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Winter is the safest time to be out and about.
Autumn is fair enough as well, but winter brings frozen, hard-packed earth and a thick layer of snow to walk on, shielding the dormant buds beneath it from his presence.
It’s not that the mortal world is devoid of wildlife this time of year; sturdier plants stubbornly sprout through the snow, and not every animal hibernates or flees the cold. But winter is quiet, the trees are bare skeletons against the gray sky, and most living things are dormant, dead, or simply asleep.
There is still so much to see. Today, for example, with the winter solstice yet to come, Izuku sees the summer god’s youngest son for the very first time.
Truthfully, Enji is a god that presides over many things—harvest and life and sacred law, or so Mother and Toshinori tell him. But he is at the height of his power in summer, when the sun burns hot as the flames he commands, and the world is lush and green and bright. He is also the main reason why Izuku stays away when it isn’t winter. Toshinori says that Enji is temperamental, not one to take kindly to death gods encroaching upon his domain.
Which is a little silly, Izuku thinks. There’s little difference between the dominion of life and death. But Toshinori knows best, even if he is busy so often—the Reaper’s task is never over.
In winter, Izuku ventures out to find what little death the living world can offer—rot and detritus left behind by plants and animals alike. Luck strikes, and he finds a log deep in the woods, the half-buried remains of a tree that fell, and gathers pieces. His touch speeds the rot along, making it soft enough to crumble in his hands. It’s dirty work that turns his hands nearly as dark as his cloak, but he gathers it diligently until he has enough to fill a cloth sack.
He feels the young god of life before he sees him. There’s a warmth in the air that would be out of place if it weren’t so muted. Still, ever curious, he follows it. Like a hound following a scent in the air, he traces the whisper of life to its source.
Izuku comes upon the god so suddenly that he startles and ducks instinctively behind the nearest bare tree, careful not to touch the bark lest he turn it from dormant to dead.
Truthfully, he has never seen a god of life before. He is still young, by divine reckoning, and most gods of such nature give his realm a healthy distance.
Here, the trees give way to a small clearing. The snow has melted, showing dark, wet ground beneath. Around the other god’s feet, tiny green buds poke through the frozen soil, delicate things that will not last long out of the god’s presence. As soon as he leaves, winter’s frost will claim them.
But Izuku hardly notices them, because his eyes are on the god alone. He is young, perhaps the same age as Izuku himself, dressed in white and dark blue. Warmth surrounds him like a comforting blanket; even from this distance, Izuku finds himself drawn to it like light and music. The god of life looks strong, every bit as sturdy and hardy as the green buds at his feet are not.
His hair is bright against the gray sky and the dormant trees, white on one side and scarlet on the other.
Like roses, Izuku thinks. He’s never seen roses up close before, but he knows they come in white and red.
More green grows and grows around the god’s feet, hardier plants that can survive the cold, witch hazel and hellebore and winter jasmine. Curiosity wins out over shyness, and Izuku steps forward with a greeting on the tip of his tongue.
The god of life turns to him abruptly, and Izuku halts at the very edge of the snowmelt. The nearest buds turn from green to brown, and he steps back.
“S-sorry about that,” he stutters, sheepish. He raises his eyes to the god’s face and blinks at the scar that mars the left side.
But the god’s eyes are what strike Izuku the most. One is blue, the other gray, and now that the surprise of an unexpected meeting has faded from them, Izuku can see the light in them dim.
“H-hello,” Izuku says, a bit belatedly. He tries a smile, but the other god does not return it. “Early start on spring?”
The god shrugs. “Work is never finished.”
No one knows that better than the young ruler of the Underworld, of course. But Izuku hums with energy, with power, and even with the weight of his responsibilities, he squares his shoulders and holds his head high.
The god before him seems to sag in comparison, burdened beneath something that Izuku cannot see. He watches Izuku through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. His power feels muted, and not just from winter’s chill; the aura of life seems off, like a light viewed through smudged glass.
Contrary to what mortals might believe, it is possible for a god to tire. This god looks exhausted.
“Are you all right?” Izuku asks. He steps forward, forgetting himself, and greenery wilts where his foot falls.
The god draws back sharply. Something flits across his face, too quickly for Izuku to see, and he turns away and makes to leave the clearing.
“W-wait!” Izuku calls after him, hesitating. He doesn’t want to take another step and kill more of the delicate buds, but something about the strange god makes Izuku unwilling to turn away. “Is something wrong? Maybe I can help—”
“It’s none of your concern.” With those parting words, the god of life is gone.
Izuku steps away from the plants, back onto safe snow. He’s only killed one corner of it, and winter will probably choke out more, whatever isn’t yet ready to sprout, but hopefully some of this will last. It’ll be nice to look at, a splash of color in the midst of gray winter.
Izuku finds his way back to the hidden gateway between this realm and his own. Fertile earth gives way abruptly to bare stone before the gateway, and the edge is lined with a ring of mulch and sharply-smelling detritus. He kneels by the ring and pours the rotted wood and decay he gathered, until the bag is empty and the ring is thickly piled. A spritely little leap takes him over the ring, and his feet touch bare stone. Without another word, he slips past the threshold and into the land of the dead. The air turns still and cool, and shadows cling to him as he enters his realm.
