Archive of Our Own

The Devil chuckles.

“You’ve ceded ground, oh exalted one.”

There’s no answer, but he’s used to that. Even the stars have been quiet for an age.

“You’ve left your precious son to fester in despair, bearing the weight of a past he doesn’t remember. Did you think keeping them apart this time would push the little lost Lamb to accept his calling? Instead your son openly mocks you, despises you. I can’t help but wonder if you’ve given up on your grand plan…”

Silence covers the face of the deep and Source moves over the surface of the water. The Devil continues.

“It’s almost too easy to take my final victory. Just a simple nudge and I’ve won. Look where I’ve placed them! Already their eyes have met, and the unraveling has begun. I have but to sit back and watch the story play out just as it has before. Will you do nothing to counteract me?”

The lesser light comes into view as the sun dips lower on the western horizon, staining the clouds blood red before they give way to blacks and grays.

The Devil bursts out in a manicicle laugh that skips across the sky as thunder.

“A storm! And so your hand is played. Have I spoiled the surprise? Nevermind. I’ll quiet myself and watch your handiwork. I’ve always admired the magnitude of your destruction.”

*

It’s just another sunset, and for that very reason Louis makes his excuses to the table of strangers and hurries from the dining hall. He’s not used to the opulence of such a setting; he craves normalcy, and there’s absolutely nothing normal on an elite cruise ship in the middle of the Pacific save the sunsets.

He would never have entered himself in a cruise raffle, but his sister thought the ticket an amusing present, and by some chance of fate, he’d won. Now Louis finds himself wishing he were back home on solid ground amidst his beloved gardens. Plants don’t require that you know the appropriate fork for each entrée.

Without the solidity of earthen roots beneath his feet, his thoughts have become confusingly unmoored; unpredictable, like the waves that lap at the sides of the ship. Louis dislikes such a drifting existence. He finds comfort in his job as a gardener—in the repetitive actions of weeding, planting, pruning, thinning, seeding. In one season he’ll be clearing trails and picking mushrooms, in another thinning a grove of saplings and marking a tree eaten through with worms. There’s a rhythm to the earth. On this wide ocean Louis has nothing to ground him, nothing to steady himself when the deck tilts, or when his heart starts fluttering in his ribcage like he’s a kid again and not a fully grown adult with nearly thirty years of life experience whose logic is screaming at him to forget about the sad, gorgeous man who has captured his imagination.

As he’s drinking in the turbid skies he senses someone behind him. He’s not surprised to have conjured the subject of his thoughts. They’ve been playing this game for the past two days.

“For a person who claims to be uninterested in anyone but himself, you have an odd way of haunting me.” Louis turns to face his follower.

The man is lanky, thin, and taller by several inches than himself, but his shoulders slouch a bit. Curly hair hangs just below his ears and the attempts of a mustache color his upper lip. His green eyes are hooded and have obvious bags beneath them, and his lips are chapped, but he’s still the most beautiful man Louis has ever seen.

“I don’t mean to bother you.” The man stuffs both hands, one holding a phone, into the pockets of his wide leg pants.

“You’re not.” Louis turns back to the sunset. “Tell me about yourself, Harry. Something other than that drivel you made up the other night.” They’d talked only briefly despite the obvious magnetism between them.

The other man joins him at the railing and places his hands around it, inches from Louis’ own.

“You think I lied about being famous?” Harry wrinkles his nose. “You could have just googled me.”

“Mmm, nah. Like it better this way. Bit of a mystery to solve. Why would a famous person be following me around on a cruise ship? Someone like that would have groupies, bikini girls hanging on him, you know. James Bond style.”

Harry scoffs at the choppy waves below them and mutters, “Wouldn’t be girls, though.”

“Oh?” Louis tries to keep the rise from his voice.

“You can’t do coy.”

“You can’t do honesty.”

“Look, I meet a lot of people, okay? And I know you from somewhere and it’s driving me insane. Just tell me, please, where we met, what happened, if we—”

“Well we didn’t fuck,” Louis blurts out, accidentally meeting the other man’s eyes as the last word leaves his lower lip. Harry stares towards the waning sun without responding, so Louis adds, “You might not, but I’d remember.”

Harry’s breath catches, a nudge of sonic encouragement for Louis to slide his hand along the railing until their pinkies touch. But a shock jolts through them at the contact, stronger than the common charge of unreleased static. Louis jumps slightly but Harry pulls away, cradling his affected hand, his green eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why that happened.” Louis tries closing the distance between them again but Harry keeps backing away.

“You’ve cursed me, haven’t you? Are you a witch or something?”

“A witch?”

“I haven’t been able to sleep a single hour without dreaming of you, without seeing you in my head and I—” Harry shoves both hands into his hair and pulls, “You leave me the fuck alone, do you understand?”

“God!” Louis laughs to the darkening sky, indignation and rejection melding into a temper, “You’re the one following me!”

Harry sets his jaw and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly up and down his throat. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“Good,” Louis retorts without missing a beat, “Then maybe I can actually enjoy the rest of this fucking cruise.”

He turns back towards the sunset, fighting against an irrational urge to lunge at Harry with outstretched arms and clasp him close, the sea pressed to the shore… but for the sake of his pride he holds the high ground.

Harry walks away, and it’s then that the sky flashes and the rain begins to fall.

*
Let there be light! And lightning flashes in sudden obedience to the heavens. All is darkness, above and below, until dawn separates the light from the darkness, and evening turns to morning. It is the first day.

*

When Louis wakes he wonders if he’s curing, a hunk of meat salted and left to dry in the blazing heat of direct sunlight. Salt is his world, his coating, his air, the crystals around his eyes, the spikes in his hair. He comes to full consciousness slowly, moving one finger at a time, not realizing that he’s soaking wet until the sand beneath his cheek begins to dry and turn white and blow in the breeze.

His memories come back slower than his body movements: a sudden storm, a gully of waves, a cresting tower of water over seventy feet high that suddenly dislodged his body from the deck of the ship. Had he even tried to turn and run below, or had the deluge been on him in an instant, making the railing his only hope?

He licks his swollen lips and tastes only more salt. He’s dehydrating, shriveling up from the inside like a raisin, his mineral seasoning only helping matters along. Movement is required. He must find water aside from the sea, but every muscle in his body feels battered beyond recognition. The adrenaline of sheer survival kicks in, and Louis grabs a handful of wet sand to haul his lower half free of the sloshing waves.

Once he’s on dryer ground he finds it easier to regroup. Slowly he sits up and takes in his surroundings. A pristine shoreline curves away from him, bordered by lush forest. He’s on an island. To make sure, he follows the beach a ways, just to rule out a potential peninsula.

Before he can wonder if he’s alone, he sees someone lying ahead in the sand.

Only one other person on the deck.

His legs react before his brain decides to run. The person’s limbs are akimbo and their wet clothes have puddled like melting chocolate, but Louis knows instinctively that his shipwrecked companion is alive.

“Harry?” He says, half question, half statement, because of course it’s him. Hurriedly he turns the other man over and is rewarded by sputtering and fitful gasps. With a groan Harry clutches at his side, his face screwed up in pain.

“You’re alright, you’re okay,” Louis soothes, deciding the best course of action is to remove his companion’s shirt as quickly as possible to assess the injury. He rips the thin fabric down the middle, exposing a purple bruise on Harry’s ribcage and an indentation where bone should be.

“This is gonna hurt. Best to do it before you fully wake up.”

With water still rhythmically flooding their contact, Louis rolls Harry to his good side and feels around for the dislodged bone near his spine. When he finds it, he sets the rib as gently as he can with the heel of his palm. A pop sounds, followed by a moan, but once it’s done Harry’s breathing begins to even out.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Louis makes bunny ears as Harry’s pupils shrink, dilate, then shrink again in the sweltering sun.

“Two,” Harry answers, his voice almost inaudibly hoarse.

Louis sits back in the surf and takes a deep breath. “Well we seem to be mostly unharmed. That’s good.”

“Good,” Harry retorts, “Is not how I’d describe this.”

“Good is better than dead. Or wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry narrows his eyes but refuses to concede the point. Instead he forces himself half upright and pats down the pockets of his pants.

“Fuck.”

