore because you don’t have a bit of shiny metal.”
“Lot of things aren’t fair,” Hermes says, reasonable.
Like caves or cattle or gods good for lays and left forgot in said caves or—
“Hermes?” Thanatos says, pauses, piece of fig in his hand all jewel.
The wind’s a little sharp this morning. Little chill. Happens sometimes. People don’t like it.
Hermes smiles.
“Hm?” Hermes hums.
Thanatos is looking at him, that wing pulling in a bit. Wind’s sharp this morning, chill. There’s hair blowing across his cheek, getting in his eyes, and he reaches up with the hand that’s not holding offered fig to push it out of his face. Brows drawn, bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s afraid he’s about to scald his tongue.
“...can I tell you a secret?” Thanatos asks.
“...sure,” Hermes says, caught off balance, wind going still.
“I give them coins,” Thanatos says, voice small as testing a taste he’s never had. “I’m not supposed to, but... it’s not like they asked to die without, is it? It’s not...”
“It’s not fair,” Hermes finishes for him, breath lightest he’s ever breathed. Light enough it barely stirs the strands fallen across Thanatos’ face, his wing.
Thanatos loosens; looses his brow, his wing, his....
“Precisely,” Thanatos says and eats the last piece of fig whole, tongue pink and smile all gold.