The patter of bare feet on stone is all the warning he receives before a small figure darts out of the darkness. He kneels, and his charge all but crashes into his arms.
“Izuku, Izuku, is it snowing still? Did you see the sun?”
He pauses to straighten the circlet on his head before the force of her enthusiasm can knock it off completely. Then, with a smile, he sweeps her into his embrace until he feels the tip of her single horn tickling his chin. “No sun yet,” he says. “It was still gray when I went out. But it is still snowing.” He pulls back, enough that he can see the uncertain smile on the horned girl’s face. He smiles back, as bright and wide as he can, until the hesitance leaves her eyes and she reaches up to brush away some of the powdery ice caught in his curls.
She takes his hand as he rises, and together they walk back through the sprawling stone halls of the Underworld. Flickering torchlight illuminates them, dancing and reflecting off of gems set in the walls, and branches and leaves of silver and gold. It’s only an imitation of a grove, trees crafted of precious metals rather than living wood, but it’s the closest that Izuku can make it.
He shows her little things he’s found during his outing—a woven bird’s nest long abandoned, a fragment of petrified wood, a smooth stone with a hole worn through the middle. She slips the wood and stone into her pocket, and he lifts her up so that she can place the nest into the branches of a silver tree.
“Did you meet anyone when you were out?” she asks as he lowers her carefully to the ground again. She takes his hand again, and they move beyond the glittering copse.
“I did, as a matter of fact,” Izuku says thoughtfully. “A god of life.”
“Was he nice?”
“I suppose so.”
“Will you see him again?”
“Maybe so, Eri.”
Mother greets them at home, in the heart of the realm. Inko is not his mother in the truest sense, but she raised Izuku from infancy with all the care and nurturing devotion that a household hearth goddess can offer. She has food waiting when they come in.
“What was his name?” Eri presses.
“Whose name?” Mother asks.
“A god I met while I was out,” Izuku replies. “A life-giver, about my age. Red and white hair. One of Enji’s children, I think.” He shrugs. “I didn’t get his name. He didn’t say much, but…”
Mother catches the thoughtful frown on his face. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Izuku replies. “He just seemed… sad.”
Winter sinks its teeth into Shouto’s bones. By rights, the feeling that it leaves should be a pleasant one, neither troublesome nor painful. The cold seasons simply sap his energy enough to leave him comfortably drowsy, as if he could curl up in a quiet place and sleep until spring.
But he can’t, and thus the lethargy that comes with the cold is a nuisance at best, if it isn’t a danger. It dulls his senses, chokes off his power, and makes him slow.
Weak.
As it stands, his power is enough to keep him warm in the snow, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. There is little left over to leak into the world and coax buds from the frozen earth, but he carries on anyway. There are consequences to stopping, to disobeying, and he can handle a little weariness far better than pain, or the pain of those few he loves.
He hasn’t seen the ruler of the Underworld in some time—not since the death god strayed too close to the glade that Shouto was tending to, and accidentally undid some of his work.
Accidentally—Father would argue otherwise, if Shouto had the inclination to tell him about the encounter. Death is an anathema to Shouto, to Father, to everything they stand for and everything that they are. They create, death destroys. The Reaper and his young protege are their rivals and enemies, undoing their labors, snuffing out their creations one by one.
But they must be stronger, says Father. Shouto must be stronger—he is the perfect child, the perfect god, with the blood of a god of summer and a goddess of winter in his veins. If anyone can conquer death, says Father, it is Shouto.
But first, he must be stronger.
And so he stands in his glade and forces himself not to shiver, pouring his power into the frozen ground, coaxing, cajoling the life buried in the cold like sparks to flame. Soft greenery sprouts at his feet, feeble and weak. They will not last long without him. He must make them stronger—
“Hello again.”
Beads of sweat gather on his forehead as he looks up, spine rigid with tension. So absorbed was he in his task that he only notices the lord of the dead when he speaks. His fellow god stands further from the edge of the glade than before, too far away for his aura of death to reach the plants. He looks far less out of place in this wintry world than Shouto does, wrapped in a cloak lined with raven feathers, with a pale silver circlet on his head. His eyes are dark and green, the wrong color for a being of his power. The smile on his face is politely disarming, almost hopeful. Shouto does not smile back.
“I’m Izuku.”
Shouto blinks at him. What sort of god-in-the-shadows gives his name out so freely?
“I didn’t learn your name, before,” the lord of the dead continues. “But Knowledge says she knows you. Is Momo a friend of yours? She’s a friend of mine, too.”
Shouto barely nods. “Momo knows many—that’s her way. If you’ll excuse me,” he says shortly, and turns his attention back to the glade that has become his winter garden and private training ground.
That ought to be the end of it; most gods would recognize a dismissal when they hear one. But the death-god lingers, neither approaching nor leaving him. Now that Shouto is already aware of him, his presence pricks at him as keenly as the winter cold.
“I was just wondering why you were starting so early,” he continues, as if heedless of Shouto’s mood. “Winter is not yet half over. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until they’re ready to grow again?”