Louis fights the instinct to crawl closer. “What?”

“Lost my phone.”

It’s such an absurd statement that Louis almost laughs, but stops himself when he sees Harry’s un-sarcastically furrowed brow. Instead he forces his weary body to stand. “We need to get out of this sun. Can you manage?”

Harry nods, but as he rises he lurches to the side and heaves up a mixture of bile and seawater. Louis steps around the puke, slips his arm under Harry’s—their drenched shirts prohibiting skin to skin contact—and helps him across the sand.

They’re both winded by the time they reach the tree line, and Harry keeps clutching at his chest even after he’s sitting against a sturdy tree.

“We could bind that,” Louis suggests. “I’m not sure if it’s cracked or just bruised, but at least breathing wouldn’t hurt as much.”

At Harry’s affirmative nod, Louis takes off his shirt and begins to tear it in strips. These he ties together with Harry’s segmented shirt to get a decent length of fabric. Carefully he begins to bind Harry’s rib, but no amount of caution can stop the inevitability of his knuckles brushing against bare skin. A shock arcs between them again, and this time, amidst the array of sensations catching in Louis’ throat, he feels desire. Harry flinches, but says nothing.

A flush entirely distinct from heatstroke comes to Louis cheeks as he tucks the end of the wrapping back into itself. “A bit better?”

“Yes.” Harry makes some experimental motions. “Much more tolerable.” Softer, he adds, “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, wishing he could conceal his burning face, “No problem.”

They sit in awkward silence for a time before Louis’ mind clears enough to think of the next logical step.

“We should find fresh water.”

The forest is bramble free and filled with tidy bushes and short, lush grass. Birdsong drifts down to them from the trees, which are tall and arid and crownshy at the top. It isn’t long before Louis stumbles upon a bush that looks familiar, and sure enough, when he crouches to inspect the plant, he finds it laden with small green berries. Thrilled, he plucks a handful and pops them into his mouth, letting the cool, tart juice burst onto his tongue.

He holds some out to Harry, but his companion looks at him aghast.

“Did you just eat those? They could be poisonous!”

Louis laughs, the first time joy has overtaken adrenaline since he was tossed into the ocean. “These are gooseberries!” He eats a few more to bolster his point. “I promise, they’re safe.”

Harry hesitates, but eventually takes a tentative mouthful. He squints at the flavor. “You’re a berry expert, then?”

“You could say so,” Louis declares as he finishes stripping a branch. “I’m a groundskeeper for several parks and a wildlife preserve. Basically a glorified gardener. I’ve identified my fair share of wild berries.”

Harry accepts his explanation with a slight smile. This perfectly cordial response provokes an outsized reaction from Louis’ heart, which decides to perform nearly audible rhythmic feats in his chest. He does his best to calm his racing pulse, but surely with such proximity Harry can see the veins on his neck and wrists fluttering like butterflies in a gale.

After a bit more wandering they find a wash of water glossing over smooth tree roots. Following this backwards leads them to a creek’s waterfall and a pool beneath. Moss and colorful lichen border crystal clear water several feet deep, but Louis cares nothing for its picturesque looks, only the cold, salt-free liquid he can guzzle and splash over his raw face.

When he and Harry have sated their thirst, Louis begins to think of smaller discomforts, such as his itchy pants, still crusty and stiff from the sea.

“We should wash the salt out of this fabric if we want it to last,” he muses.

Harry looks him in the eye for a brief moment. “And you want it to last, do you?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” Louis answers, confused.

With a shake of his head Harry looks away. “I can see how you look at me, you know. Rotting clothes would be incredibly convenient.”

Louis’ mouth falls open. “You think I have some grand plan to make moves on you?”

“You don’t?” Harry smiles again, but it’s sarcastic. “You already managed to destroy both our shirts.”

Louis feels a finely wired current of anger mix with whatever else is heating in his chest. “For your ribs, you arrogant little shit.”

“Listen, just as long as you know this isn’t some rom com, or whatever you think being stranded together means. We’re not lovers off on some adventure to get naked in forest pools or—”

“Lovers?” Louis’ chest is heaving, so the word is breathy, his enunciation rushed. He’s about to make another retort, to continue the petty cycle they’ve fallen into, when he sees something sparkle in Harry’s eyes.

His tears are well disguised. There’s no wavering to his voice, no reddening of his nose or cheeks. But sunlight has betrayed Harry nonetheless. Louis understands then that he’s dealing with a wounded animal, scared and untrusting, cornered and snarling in self defense.

Fortunately Louis has years of experience with such situations. He backs away. “You can go first,” he offers, “I’ll collect more berries. Okay?”

Harry blinks at him, not anticipating the deescalation. “Okay.”

There’s a soft splash as Harry slips under the water. As Louis pointedly watches his footsteps, his mind nonetheless fills in the blanks for his averted eyes. There should be no way for him to imagine the dips of Harry’s hips or the slight curvature of his spine, yet he does, the picture vividly illustrated and unshakable even when Louis has walked so far away he can no longer hear the splashing water. And stranger yet, these visions seem less like imagination and more like memory.

After what he deems an appropriate amount of time, Louis returns with his arms full of berries. Harry is clothed in his freshly washed pants, waiting to switch places, but Louis motiones him to sit down.

“Really, I don’t care,” Louis assures him. “And besides, you should be resting, with your rib.”

Harry accepts this without protest, but still sits with his back to the pool. Louis strips and gratefully submerges into the freshwater. The salt-film sloughs off his skin as he rubs his sore limbs. He dunks his head beneath the surface, rinses his hair, and emerges with the taste of brassy spring water on his lips. After sloshing his pants and underclothes he wrings them out as best he can and puts them back on.

With a little teamwork they manage to roll three fallen logs together. Louis uses long blades of beach grass to lash branches crossways between the logs, and Harry frames out that basic structure with smaller sticks. Eventually they have a platform to pad with moss and leaves. The end result is far from fancy, but they know enough of survival to prioritize sleeping up off the ground, away from the cold, damp earth. Before attempting to build a fire, they forage a few nuts. Like the berries, these are in bountiful supply, freshly fallen and untouched, almost as if the forest had anticipated their arrival.

Harry coaxes a spark from a sharp pair of stones just as the sun falls below the leaf canopy to slant sideways through the forest. As their tiny fire catches and roars to life, the ribbons of blue that outline the treetops turn from peach to violet, and before long a moon only a sliver away from fullness shines down on them through the leaves.

When it’s time to sleep they lay on their makeshift bed with their backs to each other in companionable silence. Though Harry had said little as they’d worked throughout the evening, Louis had noticed the way his breath deepened when they were near each other, like inhaling was the only form of consumption Harry would allow himself, scented air a substitute for sidelong glances.

Louis tucks his arms to his chest and futilely reminds his heart that wounded creatures need time. Eventually he lets the exhaustion of survival claim him and falls asleep.

*

Louis never remembers the protagonist of his nightmares in the morning. The Dark Lady exists entirely in the region of his brain activated by the thinning veil of sleep. Yet the part of himself that enters this domain night after night retains a memory of her, and greets her tonight as he always does, even knowing that her presence means he will soon be subject to a new terror.

She walks towards him with open arms, and Louis embraces her. “Lili,” he sighs under his breath, an abbreviation of the name she had once told him, and he has since forgotten. He can feel the wetness from her wrists and smell the iron from the red line that decorates her neck.

“How strange for a man to embrace his demons,” she whispers, but there is glee in her voice.

“How strange for the demon to be embraced,” Louis counters.

He has known her all his life: the dark nursemaid of his childhood, the laughing pompadour of his adolescence, the tortured mistress of his present. Perhaps another man would fear night terrors, or at least such a persistent one, but Louis half suspectes she is a creature of his own creation, some deeply rooted trauma and pain that has bloomed into a ghoulish manifestation through his subconscious. Lili protests such explanations.

“And what nightmare did you bring with you tonight,” Louis prompts, taking Lili by her bony shoulders and pulling back to look into her soulless black eyes.

“A new one,” she taps a taloned, bloody finger to her temple, “The sea.”

“Convenient, as I’ve just defeated the sea.”

“I’m always timely.”

It was true; her nightmares could be classified as merciful. Lili seemed reticent to torture his sleep, often escorting him herself through the terrors she created, other times dulling their potency. On occasion she would allow him to wake and skip the dream altogether.

“Will I be tossed overboard by a beautiful man with green eyes who fears I will impose intimacy upon him?” Louis asks as Lili guides him down a charred shore towards glistening waters.

“Ah, you’ve met Harry, then.”

“You speak like you know him. I’ve only just discovered his existence, you couldn’t possibly—”

“I’ve told you before, child, I am not a figment of your overly-creative imagination.”

Louis stops and pulls Lili to a halt beside him, taking her bone-white hand, avoiding her talons. “Prove it, then. Tell me about Harry.”

Lili smirks, the cuts on her slashed lips seeping blood. A forked tongue sucks contemplatively over pointed teeth. “That is beyond my mandate, child.”

“Mandate?” Louis shakes his head. “Like you’ve been sent by something to haunt my dreams? Please.”

Lili raises the skin where her eyebrows should be. “Is that so preposterous?”

“Yes,” Louis answers without hesitation. “You’ve been with me since before I can remember. Even the devil himself wouldn’t send a demon to haunt a child.”

Lili smiles, her pointed teeth slotting together into a solid white line between black gums. “Ah,” Lili sing-songs, “But what if angels do what devils can’t do, for devils can’t bring themselves to?”

“I think I prefer the nightmare to more of your riddles.”

“If you’re sure.” Lili waves her bony arm and the water rises to meet them, oil-dark and fathomless. But as the waves suck at Louis’ heels and pull him from the shore, Lili snaps her fingers and his skin inflates, puffing up like a balloon until he is a beach ball, round and unsinkable, floating atop the vast waves. Instead of drowning, Louis bobs along through the dark storm, privy to the myriad of monsters rising from the depths that leap in a grand ballet instead of eating his flesh.

*

“Fuck.”

Louis is awakened abruptly by this exclamation. He glances around bleary-eyed and eventually sees the reason for Harry’s expletive: a bloody finger sucked between his lips. Laid out over a flat boulder are the inner workings of Harry’s phone.

“Wow,” Louis sits up and rubs his eyes, “You found it.”

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Harry mutters.

“I didn’t want to sleep so long anyway. It’s mid morning already.” Louis comes over to inspect the disassembled electronic device. “Was it on the beach?”

“Yeah, washed up with the tide. I hoped it might. I cut my fucking finger on the screen though.”

The screen is wrecked, shattered in multiple places with small chunks of glass missing.

“Too bad we don’t have a bowl of rice…”

Harry isn’t amused. “This is our best chance of getting out of here. Maybe someone can ping our satellite location.”

Louis gives the mutilated phone a withering glance and tries not to roll his eyes.

“Excuse me if I haven’t resigned myself to becoming Robinson Caruso yet,” Harry retorts.

“No.” Louis can’t repress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’d need to be able to grow a beard for that.”

Harry eyes Louis’ day old stubble murderously.

“You’ll be more cheerful when you aren’t hungry. Here.” Louis divides the remainder of their foraged food between them for breakfast. “So.” Louis prys as they crack open nut shells, “Since we’re shipwrecked on treasure island, and I’ve sadly lost my ability to google, maybe you’d better tell me who you are.”

Harry points in the direction of his disemboweled phone. “That is who I am.”

“As much as I appreciate the waterlogged metaphor,”

“No, Louis, I’m internet famous. Or, my handle is, only a few people know my face.”

“Oh.” Louis is feeling cheeky. “Pity, it’s a good face.”

“Forget it.” Harry stands—a sparkle in his eyes despite his feigned annoyance—and takes a bracing breath before heading in the direction of the shoreline, breakfast still in hand.

“Harry, hold up, I’m just teasing.” Louis gives chase, wincing at his stiff muscles.

“And I’m just not interested in banter when we’re going to die.”

“Listen, it’s hardly Jurassic Park around here. Don’t you like the nuts? There’s plenty where that came from.”

“Yes the nuts are fine now, but we’ll probably have parasites any second.”

“Lord.” Louis grabs Harry’s arm and pulls him to a halt. “Stress is going to kill you before worms do.” Harry wrenches free, and not until their skins are separate does Louis register the zing that has gone through his body.

“Stop. Touching. Me.” Harry growls, close to tears. His pupils are large and his lip is dangerously close to trembling.

Louis berates himself for pushing so hard and makes a show of stepping backwards. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry. How about this. Let’s walk the beach. I’m sure the island is more or less circular but if it will make you feel better, we can put a marker in the sand and check that there’s nothing else here. Sound good?”

Harry nods once before turning back towards the coastline at a thankfully more reasonable pace.

No clouds impede the sun, yet as they walk on, Louis’ skin merely browns. His feet, too, are much too comfortable on what should be burning white sand. Hallucination is Louis’ first explanation for these phenomena, but when Harry comments on it too, he begins to wonder at the island's seemingly endless accommodations.

The shoreline is peppered with shells and free of seaweed, idyllic in every way, with clear aquamarine water breaking over wavy banks of sand and all manner of sea creatures darting in and out of tame waves. A slight breeze ruffles their hair as they walk, and Louis finds himself able to tell time by charting the slow crawl of the sun across the sky.

“Internet famous, huh?”

They’re walking through a damp patch of sand and leaving perfect footprints behind them. Harry’s feet are flat and long, and his toes curl in peculiar ways.

“Yeah.”

“Should I guess, then?”

“If you want.”

“Hmm. You’re probably a bit younger than me, so I’ll nix Facebook right away. And if it’s your handle that’s famous, we can rule out any of the video apps, so YouTube and TikTok are gone. Now Instagram, that’s mostly pictures, and you clearly don’t have an eye for beauty because you’re determined to get off this island, so.”

Harry smirks but offers no affirmation.

“And text posts aren’t really for Instagram, and you’re probably too gay to be on Reddit. And no one’s famous from Tumblr. So let’s go with Twitter.”

For half a second Harry’s eyes cut sideways towards him.

“Yes? Yes.” Louis fist pumps the air. “Famous, that’s where it gets hard… but then, maybe we can eliminate anyone who’s got a real identity to go with their handle. So I’m looking for a famous account that is fairly anonymous?”

Harry scuffs up some sand with his right foot and shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“Fiction or nonfiction.”

“I never said I’d give you any hints.”

“Fair.” Louis eyes the other man, taken once again by his beauty, but also by the horrible sense of knowing something that he can’t remember. A quiet, steady pulse starts in his stomach and all at once the answer comes to him.

“You’re @SonofGod, aren’t you.”

Harry stops. He’s been gnawing a bright spot on the left side of his lower lip and continues to worry at it as Louis, triumphant, plants himself in front of Harry with both hands on his hips.

“You’re the creator of the most irreverent, blasphemous, anti-god account in the whole world, an account followed by nearly three hundred MILLION people, and you’re shipwrecked on an island. With me.”

“I’ve had better weeks.”

Louis begins to laugh, a little at first, then hysterically, finally needing to hold his stomach to keep from cramping up. He doubles over and loses his balance and ends up with his knees and ass in the sand.

He’d followed the account years ago, like nearly every other twitter user on the planet. He could still remember the early tweet that had grabbed the collective Twitterverse’s attention:

Therapist said I might have “daddy issues.” Guess that’s what happens when dad tells you to bleed for the sins of the whole shitty world

“Whenever you’re done…” Harry edges around Louis and continues along the beach.

Wordlessly Louis gets up and follows, basking in this fascinating new knowledge. He’d never given much thought to the person behind the handle, but now that he considers it, perhaps any human with such a sardonic take on one of the world’s most revered deities would have to be wounded and hard-shelled. Maybe that was the prerequisite for such satire.

The island curves in a circle, and to Louis’ eye it seems nearly symmetrical. The beach remains at all times roughly equidistant to the center of the island, where stands a tall tor, green from base to summit, dotted in outcroppings of bare rock. Just as the sun is setting they come back around to their marker, hungry despite the few times they had ventured into the forest for snacks.