“They’ll be ready sooner if they’re stronger,” Shouto answers, not bothering to look at him. His vision goes blurry for a moment, but focuses again when he blinks. He is weary, but not yet exhausted. He does not need to rest yet.
“Do… do they need to be ready sooner?” This time the other god’s voice falters, softer with uncertainty. “Why hurry?”
Shouto doesn’t answer. Nor does he answer the next few hesitant questions that the death-god offers. Finally, when black spots are creeping into the edges of his vision, he looks up and finds himself alone once more.
For a few minutes, Shouto stares at the spot where the death god had stood, brows knitted together as he tries to work out what, if anything, just happened. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he was tired enough to hallucinate.
But no, he sees the footprints in the snow just beyond his garden, and a sprinkling of black feathers that have fallen from his visitor’s cloak. For whatever reason, the young ruler of the Underworld has seen fit to pay him a second visit.
Observing the competition. The thought comes to him unbidden. Watching you. Observing you. Trying to wheedle you into giving up and succumbing to weakness. It won’t work.
Thoughts like that always come to him in Father’s voice, as low as thunder in his head, drowning out the lighter ones that point out the softness in the death god’s face, the kindness that warms his voice.
When there is no more he can do in his garden, and there are more black spots in his eyes than actual vision, Shouto returns to his sanctuary to clear his head.
The caves are dark, neither cold nor uncomfortably stuffy, but cool. Shouto inherited his father’s flames, but does not need them down here. The stones are encrusted with moss and mushrooms that glow a soft, pale green. He sinks down to the ground, rests his back against the smooth cave wall, and drinks in the low, steady pulse of power that emanates from the fungus.
Not all things die in winter—down here especially. Too many things do for his father’s liking, but in places like this, full of pure life that exists on its own without sapping his power, Shouto can truly relax.
That his father avoids grubbing around beneath the earth, and is thus unlikely to disturb him, is an extra benefit.
The next day, the sound of bell-like tinkling reaches his ears as he approaches his garden. He steps into the clearing, searching for the source, and finds it dangling from an overhanging branch on one of the trees that rings the garden.
Chimes. Cobbled together from metal and rock crystal, and a closer look at the clapper shows it to be made from polished petrified wood. The windcatcher at the very bottom is a cluster of raven feathers, swaying gently in the breeze.
“You kept them!”
The young god of life jumps at the sound of Izuku’s voice, and he whips around to fix Izuku with a cold, wary stare.
Izuku has taken off his cloak and spread it on the snow to sit, still a safe distance from the edge of the fragile little garden. The wind is mild today, and the chimes he left in the tree clink together softly. Apparently the god didn’t see fit to get rid of them, which is a good sign. Momo told him that the summer god’s son does not suffer frivolous things, so this must mean he likes the gift, doesn’t it?
For a moment the god of life doesn’t reply. Then his posture relaxes, just a little, and his eyes turn neutral rather than suspicious. “…Thank you for not stepping in the clearing,” he says at length.
“You’re welcome!” Izuku perks up. “That was a bit of a challenge, I mean, I didn’t think that part through until I brought them, because I was hoping to just leave them for you to find, but it’d be terrible if I ruined your garden in the process, so I had to ask for help, hope that’s all right. Ochako didn’t touch anything either, just floated them right up to the branch and hung them—I don’t know if you know her, but she’s the goddess of fortune and she’s a good friend of mine.” He’s rambling—again. He’s so used to the Underworld, to the company of his mother and Eri and all the mortal spirits that reside in his realm, with the odd visit from other gods that he’s befriended. It’s been a while since he spoke with someone new.
At some point in the midst of his chattering, the other god has returned to his task, rejuvenating the plants that have gone half-frozen in his absence. The frost has already claimed some of the greenery at the edges.
“Still a little early for that,” Izuku says softly. “Don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” Izuku presses. “You’ve been gone, what, a day? It’s too cold for all of it to survive—”
“It’s better,” the god grits out. “It’s better than it was. Before… I’d come back and it would all be dead. Overnight. It’s better. I’m stronger.”
“But if you wait until spring, then none of it will be dead,” Izuku points out. “You can’t force it in winter, it’ll only—”
The god whips around again, with narrowed eyes and a voice nearly as cold as the winter itself. “You won’t beat me,” he snaps, as greenery grows desperately at his feet, stems and tendrils curling around his ankles.
The words flee from Izuku’s mind, and he stares back in confusion until the other god turns his back once more. “At… what?”
He offers no answers. Izuku takes in the way the god sways on his feet, the tired curve of his spine, the slump of his shoulders. The light of life in him flickers. The plants grow in winter, a miracle in itself, but at what cost? For what purpose?
Izuku longs to ask, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the other god won’t answer. So what he asks instead is, “Will you at least tell me your name?”
“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
Izuku weighs his options. “I will for now,” he says. “That’s the best I can offer.”
“It’s Shouto.” the god doesn’t look up. “Now please go away.”
It takes Izuku longer to comply than is probably polite. For nearly a full minute he watches the god’s back, fingers itching to reach out to him. But in the end, he gets to his feet, retrieves his cloak, and takes his leave.