They eat another dinner of berries and nuts, though Harry picks at his food, demoralized, chewing every bite numerous times in a sideways direction that reminds Louis of a sad, pretty cow. The end of their second day comes with the arrival of bright moonlight. Leaving the fire to die out on its own, Louis settles down on the moss-covered bed and stares at the stars peeking out from beyond the treetops. He attempts to pick out fragmented constellations, but fails, and instead decides to try his hand at being sympathetic to Harry’s disappointment.

“I’m sure with such a big following and all the demands of running an account like that, it must be shocking to suddenly have nothing.”

Harry lays down beside him and answers without turning to look. “I guess. But that’s not what’s bothering me.” He puts his hands behind his head and joins Louis in observing the heavens. “It’s too perfect here.”

“Pardon?” Louis exclaims. “Didn’t you predict that we were going to die and the food would give us worms?”

“Yeah, well, it should have. I don’t trust this place. Someone has to keep a grip on reality, otherwise it would be far too easy to...” he trails off, but by the softening of his tone and the way he shifts self-consciously, Louis can intuit his meaning. Closing his eyes against the stars, Louis tries to temper his breathing.

“And,” Harry adds, “I don’t want to forget.”

“Forget what?” Louis whispers, for the forest is suddenly too tender for loud voices.

“Forget why I became who I am.”

“And why did you?”

“Because I’m mad at God.”

Louis pushes up on his elbows and stares at his companion. “Wait, wait, but you don’t believe in God. Isn’t that the whole point of it, to mock belief?”

“I wish it was.” A gentle wind rustles the treetops. Harry doesn’t continue until the air around them has stilled. “As far back as I can remember I’ve resented God. And you can’t be born mad at someone who doesn’t exist, can you?”

Louis lays back down. “Suppose not.”

“How can an all knowing, all powerful God of justice and love and peace run a world like this? There’s so much evil and pain. And not only does He turn a blind eye, He’s at the center of most of it. Wars in his name, repressive religions, cults. He does nothing to stop any of it.”

“So you’ve devoted your life to taking God down on twitter?”

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Harry sighs. “But how else do you fight God than in the court of public opinion? I want everyone to be furious at Him. If I can turn the world from their blind worship, make a dent in the number of His devotees… maybe humanity will stop depending on an uncaring God to make the world a better place and start doing it themselves.”

“Well.” Louis runs a hand through his hair, momentarily lost for words. “You cast a wide net about the world’s pain, but I’ve got to say, this sounds personal.”

Harry laughs. The sound is bright and cutting in their whispered nightscape. “It is personal. I can’t explain that.”

Harry turns his head and their eyes meet, and Louis again feels the tug of memory in the back of his brain. “We should get to sleep,” he says in lieu of anything more revealing. “Tomorrow let’s see what other wonders this ‘perfect’ island holds. Maybe,” Louis smiles at the green eyes that are awakening something dormant in his soul, “We washed up on God’s personal paradise right here on earth.”

“The only place exempt from the horrors of the world.”

“Some slice of heaven.”

The wind again begins to blow, and Louis falls asleep with his eyes half open, for the stars begin to move like sparkling dust in the sky, swirling amidst the tree canopy like formless clouds of glitter made from pinpricks of light.

*

Louis is asleep in a grassy field when the smell of her rotting flesh mingles with the scent of wildflowers.

“Lili,” he murmurs.

“I know, I never visit again so soon.”

“You don’t. Is it a special occasion?”

“You could say that. Mandates, and all.” Lili plucks a dislodged tendon from her long black hair and discards it on the ground where it burns through a patch of grass to reveal spoilt earth.

“All this talk of mandates,” Louis prods, slowly rising from the ground, “Is giving me a complex. It implies I’m important enough for someone to command my hauntings.”

Lili smiles at him, terrifying, somehow bubbly.

“Oh please,” Louis laughs at her, “That’s ridiculous. I’m nobody!”

“Sometimes we don’t know who we have been,” Lili holds out her taloned hand, “Or who we are destined to be.”

Human flesh takes hold of demon-skin, and they walk side by side from the field towards a grove of trees. “If you truly aren’t an amalgamation of my traumas, then…” Louis looks at his horrifying companion in a new light, “Then who are you?”

“AH! Here, near the end, he begins to ask the right questions.”

“The end?” Louis feels a twinge of sadness. “You’re not leaving me, Lili?”

“Mandates,” she answers, but there’s a weight to her voice Louis has rarely heard. “Look,” Lili points to the rising light behind them, “You have pestered me until the dawn! All this lovely nightmare is wasted.”

Louis squeezes her hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t fret. I’ll be back soon.”

“I would say I’m looking forward, but.” Louis smiles at her.

Lili rolls her black eyes, the motion only distinguishable by the light that glints off their glossy surface. “Wake up, little human.”

*

Dawn comes with a warm haze. Louis awakes to find dew soaking the earth, fine droplets bejeweling short grasses and spiderwebs alike. Harry stirs beside him, though for a time both men watch the wakening forest in quiescence.

When proper sunlight is speckling the ground they rise and splash their faces in the pool. Harry unwraps his binding and they are both surprised to find his bruise all but gone. He can breathe easily and without pain. They don’t comment on this impossibility save to stare at each other again in wordless acknowledgement of the island’s wonders.

With shirt-scrap knapsacks of berries and nuts they set out towards the center of the island, marking their path as they go with planted sticks and piles of stones. As the forest begins to thin and Louis can see a field in the distance, he breaks their silence.

“Do you have anyone back home who’s worrying about you?”

Harry nods. “I suppose my family is. If they’ve realized I’m missing. You?”

“Same, family. And I’m sure they’re missing you. It’s been three days this morning.”

Harry smiles at him. “I’ve gone a lot longer than three days without contacting anyone.”

“Oh.” Louis can’t help digging. “So you’re not very close with the people in your life, then.”

“No. I don’t really think there’s a point.”

“Is that so?”

“People,” Harry says pointedly, “Have a habit of leaving. If not by their own choosing, then by inevitability. The only way death can’t hold you captive is if you have no one to lose.”

“Well,” Louis argues, “But if you have no one to lose, you also have no one to live for. Or do you not find it works that way for you?”

Harry shrugs, clearly intent on ending the conversation.

When they reach the field, it’s obvious that it exists entirely inside the ring of forest. Louis visualizes the island like the growth rings of a tree: beach outermost, forest, then field. The only mystery remaining is what lies between the field and the tor at the island’s center.

Tall grasses are interspersed with wildflowers, all seemingly in bloom at once. Chipmunks and mice and rabbits scurry away at the sound of their footsteps, only to linger behind them, curious at their intrusion. The pollinating insects are much the same, though they are uniquely attracted to Harry. Butterflies flit by his curls and bees buzz around him in lazy circles. Truthfully, Louis relates to them; he also can’t stop stealing glances at his companion and meandering ever closer. Harry grows more magnetic and effervescent as they walk on.

The field eventually turns to sparse bushes, which give way to short, stocky trees laden with fruit. Nothing looks exactly like the agricultural staples of home, but Louis recognizes wild apples and pears and persimmons and pomegranates. As they stop for lunch Louis wonders at the variety. Even wild grapes twine themselves between tree trunks, weaving a chaotic vineyard.

“I almost wonder if someone seeded this place,” Louis muses as he takes a bite of the best apple he’s ever tasted.

“You mean it could be the private resort of some rich billionaire or something?”

“Maybe. Or a government experiment. Who knows.”

“If it’s a rich person, I bet anything they monitor it. We’re probably on a hundred satellite images by now.”

Louis chuckles and wipes juice from his chin. “Perhaps.” The apples are tart and crisp, and not a single blemish dots their crimson skins. The grapes are likewise plump, full, and even the seeds are soft and easily chewed.

“That’s not so unheard of, you know. I’ve met quite a few rich people. They do things like own islands.”

Louis is intrigued by Harry’s tone, the disapproval mixed with disgust. “And what do you think about owning islands?”

Harry pops another grape in his mouth. “It’s despicable.”

“Go on.”

“No one person should own land like this. The earth shouldn’t be partitioned off to the highest bidder, it’s fundamentally fucked up.”

Louis nods. “I agree.” He sucks the sticky fruit juice from his fingers. “You know what puzzles me, Harry? You care about this. You care about shared resources and the evils of religion and, hell, you even used to tweet about politics. That all seems like a kind of human caring to me, an attachment to people. A kind of love. You’re not as free of it as you like to think.”

Harry meets his eyes, green to blue, and for a moment Louis thinks of course, but the thought flees before it can take full form, leaving him with a sense of deja vu.

“That’s not love. That’s rage. That’s all I am, Louis, anger and bitterness.”

“But even anger is rooted in love more often than not. You just have to find what’s made you angry.”

Harry laughs. “I already told you that. God.”

With a toast to the sky, Louis lowers his half eaten apple and takes another bite. “Cheers to God then. Maybe your heart was meant for Him, did you ever think of that? Maybe you were meant to love Him, not humans. He would never get old and die, you know.”

Harry gives him an odd look, but reverts to his typical non-response. They finish eating and move onwards, through the ring of orchard, to whatever lies at the foot of the tor.

A sound like steady thunder grows louder as the tor grows larger. Gradually the gnarly fruit trees thin and spongy earth replaces root-securing dirt. Their feet stick in the waterlogged loam as the ground tries to suck them in, and by the time the bog turns to a proper swamp, they’re already muddy to their knees. Reeds and cattails flank the deeper water, which forms a kind of moat around the base of the tor. Small rivers running down the tor’s slope hit several outcroppings of rock and tumble to the swamp as waterfalls—lacy hems of a green skirt, delicate, yet loud enough to mimic a stormy sky.

“Can you swim?” Louis asks, and when Harry nods in affirmation they begin to cross the muddy water. The swamp is warm and soothing, much more like a mud spa than a drainage pond. Though the water is rich with life, no slimy decay touches their feet or croaks from the rushes, and soon they’ve crossed the moat and are pulling themselves, dripping with mud, onto a rocky crag that hosts a waterfall.

They walk along a flat rock pathway host to bright red and yellow fungi that leads behind the waterfall and upwards, to the grassy slopes of the tor. Caked from neck to toes in mud, Louis points beneath the water’s flow.

“Might as well, don’t you think?”

Harry smiles. “God’s shower, right?”

They step into a frothy slice of cool air as mist envelopes them and water droplets layer atop their muddy skin. Harry puts his arm through the downward pour, triangulating the flow for a half second before the liquid forms a living seal around his wrist. Louis envies the water its ability to touch Harry unscathed. As they edge under the waterfall bit by bit, the slippery mud comes free and the weight of the water pinkens their chests. Louis removes his dirty pants and holds them under the pouring water. With little hesitation Harry does the same. When they’ve succeeded in this laundering, Louis rolls down his muddied briefs to repeat the process. He turns from Harry as he does so, not wanting to provoke a response like their first day together.

But as he stands under the heavy pressure of the waterfall he can feel Harry’s eyes boring into him. He turns back around to find Harry staring unabashedly, mud not the only thing filling his briefs.

The water can touch him, Louis thinks, and lets the steady thrum of the falls loosen his inhibitions. He kneels before Harry and pulls down the muddy waistband of the other man’s underwear, letting the water frisk away the jolt that usually accompanies the juncture of their skin. His thumbs are gentle and practiced as he guides the elastic so it won’t catch.

Louis lets the underwear fall around Harry’s ankles before he rises. “There you are,” he whispers, his voice thick. Water glosses over them as Louis reaches out with trembling hands to rub the mud from Harry’s hip bones. “Harry? I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I want you.”

Under Louis’ touch Harry’s pulse quickens, but he doesn’t move away. Louis inches closer until every inhale pushes their chests together. With their thighs flush, only the cold water prevents Louis’ focus from going elsewhere. He begins to stroke the wet curls that have stuck against Harry’s cheek. He picks them off one by one and twirls them around his finger only to let them slide free and be ringlets once more.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, praying his wild stallion won’t bolt.

“I’m scared,” Harry exhales.

“I know. But there’s nothing to fear, least of all from me. I won’t hurt you, Harry.”

“You don’t understand,” and Harry’s breath hitches, but in the wetness it’s impossible to tell if he’s shedding tears. “How can you know so much but not this?”

“All I know is you’re mine, Harry, that somehow you became mine long ago, so long ago I was born knowing I needed you.”

At these words something rigid and unbendable in Harry shatters, and he falls like a rag doll against Louis and clings to him, arms everywhere, frenzied and awkward. Louis steadies them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers as the drone of water rages on. He runs his hands along Harry’s spine, memorizing his bones, his tension, his curves. The motion is as familiar as breathing. Relief floods Louis’ heart, though he doesn’t know why.

“You’re warm,” Harry mumbles as he nuzzles in closer. “I’m always cold.”

“You are? You’ve never said.” Heat pools in the depths of Louis’ stomach as his hands find the dip of Harry’s soft waist.

“No,” Harry raises his head and brings his hands around from Louis’ back to rest against his heart. He fiddles there, fingers reading the goosebumps of Louis’ skin like braille. “On the inside. No matter how much I try, it's as if… you know how people say that fire lives in your heart? It’s like someone stole mine. Didn’t even leave me a match.”

“And now?” Louis asks, voice mixed with curiosity and hope.

“Now… there might be a spark.”

Gently Louis presses his forehead against Harry’s. They breathe in and out in tandem, over and over as the water narrates their contact.

“Louis.” Harry says his name reverently. “I can’t. I can’t do this only to lose you again.”

“Lose me?” Louis shakes his head. “Never. I’m never letting you go.”

“What if you don’t have a choice? What if it’s not up to us.”

Louis smiles against the blush of Harry’s cheek and presses his lips to the flush skin. “What are you on about.”

“I only half know, I can’t truly remember. But I’m scared of it, so horribly scared I can taste it.”

“Then let me taste it too,” and Louis kisses him.

The waterfall thunders on, oblivious to the seismic shift beneath it, to the roots of the island shuddering, clenching. But for Louis the earth hasn’t faltered, but fallen into place. Harry is sky—endless, expansive—clear and high and saturated with sun. Their lips perform an intricate duet, and their kiss lasts longer than their lungs have air.

Harry pulls away, gasping.

“See?” Louis says when he can speak again, and when he smiles it feels like the first time he ever truly has. “Nothing to fear.”

As if to test Louis’ declaration, Harry kisses him again.

The haze of the waterfall turns mint-blue and gold as twilight approaches.

“It’s nearly dark,” Louis says from between swollen lips.

“We should go...”

“Probably.” Louis steps back and takes in a full view of Harry. The taller man looks entirely different than before, radiant in a way the dim lighting couldn’t possibly be responsible for.

They walk from beneath the waterfall, their clothes forgotten, and climb a ways up the skirt of the tor until they reach thick grasses. There they sit and dry in the breeze as the sun disappears below the sea.

“Harry,” Louis says as the stars slowly become visible above them, “Do you truly believe there’s a God?”

He looks up at the heavens as he answers. “I think there has to be. How could we imagine gods and myths and deities like that, collectively, as an entire human species, if they weren’t things we’ve half remembered, embedded in our consciousness or our memories? It seems foolish to dismiss what every human culture before us has accepted.”

Louis’ skin prickles and the breeze around them quickens, tossing their hair. When he’s brushed his fringe from his eyes Louis glances down at their nakedness, shocked to realize that he feels no self consciousness or shame.

“Do you think other things could be embedded in our minds as well? Like memories but… older?”

“Maybe. Maybe we ourselves are more like gods than we think. Maybe the myths are us remembering ourselves.” Harry reaches out and takes Louis’ hand.

When the spark passes, warmth flys along Louis’ skin and he gasps at the sensation of finally touching Harry without a barrier. But when he looks to Harry for confirmation he sees that tears have come to the other man’s eyes.

“It hurts for you, doesn’t it,” Louis asks. When Harry nods in affirmation Louis pulls his hand free.

They lean back into the thick grass and bed down like deer under the budding moon. Their breathing mingles with the other sounds of night, snatched lullabies taken by the wind in gusts and eddies up into the air, the oldest type of prayer.

*

Lili comes riding a monster, something that looks vaguely dinosaur-like, zombified to near abstraction and so grotesque it’s laughable. Louis waits for her to dismount, eyeing the creature with mock dissaproval.

“This is not one of your best,” he chides, but Lili merely shrugs her agreement.