“I’m worried,” he says softly, when he confides in his mother later. In the safety of the Underworld, the dead do not tell the secrets of their lord’s heart. “He’ll burn himself down to nothing if he keeps on like that. And it’s not just that—you’d understand if you saw him, Mother, but he’s so unhappy.”
“I do understand,” Inko replies. “I understand that you are kind, and I raised you to be that way. Perhaps I did a better job than I should have.” She cups his face gently in her hand, wiping at the tears gathering in his eyes. “Be kind to him. If there is anything I can do to help, then tell me. But be careful. You have so much on your shoulders already, for one so young. Don’t take on more than you can bear.”
Izuku nods. She is as wise as she is warm, and her advice has never steered him wrong. But…
“I am not a child anymore,” he answers. “And I can’t just stand by and watch when someone needs help. You know that.”
“I know, dear heart. I know.”
Shouto opens his eyes and smells tea.
He sits bolt upright, heart pounding as he remembers where he is. The clearing—he’d been tending to it, fighting against the creeping frost, counting down the months and weeks and days and hours left in winter, until he could stop, until the plants could grow with only minimal help from him, and then…
And then…
And now he is on the ground, sitting in the middle of his struggling garden, feeling the frost creeping in and wrapping his plants in a familiar chokehold. He can’t leave, he can’t rest—if he does, then it will all die, and Father will make sure he never knows peace.
He smells tea again, and looks down.
He must have collapsed close to the edge of the clearing. Nestled in frost-blackened moss is an earthenware cup, filled to the brim with tea. It’s still steaming, and the greenery nearest to it is wilted and dead.
“I’m so sorry.”
The lord of the Underworld sits on his cloak at the edge of the clearing, shamefaced, hands in his lap, shoulders drawn in as if he’s prepared for Shouto to start yelling at him. Shouto blinks at him, too groggy to react. His hands wrap around the cup, warming his numb fingers.
“I didn’t mean to touch,” the god of death continues, and Shouto looks at the dead plants around the cup of tea. “I did my best, I promise.”
If he were his father, Shouto would pour the tea out on the ground and throw the cup away. Or maybe throw it at the lord of the Underworld, without emptying it first. Enji’s temper is unpredictable and dangerous—no one knows that better than Shouto. But he isn’t his father, and his father isn’t here, so he raises the cup to his lips and drinks. The sweet taste of nectar and honey hits his tongue, and the first sip fills him from end to end with warmth. Somewhere overhead, the wind clinks through the chimes that he has never taken the time to remove.
“I hope you like it,” the god of death says meekly. “I thought—I thought something might be wrong, when I found you like that, but you were still alive, just tired, and I thought you might not like it if I moved you, and Nedzu’s home isn’t far, and he always has tea—it usually helps me, when I’m not feeling well, so I thought it might help you too, even though I couldn’t bring you the kind from home…” His voice trails off.
“Thank you for your concern.” Embarrassment pricks at him like white-hot needles as he drinks the rest. The only thing worse than the lord of the Underworld witnessing his weakness would be his father seeing it. The tea does help; it gives him enough energy to stand and walk to the edge and place the cup outside of the clearing.
He tries to, at least. Shouto has to reach for the nearest tree for balance; if he doesn’t, then he’s going to fall, which will be even more humiliating.
Leaning on the tree trunk is where it starts. In the blink of an eye he’s sitting on the ground, dizzy and sick to his stomach. His hand shakes as it holds the cup, and he puts it down before he can drop it. He needs a moment, just a moment to gather himself together and—
“Stop.”
There are hands on his face—cool hands, not cold, steadying him. Shouto flinches, because the god of death is so close now, not just close but touching him, and Shouto can feel his breath against his face. He shuts his eyes, body rigid as stone.
The hands don’t leave. They don’t chase him, or tighten to hold him still; they simply stay where they are, settled against the sides of his face. The touch is light and careful, nearly a caress.
Shouto can’t remember the last time anyone touched him that way.
“You have to stop. You have to know this is killing you.”
He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and finds the god’s to be so very, very green. No creature of death should have eyes that warm, but there is a fierceness to them now.
“I don’t know what drives you,” the ruler of the Underworld says—what was his name? He told Shouto once, but Shouto never committed it to memory, never thought that the enemy’s given name was something he ought to know. “But you can’t keep going like this. You’re a god like any other, and we may be immortal but our power has limits. If you don’t stop, if you don’t let yourself rest, then—forget the plants, you’re the one who won’t last until spring. How long has it been since you slept?”
Shouto opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes forth. He can’t remember the last time he felt truly rested.
“You need to rest.” The death god’s voice is firm. Insistent. He sounds like the ruler of a realm, and instinct wants Shouto to argue, to fight back, but he can’t quite muster the strength. He can’t even drum up the desire, not with those cool hands against his face, still light and reassuring and wholly present in a way that Shouto isn’t sure he can be. “Stop this. Sleep. Wait until it’s warm. Wait until spring. Please, Shouto.”
Why do you care? He wants to ask, but his tongue is too heavy to form words, so he nods. Sleep… sleep sounds wonderful. His father will be upset, but even the summer god must get tired. Even Enji must understand that Shouto is no use to anyone like this, least of all to Enji himself.