“Limited resources tonight.”

Louis smiles and takes her bony hand. “Tell me,” he begins, turning her demon flesh over in his palm, “If you’re not a figment of my imagination, then could I touch you? Outside of this dream, I mean.”

Lili looks surprised. The skin where her eyebrows should be pulls up. “I wouldn’t exactly have flesh outside of your mind.”

“Oh.” Louis shrugs. “Just wondering.”

“It’s never just wondering with you.” Lili pulls him up a semi-steep incline over which Louis can see blazing orange skies and little else. “Tell me.”

“It’s Harry. When we touch there’s a spark between us, like a living electricity. For some reason it hurts him.”

Lili stops and stares into his blue eyes with her black ones. “You’ve touched him already?”

“Well. Not as I’d like to, believe me. But I don’t expect you to bring me those kinds of dreams.”

Lili grins and laughs, her pointed teeth reflective, like small flames in the orange sky. “Do you know what would happen, if you managed to touch me in your world, Louis?”

He shakes his head. Lili leads him to the edge of a cliff. Below are the fires of hell, yellow, orange, white, dancing in flickering likenesses of open maws.

“You would feel a spark. Like electricity, but alive.”

Louis tightens his grip on her hand, needing to hear the rest before she pushes him over the edge. But his foot has been kicked from beneath him already, and he’s lost his balance. Her final words float towards him as he falls, and her fingers slip from his.

“There’s a price for touching a god.”

*

Louis jolts from sleep before dawn, when the moon is still more luminous than the glowing eastern horizon. Dew shines on his skin and the surrounding grass, and though he should be chilled, he’s not. He touches the soft rise of his stomach, and as his fingers glide over the moisture he slowly realizes the temporary gift they’ve been given.

He rolls over and tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear. Slowly Harry’s eyes open and he smiles. Louis lays a hand on his shoulder, and the other man doesn’t flinch.

“The dew,” Louis whispers, like it were a reverent thing, a blessing sent from heaven. In a heartbeat Harry has understood and closed the gap between them to press their lips together. This kiss is hungry, starved, not the destination but the starting line, and soon Harry sits up to catch his breath, chest heaving.

The sheath of night is slipping away, the moon’s monochrome light blending now with the sun’s early violets and purples. Rich, warm shadows fill the breadth of Louis’ pupils.

“It’s wilding, this moon. This place.” Harry spreads his arms, his head upturned to the sky. “The earth itself feels like my memory. My feet are grounded to this hill and it’s made me bigger until I—I’m the whole island, the grass, the forest, the flowers, the dirt, not just me inside anymore, but me inside everything…I can feel the wind, like my breath, in and out of me. I can feel the ocean tides in my blood.”

Louis blinks though damp lashes, mesmerized anew with every changing angle of morning light. He says it because he knows it, or he remembers he knows it, for he has always known.

“I love you, Harry.”

These words bring another smile to Harry’s lips. “And I you.”

Harry’s knees push apart as he says this—his thighs opening—until Louis can see him fully exposed and denting the wet, fragile grass. It’s not lust that courses through Louis’ nerves, for that would be too base a term for it. It’s elemental, fundamental, an urge born of some purity older than the dawn of time; the need to root, to be planted, to grow in symbiosis instead of alone.

Harry reaches a hand behind himself and tilts his hips. His knees slide further apart and he gasps, his beautiful mouth mirroring what he’s doing with his fingers. Louis crawls closer, heartbeat between his hips, head dizzy with anticipation.

Harry rocks back and forth, gently at first, then more punishing, until with a groan he pulls his hand free and falls back on his elbows, spine unfurling into the earth. The sun has just emerged pink and red above the horizon, rounded and scarlet, swollen and liquid.

Louis clasps the sunrise between his fingers and lowers himself into the space between Harry’s legs, the cradle of creation. He stalls for a moment, unsure how to survive coupling with…

With a god.

The grass, the forest, the stream, the flowers; Louis pushes in, not just to Harry, but to the earth itself, to the sun-warm soil and mud and life, the pulse of growling seedlings, the contractions of spring birth, the squelch of summer floods, the ache of over-ripe fruit. They cry, and cry out, words that make no sense, visions that should hold no meaning for them. Harry clutches at Louis—strong hands chasing along his spine, looking for bones to cling to—as Louis erodes his shoreline, alchemy that forces water and land, at an impasse, to transform.

“Let me be your garden, Louis,” Harry whispers, beginning to tremble. “Water me, so I can bloom.”

The ecstasy is its own world, for a time, and not until their seed has dripped down through the ruined grass do they pull apart. The sun is fast evaporating any lingering dew from their skin, so they lay side by side, sated yet starving.

Louis makes the mistake of closing his eyes.

*

Lili finds him curled up tightly, deep in sleep. She kneels beside him as his eyes blink open. The blood oozing from her skin smells like rotten figs.

“You must come with me,” she says, and pulls him upright onto a world that looks oddly familiar. “We are out of time.”

“Lili,” Louis is dazed, lustrous still. “Harry, we—”

“I know.” She gives him an odd look, neither smile nor grimace, the black of her eyes glossy and wet.

“You don’t seem pleased to see me,” Louis says, obeying the dark lady of his dreams and taking her hand as they walk up a grassy hill.

“Mandates,” Lili replies. “This dream is our last together, Louis. You will never see me again.”

Louis pulls them to a halt. He studies her for a time, until he’s sure she hasn’t spoken in jest. “You mean that.”

“I do.” She pulls him on.

She leads them to a forest, lush and old, its trees laden with blossoms. The sunlight is soft and lemon-tinted, like the first day of spring. Louis blinks and looks around him. Nothing about this place is nightmarish. It’s peaceful, placid, and even birds sing in the trees. Taking a deep breath of the flower-perfumed air, Louis walks forward.

They soon approach a simple, low-hanging tree, laden with red fruit. The luster of the berries draws Louis closer, so he inspects them. They’re smaller than apples but larger than grapes, yet grouped in a similar type of triangular cluster, dripping towards the earth like gems of blood.

“You must pluck it,” Lili instructs, though as she says this, her pale skin glints a florid green, and as Louis looks again her bony arms have fused with her body and her legs have melted together, and her neck has thickened to match the spread of her wide mouth, now housing fangs and a forked tongue. The serpent before him winds herself around the tree of red fruit, her eyes alone still unchanged, black voids.

“Lili…” Louis whispers, but the serpent has slithered along the nearest branch and noses the fruit with her flattened head.

“Pluck it,” she hisses, and though Louis can hear the dark lady in her tone, the reptile’s voice sends shivers down his spine. He takes one fruit and pulls it from the bunch. It’s oblong and taught-skinned but gives way to ripeness at a press of his finger, and its smell makes his mouth water.

“Take a bite,” the serpent says, “You must take a bite.”

“Why?” Louis asks, trying to read the depths of the serpent’s eyes.

“For it is a nightmare. And you must fear it.”

Louis brings the fruit to his mouth. “But I have never feared your nightmares, Lili.”

The serpent tilts her head and her scales shimmer. “Then I may have given you a chance, little human. But know that this is not my nightmare.”

Something dark and consuming glues Louis’ feet to the earth and he finds himself biting into the red fruit. Against his teeth the pulp turns to a ribbon, a string, a snake, and in Louis’ mouth it grows larger. He tries to spit it out, but it pins down his tongue and begins to slither down his throat.

He gags, clawing at his expanding esophagus. He’s forced to his knees by the scalding pain of the creature wriggling through his body. Looking down at his naked torso he can see the bulge traveling under his skin, through his organs, but though he tries, Louis cannot cry out. He realizes too late that his engorging cock means the snake is tunneling out of him, birthing itself from between his legs. His girth doubles as the creature makes its slow descent, burning every nerve that had ever brought him pleasure. Finally from his bleeding slit emerges the tip of a nose and a flickering, hissing tongue. Even in blinding pain Louis can understand what it says.

“Ssssss-sin.”

The nightmare begins to fragment around him, first the sky, then the forest, then the ground beneath him, until even the serpent and the tree have crumbled to dust and blown away.

*
Louis wakes to Harry’s hands on his shoulders, his fingers like vice grips. He blinks at the daylight and notices that he’s drenched in sweat. Upon seeing his eyes open Harry releases him and breathes a sigh of relief.

“You were dreaming,” Harry offers, looking more abashed than simply waking a lover from a dream should allow.

Louis understands Harry’s embarrassment when he sees the sticky white mess on his thigh. He tries to recall the dream but like all such memories, it has mostly evaporated with the sunlight.

“Don’t worry,” Louis assures his lover, “After this morning, I don’t think my subconscious would dare try and improve on reality.”

Harry blushes and a shy smile reveals his dimples. “It feels raw and new, and yet… oddly familiar.”

“As does everything with you.” Louis stands and stretches and follows Harry’s gaze to the top of the tor, still a ways above them but reachable by late morning.

“Do you feel this urge to keep pushing on? Like something is drawing you towards the summit?” Harry asks.

“Maybe.” Louis searches his own feelings and comes away with only the need to be as close to Harry as possible. “But I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“I know.” Harry extends his hand.

“Won’t it hurt you?”

“It can try.”

As they climb through the wind-blown grass, the spark between their bodies at last reaches equilibrium. The nearer they draw to heaven, the more greedily Harry stops to kiss, no longer hampered by pain, and in these moments their nakedness tells more truths than the few words they speak to each other.

The wind near the top is persistent, but not cold, though it acts thicker than the winds of the beach and forest, taking longer to blow through their hair and bending the grass like a flood of invisible molasses. The sunlight is different too, dispersed and hazy, and it glances off Harry’s golden skin with a radiance that seems half tangible.

They pause hand in hand as the summit comes into view. It’s a plateau, and across it grows a tangled, ancient forest. They clamber over the edge and find themselves standing on flat ground, the field grass replaced with moss and tiny, multiplus white flowers akin to fallen snow.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry whispers, awestruck.

And it is. Here, more than any other part of the island, looks to Louis’ trained eye like a well tended garden. While the ancient trees appear wild at first glance, Louis can see how they’ve been pruned and spread equidistant from each other. They are all simultaneously in bloom, their blossoms color coordinated with the richest maroons on the outskirts leading inwards to fuchsias and pastel pinks.

Harry’s pupils are large and he’s giddy like a child. He pulls Louis forward, and as they step foot beneath the blossoming trees, petals begin to cascade down around them, providing a carpet of color wherever they step, an aisle fit for royalty. Along this ever-forming pink carpet they walk until Louis’ lips are dry and he realizes that the time they’ve been walking is not commensurate with the size of the tor’s plateau. The forest is bigger on the inside.

“Harry,” he whispers, and the taller man halts, their hands still joined. “This place…”

“It’s magical, isn’t it? Though I’m quite hungry.”

Louis nods in agreement, the prospect that they could be hours away from food and hydration prickling at his mind.

“Look!” Harry drops his hand and hurries forward, but as he diverts to a new path, the blossoms above remain undisturbed.

Louis catches him up to find Harry standing before an odd tree with jagged branches. Hanging from these in bunches are red, oblong fruits. As Harry reaches out to pluck one, Louis instinctively grabs his arm.

“Wait,” Louis squints as he battles the fog of his subconscious. “I’ve… I’ve seen these before. I think they’re poison.”

“Oh.” Harry’s face falls, but he shrugs. “There must be something further in,” he reasons. Petals shower his footsteps as he ventures onward.

Louis peers down at his feet to check once more that there is only mossy earth beneath them. If all paths are petal-blessed save the one that led them here… he lays a hand along the odd tree’s bumpy trunk.

But then the bark moves.

The auburn snake glides upwards from his hand to rest on a nearby limb. It dangles its long neck down towards him and opens a glistening mouth.

“Louisssssss,” it says, whisper soft but crisp and clear like a chime.

He recoils, instinct telling him to step back.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a great many thingssssss,” it hisses back, and Louis watches as its reptilian eyes blink in a very human way.

“And… do you know what this place is?” Louis backs up further, his hands shaking.

“He callssss it Eden,” the snake laughs, its body quivering, “But I call it a trap.”

“A trap?” Louis tries to calm his thundering heartbeat. “Why would someone want to trap us?”

“Not usssssss,” the snake hisses, tossing its head in the direction Harry went. “Him.”

Louis feels the tight grip of dread. “Tell me then,” he demands, trying to project an authority he does not feel, “How do I foil this trap?”

The snake nudges a cluster of fruit. “With thissss.”

Something in Louis’ brain stings him at the thought of biting the red pulp. “No, no it’s poison.”

“You’re ssssure?” The snake loops itself once around the branch and stretches out towards Louis’ nose. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t recall,” Louis grasps at a vision, but like smoke, it drifts from his mind. “But I know it's true.”

The snake smiles, its scaled mouth widening to expose brilliant white fangs. “To Him, the truth isss poison,” it hisses, weaving its head side to side.

Louis looks it in the eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“A bite, and you will.” Again it prods at the fruit, and one falls from the cluster and lands in Louis’ palm. “Jusssst one bite, and all your questionsss will be answered.”

Louis can feel the fruit’s weighty warmth in his palm. It’s ripe and tempting.

“There isss no time!” The snake nudges his hand towards his mouth. “It isss all that can stop him from eating from the tree of life!”

Louis shakes his head, at war with himself. “I’m not supposed to eat this.”

“No,” the snake says slowly, deliberately, “But often angelssss do what devilsss cannot do.”

There is a calming familiarity to these words, and Louis’ thoughts still enough for him to alchemise the clarity he’s been seeking since washing up on the shore. The island is too perfect, the fruits too bountiful, the environment too accommodating, the winds too warm, the forest too large on the inside; and Harry, Harry is part of it somehow; he’d felt that this morning as they’d made love, but only now did he begin to understand. Harry had been fighting against some kind of divinity inside of him his entire life, and only here on this perfect island, with Louis’ coaxing, had he smiled and touched and opened his heart; only now were the blossoms falling at his feet and the forest beaconing him into its maw.

Louis understands at last that he is but a useful solvent, a means to a wider end, and with a surge of rebellion and determination to know, he brings the fruit to his mouth and takes a bite.

Sweet, viscous liquid drips from his lips and rolls down his chin as he chews at the soft pulp. It’s the best fruit he’s ever tasted until it’s not, until a bitter, metallic zing fills his mouth and his teeth begin to ache and his eyes close against his will and he’s falling to his knees, prisoner to the visions dancing before his dark eyelids.

At first the images seem familiar, sunsets and grasslands and forests, but then Harry is there, Harry, dressed in strange clothes, wielding swords and leading crowds of people, and Louis doesn’t comprehend at first that he’s seeing his memories until all at once he recognizes the tilt of his own head, the feel of his own directed gaze, the adoration in his focus on those eternally green eyes.

Harry. His Harry. He’s known him before. He’s known him always. It’s not once, no, but again and again, and the memories come in layers, each coating over the last, building a finish burnished with the realization that they are bound across lifetimes, across incarnations, across the valley of death itself.

When he can open his eyes again they are blinded by tears. With a singular mission Louis clutches the red fruit in his hand and staggers forward, following the blurry trail of petals on the forest floor. Soon he’s walking not on pink blossoms, but white, and he sees Harry before him, standing beneath a white-barked tree laden with white flowers and white fruit. He screams his name, frenzied with the need to hold Harry in his arms.

“Harry… Harry.” His name is every part of speech, every synonym for completeness. Louis runs on wobbly legs until he’s tripped and landed on his knees at Harry’s feet. His arms close around Harry’s legs tight enough to bruise, and he can’t let go.

Weeping unashamedly he looks up into his lover’s perplexed face and presses the once-bitten fruit into Harry’s palm.

“One bite, my love,” he begs with shredded anticipation.

Harry’s expression is bewildered, but nonetheless he brings the fruit to his mouth. His lips close around the red skin and as his teeth cut through to fleshy pulp, Louis takes one last shuddering breath alone with the truth.

The twice-bitten fruit thuds to the ground. Harry’s gaze remains, for a time, lost, unfocused, but when he finally looks at Louis again, his eyes are full of knowing.

It isn’t frantic or rushed, this kiss. It begins with interlaced fingers and touching brows. It creates words between them that don’t exist outside of the realm of double lips.