“Do you have somewhere you can go?”
Shouto nods.
“Do you need help getting there?”
He shakes his head.
“All right. Please… think about what I said. And if you need help, if there’s anything I can do—just ask, all right? I’ll do whatever I can.”
The ruler of the Underworld leaves him with that, but Shouto can’t be sure the death god doesn’t stay with him until he reaches the luminescent caves.
Shouto collapses in the cool darkness, near tears with relief, and finally lets go of the waking world.
He’s not sure how long he sleeps before his father finds him.
There is little warning. One moment he’s asleep, drifting in blessed darkness, and the next he’s being dragged up by his hair. The light in the cave has gone from soft, gentle green to harsh yellow and orange. The flames of summer have invaded his sanctuary, and his father’s hand twists cruelly in his hair until he cries out.
“What have I told you?” Enji thunders, eyes blazing with temper. “Do you think Death ever stops to sleep? How do you expect to overcome it by hiding in this filthy hole while the frost kills your work?” When Shouto doesn’t answer quickly enough, he shakes him. “Why do you disobey me?”
“T-tired,” is all Shouto can manage, with his teeth rattling in his head.
Enji flings him roughly toward the entrance of the cave, and Shouto looks back to find his father’s flames licking dangerously at the moss, the mushrooms, the gentle Life that exists in this place. Disgust fills him, and he scrambles to his feet and flees. The faster he leaves, the faster his father will leave, and the less he’ll burn with his temper.
He can’t run for long. He still hasn’t slept enough, and while fear and hatred fuel him enough to keep him awake, his limbs still feel heavy.
Still, his tired feet carry him back to his clearing. It’s been more than a day; nearly half of the fragile greenery is devoid of life, too far gone to be revived even with his full power.
And Shouto is nowhere close to his full power.
He kneels in dead plants, and tears make their way silently down his face. It can hardly be called crying; he neither shakes nor sobs, nor makes any sound at all. When at last his tears are spent, he reaches for his power. There’s a little more, now that he’s slept, but it’s still so little. How much does he have left to give?
Above him, the wind chimes swing in the breeze.
If you don’t stop, then forget the plants, you’re the one who won’t last until spring.
He dries his face, breath shuddering in his chest.
Do you have somewhere you can go?
His sanctuary is not as secret as he had thought. His father found him quickly enough, after all. If he takes refuge with any of the other gods, then he’ll be found just as easily. Enji rules over summer and harvest and sacred law; few gods would challenge him, and none of those who would can be counted among Shouto’s friends.
If there’s anything I can do—just ask, all right?
There’s one place. One place in all creation that his father would never look for him.
Shouto turns his back on the dying garden, and walks.
It’s not hard to find. Shouto can sense life wherever it persists, so he simply seeks out the places where it does not. The trail of nothing leads him to a gateway, tucked away in a rock outcropping, surrounded by a ring of rotting things, carefully spread just beyond where the aura of death begins.
He steps over it. For some reason, it feels as if disturbing it would be wrong.
The sharp bite of winter leaves almost as soon as he steps over the threshold. It’s cool down here, lit with gentle torchlight that doesn’t hurt his eyes or flicker too close. It’s not like his sanctuary—this is no small cave carved into the earth by wind and water. The caverns of the Underworld look more like the halls and corridors of some great underground fortress.
Shouto’s eyelids droop the deeper he ventures into the realm of the dead. He looks back, and finds a trail of moss in his wake; he hasn’t the strength for flowers.
The corridor around him opens up to what Shouto can only think of as a grand hall, a vast subterranean chamber with floors of smooth stone and high, arching ceilings. And before him, to his astonishment, are rows and clusters of trees.
There is not a drop of life in any of them. He touches one, and feels cold metal instead of bark. The trunk is made of silver. He raises his tired eyes and finds an old bird’s nest perched in the branches.
It’s not such a bad place to hide.
As soon as the thought comes to him, weariness rolls in like heavy storm clouds. He sways on his feet. Someone calls to him, but he can’t muster the sense to answer. Would it be all right to nap here? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen asleep at the foot of a tree.
Arms catch him before he can fall. His last waking thought is of a memory—Izuku. That was it. He said his name was Izuku.
Shouto is heavy in Izuku’s arms. The flicker of life is stronger than it was before, but not by much, and his face is still tired and wan. He’s fast asleep before Izuku has the chance to say anything more than his name.
Gathering him up, Izuku turns and hurries from the entrance hall. Shouto’s head comes to rest against his shoulder, and he feels the other god’s breath against his neck.
Toshinori is out today, as busy as ever, but Inko is still here; no mortal prayers have called her away. She’s showing some old tome of magic texts to Eri when Izuku bursts in, slightly winded from rushing through the stone corridors. “Mother—”
“Yes, dea—oh, stars.” Her eyes widen with shock. Eri squeaks and hides behind her, clutching at her skirt. “Izuku, what happened?”
“I-I don’t know,” he says, feeling a bit alarmed himself. “I found him in the entrance hall, and he just…” He shrugs. “He didn’t say anything, he just collapsed.”
“Bring him here.” In the blink of an eye, Inko is all business. “Heaven knows we have plenty of spare beds.”