The knowing is horrible and beautiful, breathless yet ruthless, terrifying but the safest harbor. The knowing is it’s own euphoria, it’s own redemption.

“You found me,” Harry whispers, unwilling to share their secret even with the air.

“I promised.”

Louis tastes his own salty tears as they slip down the lines of his smile. He can’t stop smiling, can’t stop inhaling, doesn’t even want to blink, because a millisecond is too long to take his eyes off Harry. The fever around his heart quiets eventually, the initial explosion settling into a weight that stretches from his tailbone to his skull, a complex rope woven with memory and trauma and heartbreak, but bonded by love.

“Louis.” Harry brushes along Louis’ cheekbone, across his temple, his fingertips remembering. “I want to say everything to you, but I already have.”

They collapse in tandem to the white blossoms and Louis licks and worries the gates of heaven til they open, until he can imbed himself deep within the chrysalis and emerge metamorphosisized.

There’s a wordless wonder in being immersed inside a god… and he’s made love to Harry with that knowledge before, in another life, but never with Harry’s full acceptance of his own power, never while Harry allowed his divinity to coexist with his humanity, while light beaded on his skin, while his power fed into the widening of his thighs and the clenching of his muscles and the build up of reckless, headless rapture.

The white flowers are ruined beneath them, rolled to a batting, and their naked bodies are slick with sweat and tears. Wet sounds mingle with the birdsong, and their kisses become tainted with the taste of blood. When the wave crests, they tumble under it, dragged breathless to the bottom, pinned to the sand with the enormity of release. They lie still for a time, bodies joined, panting.

“Lou,” Harry says, and they’ve known each other by countless names, and yet always the same. “My home.”

Louis kisses Harry’s shoulder and waits for the rush of jubilation to end, but it never does. He begins to realize it never will. The sun is setting and the blooming forest is set ablaze by the admixture of orange with crimson, pink, and white.

“I don’t have the will to move,” Harry confesses as twilight falls.

“Then we’ll stay here tonight, in this garden.”

Harry traces around Louis’ face with the back of his fingers, a light feather touch, like Louis is made of glass. A sheen of worry creeps into Harry’s expression.

“What did you remember, my love?” Louis asks, running his thumb along the soft ditch of Harry’s hips.

“Rather, what haven’t I remembered,” Harry amends. “It’s just…” He pets again at Louis’ face, “I’m terrified of what comes next. Every time, I’ve lost you.”

“But we’ve found each other again. We’re together.”

“For how long?” Tears spring to Harry’s eyes. “He’s… unpredictable, cruel. It’s like waiting for the world to drop away from me. How can I accept that? How can I live like that? How many more ways do I have to watch you die?”

Louis pulls his lover tighter against him. “It doesn’t have to be like that. We know, this time. We can avoid—”

“Avoid God? Lou, don’t be mad! We can’t escape him, we can’t… we’re…” Harry bites his lip and tears spill onto his cheeks. “We’re cursed.”

Louis can’t refute this, but he tries nonetheless. “We don’t have to think of that now. Not tonight. We don’t have to think of anything but each other.”

Darkness creeps up from the forest floor to mingle with the night sky, threading itself between the bright stars and the moonlight. The white fruit on the white tree glows—iridescent—and though a gentle breeze rustles the treetops, the white tree remains still and silent. Louis falls into a dreamless sleep with Harry tight in his arms.

*

The wind wakes him. Louis has heard it before—chimes and cymbals in his ears, whispers and vibrations on the breeze—but never while comprehending what it truly was. He opens his eyes, but already knows that Harry isn’t beside him.

God.

He has summoned Harry, as he always used to.

The forest is alive with wind, its blossomed canopy silver in the moonlight. Louis staggers upright and sees Harry on his knees before the white tree, one of the perfect, round, white fruits in his hand.

“What does He say?” Louis whispers, kneeling at Harry’s side.

“Exactly what I feared.” Harry’s voice is scratchy, as if he’d spent the better part of the night screaming.

“Soon?”

“Yes.” Harry turns to face him, mouth tight. Tears fall from his eyes, crystalline in the moonlight. With a recklessness and ferocity Louis has never before witnessed, Harry says, “But Louis, He’s offered us another way.”

“Another way?”

“We wouldn’t have to be apart. We could be together. With each other. Forever.”

Louis shakes his head. “How?”

“This,” Harry holds out the round white fruit in his hand. “It will make us gods, like him.”

Louis stares down into Harry’s palm, at the soft, peach-like skin of the their colorless salvation. “Why would He offer this?”

“Mercy? Compromise? He wants me back. He wants me to come home. And you can come with me.”

Mercy. Louis remembers only too well the mercy of God. The beauty of Him. The horror of Him, the horror of his need. It had always struck Louis as strange, that a God would have needs omnipotence and unlimited power could not satisfy.

He shakes his head, the truth only beginning to dawn on him.

Harry is insistent. “Can you do this again, Lou? Can you lose me again? Can you forget? Can you keep suffering and suffering and suffering and—” Harry screams.

“Harry…”

“Over and over! Another dozen lifetimes! Lou, you are my heart. I cannot watch you die again. I cannot leave you. I cannot be torn away from you again. Don’t make me bear that.”

Louis scrubs the bleary wave of tears from his vision and wipes Harry’s face as well. “You think that death is the cruelest master. You’re wrong.”

Harry’s lower lip trembles. “Death is separation.”

”For a time, yes, but this would be forever, Harry. You’d be His, forever.”

”I’d be yours forever, we’d be endless, Lou. We’d be infinite. No more loss, no more pain. Everlasting life, Lou. We’d be gods for eternity.”

Louis closes his eyes and whispers the greatest secret.

“But gods can’t love, Harry.”

The wind begins to sound like distress. Louis braces against it and continues.

“Don’t you see? That’s why He made you. He craved it, needed it, the one thing He couldn’t give himself. Love. Your love. The love of the masses you were meant to draw to Him.”

Harry shakes his head, curls dancing across his face in the maelstrom. “No, Lou, no…”

“Because love is predicated on loss, my darling. Its very foundation is impermanence. It’s the losing and finding, Harry, the hope and the searching. Love is precious because our lives are finite.”

Harry clutches the fruit tighter in his hand. “I wouldn’t stop loving you, I wouldn’t stop being me, I—”

“We will die again, and we will forget. But what a joy to fall in love anew, Harry, in every single lifetime. A thousand ways to love you, to know you, to need you. Gods don’t need. Gods don’t cherish, for nothing is precious until it is temporal. You, my love, are more precious to me than eternity in paradise. I would rather love you until the sun turns cold than lose what we have to some dream that doesn’t truly exist. Heaven was never a real place Harry, it has always been here. Between us.”

For a moment more Harry’s hand trembles, then his fingers loosen and the little white fruit falls to the earth. The wind beings to swirl upwards, to dash between the trees and spiral into the sky, a hoard of ascension, stripping branches of their flowers, leaving behind bare sticks and moonlight. The lovers huddle together as bruised petals settle around them, atop them. The sunrise has begun to spill into the night.

“It could end better this time, Lou. It wouldn’t have to be so soon.”

“Yes.”

“We could grow old, and sit on a porch and watch sunsets until our bodies are too fragile to hold us.”

“We could have a family, Harry. A good life, with happiness and laughter and friends.”

“And there would be no one to save but ourselves.”

“I think we’ve already done that.” Louis draws Harry’s face to his and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Come, my love.”

The forest is no longer endless. They descend from the plateau hand in hand, and against the rising sun is the silhouette of a coming ship. Louis points and Harry hugs him tightly and they race towards it, towards a new life under only one master, the same that cradles all mankind in her hourglass and turns it over again and again; a master far more predictable than a god and to whom love is not only known, but indebted.

“For God so loved the world…” The Devil taunts with a smile. “You never anticipated that love would be a greater prize than eternity. But then. How would you know?”

He speaks a little louder, not that he needs to, but he wants the angels to hear, especially the angel so recently tossed down from on high for failing a mandate.

“Such a plan. Such a waste. You’ve lost him now, but never fear.”

The Devil raises his perfect hand to the sky, his fingers miming a wine glass. “You still have me.”