He could have mine even if we didn’t, Izuku thinks as he follows her. Eri goes with them, round-eyed and staring at Shouto. “He’s so weak, Mother,” he says softly.
“He needs rest,” she replies as she leads the way into a guest room. The bed is already made up from the last time Tenya paid a visit, and Izuku sets the unconscious god of life upon it.
“What’s wrong with him?” Eri tugs at Izuku’s cloak. “Is he sick?”
“No, dear,” Inko assures her. “He’s only tired. He’s overreached himself, many times over. He’ll sleep for a long while, but he’ll be all right.” She sees Izuku fretting quietly, and gives him a light push for the door. “You won’t make it any faster by hovering over him like a professional mourner. He’s asleep, not dying.”
“But—”
“Go on, dear,” she insists. “You have your own matters to attend to. You see to the realm, I’ll see to our guest. If I need anything, I’ll call you.”
Izuku sighs. “Yes, Mother.”
“Make sure Eri practices her spells,” she adds. “And let Toshinori know about this, once he gets back. Something tells me the god of summer won’t be happy to find his youngest child missing.”
Eri slips her hand into his as they leave the room. “He won’t get mad at you, will he?” she asks worriedly. “The summer god?”
Izuku sets his jaw. “I’d like to see him try.”
When Shouto wakes up, he has no idea where he is.
A bed? That makes no sense. He’s used to sleeping under the stars, with only moss and undergrowth beneath him. If he’s in a bed then that means he’s either staying in his father’s house or imposing upon another god’s hospitality. The first doesn’t bear thinking about, and the second is such a risk to take, when his father is powerful enough to snatch him out of anyone else’s care.
But heaven help him, it’s soft and warm and he feels far better rested than he has since autumn.
He opens his eyes and sits up, and that’s when his memory snaps back into place.
The Underworld. Father had chased him out of the caves, so he had fled to the realm of the dead. He hasn’t been imposing on just any god, but the lord of death and darkness himself.
He half expects fear and alarm to come crashing in, but all that comes to his mind are faint wisps of memories. A voice in his ear, calling his name. Arms around him. A cool, familiar hand in his hair.
“Ah! You’re awake!”
It’s not the voice of the death god—of Izuku—but a woman’s. Shouto turns his head and finds a goddess stepping into the room with a stack of folded linens on one arm. She’s small and plump, with a round and pleasant face and kind eyes. Shouto has never met the hearth goddess Inko before, but the glow of warm, homely divinity is unmistakable.
“Sorry for troubling you,” he says.
“Not at all, dear,” Inko replies. “Though I will say you gave us a bit of a scare, when my son carried you in. It’s good to see you’re all right.”
“Your… son?” Shouto wracks his brain, still fuzzy from sleep. Hadn’t someone told him that the goddess of hearth and home had no lovers and bore no children?
“Yes. Well. Not by blood, but I raised Izuku with my own two hands.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice. “Knowing him, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“That probably isn’t safe,” Shouto replies, and find himself reluctant to do so. “My father must be looking for me. How long…?”
“Nearly two weeks now,” Inko tells him. “And if I may say so, dear—if you’ve used yourself poorly enough to warrant that, at his request… then it may be better if he doesn’t find you until spring.”
“He might not stand for that,” Shouto murmurs.
“He might not have a choice,” Inko scoffs. “My son is stubborn, and—blood or no blood, I like to think he got that from me. Whatever happens, dear, you’re safe here.”
“Th-thank you.” Shouto replies. “Er, speaking of your son…”
“He’ll be in the entrance hall, I imagine,” Inko tells him with a small smile. “If you feel well enough to get up, I can take you there.”
“I do, thank you.” Shouto rises—still a little unsteady, but not too weak to follow Inko out of the room.
In the back of his mind, he tries to memorize the path through the stone corridors. To his untrained eye, it all looks the same.
“Sorry for not bringing you tea or lunch,” Inko says as they make their way through the Underworld. “But it isn’t safe, and we haven’t had a visit in a while with food from the mortal or divine realms.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we can’t make our own food here,” Inko explains. “It comes from outside, and any food that spends enough time in this world… well, it becomes of this world, if that makes sense. It’s not dangerous, of course,” she says quickly. “But eating the food of the Underworld… it ties you to this place. So be careful not to eat or drink anything here; if you do, you’ll be bound to this realm, and even if you leave, the power of this place will pull you back.”
Shouto nods, and feels his appetite leave him.
“Don’t worry, though,” the goddess assures him with a gentle smile. “We’re no strangers to entertaining guests, and Toshinori spends enough time among mortals to bring back fresh supplies from time to time. And even if he can’t, I have an understanding with Tensei the messenger god. We won’t let you go hungry down here—ah!” she surprises him with a cry. “You can just about hear them now, I’ll bet.”
Them? Shouto cocks his head to the side, listening. Sure enough, he can hear voices calling. A shriek of laughter, high and piercing, echoes over the stones as they reached the mouth of the corridor.
He recognizes the entrance hall upon stepping out. He was half-conscious when he first arrived, but the stone floors are familiar and smooth beneath his feet, and the room is filled with trees wrought from precious metals. Now, however, he is fully awake to appreciate it. The ceiling is dark gray stone and earth, sealed off from the sun, but there is still light here. Torches glint off the shining branches, off of jewels and pearls set into the walls. It cannot compare to the blinding summer sun, but Shouto never would have imagined that such brightness and color could exist beneath the earth, in a place of death.
High, girlish laughter rings out again, and two shapes race through the orchard. One figure is larger, hulking even, but difficult to see in spite of how illuminated the hall is. The other figure is tiny as it chases the first, with the wild bouncing speed that only a child can manage.
“Over here, Eri!”
There’s a yelp, followed by high-pitched giggling. “Found you, Izuku!”
“No fair!” And there’s a voice that Shouto does recognize. “Just because she found you first doesn’t mean you get to help her!”
The first voice laughs now, bright and booming. “Hear that, Eri? Sounds like his lordship is a sore loser.”
“I don’t believe this—yaagh!” The ruler of the Underworld comes racing out among the trees with a tiny girl hot on his heels. His clothes are rumpled from play and his cloak is nowhere to be seen; even the circlet on his head is askew. “Betrayed in my own kingdom!”
It’s then that Shouto notices something odd about the third figure, the broad-shouldered one that the girl was chasing before. Unlike the other two, who zigzag through the shimmering orchard to avoid crashing into the trees, this one quite literally runs through them, passing through them like a mirage.
As he clears the edge of the trees, Izuku looks up and meets Shouto’s eyes. Surprise registers on his face, and he slows his pace enough for the little girl to crash into him with her arms around his waist, before she catches sight of him as well. In an instant, she shifts a little until she’s hiding shyly behind Izuku. The faded figure comes to a halt as well, and Shouto can see him more easily when he stands still. He’s tall and broad and golden-haired, with armor and a dark cape that is just as translucent as the rest of him.
“Our guest is awake,” Inko says with a smile.
“Ah.” With a grin, the armored man steps back and inclines his head to Izuku. “I’ll be getting back, then. Bye, Eri!”
“Oh, right.” Izuku nods back. “Thanks, Mirio.” The girl at his side waves and whispers a farewell that Shouto can’t quite hear, and Mirio vanishes like mist on the wind.
Izuku steps forward, then seems to remember his appearance. Reddening a little, he reaches up to straighten the circlet on his head. “U-um, welcome!” he greets Shouto. “I’m glad you’re awake.”
“Sorry if I’m interrupting something,” Shouto replies, dipping his head. He’s never been much for decorum, but his host is the lord of the Underworld, regardless of age.
“It’s all right! I did invite you.” Izuku pauses, and his face colors again. The flush makes his freckles stands out. “Well, sort of, anyway. Are you, um, feeling better?”
“Much, yes. Thanks.” Shouto hesitates as well, because pride is a bitter pill to swallow. “I took your advice, but I couldn’t… Would it—er. If it’s not too much trouble, for me to stay a while longer—just until spring…”
“Of course!” Izuku nods eagerly. “You can stay as long as you like. Moth—um, Inko you’ve already met, and this is Eri.” He glances down at the girl, who peeks out from behind him with wide eyes, curious but nervous. Shouto nods to her, and she blinks at him and lifts one hand in what might be a shy wave.
“Come along, Eri,” Inko says gently. “I have lunch just about ready, and I believe Izuku would like to show our guest around our home.”
Eri scampers from Izuku’s side to Inko’s, and the hearth goddess takes her by the hand and leads her off, leaving Shouto alone with Izuku.
“I… didn’t realize you had other gods living here,” Shouto says, after the silence stretches a bit too long for his liking. “Besides the, um. The Reaper.”
“He’s busy a lot,” Izuku replies, holding out a welcoming hand. Shouto falls in step with him. “For obvious reasons. He sort of adopted me when I was small, but he needed help caring for me, so Mother sort of… jumped on that.”
“Ah.” Shouto nods. “And the girl?”
“That’s Eri.” Izuku’s face changes then, turning to something more closed and guarded. “We, um. Took her in.” He doesn’t offer anything more than that, and Shouto doesn’t press.
“I like the trees,” he remarks instead, and Izuku brightens.
“Do you? I thought they looked nice, and it’s not the same as real trees, but it’s as close as I’ve ever been able to get.” His smile turns sad. “Nothing really grows down here, as you’ve… probably noticed.” He glances past Shouto.
Following his gaze, Shouto sees a trail of flowers behind him. Growing things tend to spring up around him wherever he walks, and now that he’s properly rested he can produce blooms again. But as soon as he steps away from them, they wilt and die.
“It’s—it’s like the aura of power I usually have,” Izuku says, and he sounds almost apologetic. “Except more, and everywhere. Mortals are usually all right, as long as they don’t stay too long—same with animals, especially, um, crows and ravens and owls and such. But plants don’t last long here. Or… around me.”
“I’m sorry.” Shouto isn’t sure why he says that, or what he’s sorry for. For imposing, for making Izuku think he has to admit something like that, for bringing flowers in the first place and reminding him.
“It’s not so bad,” Izuku assures him. “Looking from a distance. But—come on, let me show you more.”
It takes more than a day to introduce his guest to everything the realm of the dead has to offer.Izuku means for it to be a formal tour of the Underworld, to conduct himself the way a divine ruler ought to, but eventually his excitement overtakes him. His friends—Ochako and Tenya and Tsuyu and the rest—they all know the ins and outs of his realm. It’s been so long since he got to show someone new around his domain.
Before long he goes from touring his guest throughthe realm of the dead to excitedly showing his new friend the most interesting things about his home—the secret nooks and crannies he discovered as a child, the deeper caverns that show veins of silver and gold and copper snaking through the stone, the five rivers of the Underworld, the fields on which the spirits of mortals, his subjects, make their home in the afterlife. Shouto is polite to any dead mortals who cross their path, as well as an attentive listener, paying attention and even asking questions from time to time. He’s so different, now, from when Izuku first met him.
After a week or so, Izuku runs out of things to show him. “And… that’s everything I can think of,” he says as they make their way back to the main caverns. Now that they’ve run out of diverting distractions, he feels his self-consciousness creep back in. “I, um, I know it’s probably not what you’re used to, but…”
“It’s beautiful.”
Izuku actually jumps. “It… what?”
Shouto faces forward as they walk together, and speaks without looking at him. “It’s beautiful down here. It’s… it’s not what I expected.” His eyes soften as he talks, and Izuku’s heart thrills at the sight. That softness is worlds away from the cold walls that he had sensed the first few times he spoke to Shouto.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says. “What were you expecting?”
Shouto’s shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “Oh… I don’t know. Dark, gloomy stone. Deep pits. Monsters and restless spirits roaming the halls. Turn a corner and come face to face with an old crone at a dusty spinning wheel. That sort of thing.”
In spite of himself, Izuku laughs. “I guess that’s fair. But… compared to the world of the living, all these caves have to seem a little gloomy.”
“Perhaps.” Shouto brushes the wall with his fingertips, running his hand over a thin sparkling vein of diamond. “But there’s so much beauty down here. Little, great things. The darkness just makes them stand out more, I think. And your entrance hall…”
“I worked hard on that,” Izuku admits, and a little hint of pride creeps into his voice. “When I was little, I found out I had power over the precious things beneath the earth—not just death. I’m good at finding silver and gold, gemstones, that kind of thing. Or they come to me. I’m still not sure how it works.”
“That’s… amazing.” Shouto stares at him with something like wonder in his eyes.
Izuku shrugs. “It’s just something I can do. Luck of birth, you know?”
“But you turn it into something so… worthwhile. For all of it.” Shouto pauses. “Death, too.”
“O-oh, I didn’t do that,” Izuku says, feeling his face heat. “It was—I mean, it was already like that. Death doesn’t need anyone’s help to be worthwhile.”
It must be the wrong thing to say, because a little bit of the light fades from Shouto’s eyes. Izuku wants to cry at the loss. Shouto turns forward again. “That’s not what my father would say.”
“Oh.” Izuku’s heart sinks. “I’ve, um. I’ve heard Enji doesn’t really… like us.” His new friend’s face doesn’t change or offer any clue. “Is it… is it something we did?”
Shouto heaves a sigh. “It’s… not your fault. It’s just what you are. We’re—he’s life, and you’re death. You’re in opposition to each other. He’s too proud for his own good, and he hates that death always destroys his work eventually. It’s why…” His mouth closes. “It’s like you said. Luck of birth.”
For a few moments, Izuku can hardly believe his ears. Was this why Shouto was so cold to him before? Is this what Shouto thinks of him? “You—do you think that?”
“Think what?”
“That we—that we destroy your work?”
“Well…” Shouto looks back at the trail of dead flowers that marks his path through the halls. Izuku follows his gaze, and nearly misses it when Shouto flinches. “I think—it’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way things are. The way we are. Things are born, and then they die. And maybe—maybe we could’ve been friends right away, if we weren’t on opposing sides, but…”
Before Izuku can stop himself, his hand closes on Shouto’s wrist. “Come with me. There’s one more thing I can show you.”
He leads Shouto out past the entrance hall to the little exit, the secret threshold between the Underworld and the mortal realm. Shouto follows without protest, though he hesitates for a split second before joining Izuku outside. Beyond the threshold is a semicircle of bare stone, bordered with that half ring of death and decay. Deep winter still surrounds them, and chill winds stir the black feathers on Izuku’s cloak.
“F-first, um.” Izuku wrings his hand beneath his cloak. “Remember Mirio?”
Shouto nods, though he looks uncertain. “He was with you when I woke up. He’s one of your mortal spirits, isn’t he?”
“Not just any mortal spirit. When he was alive, they called him Lumillion. Maybe you’ve heard of him.” Shouto’s eyes widen with recognition, which is no surprise. Mortal heroes, especially those of Lumillion’s caliber, tend to be known by name among mortals and gods alike. “He brought down a Titan. Defeated him in combat, so that the gods could seal him away. He—he didn’t survive the battle, but it was still a victory that saved a million lives, both mortal and divine. Toshinori told me he’s being considered, to be raised to godhood himself.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Shouto asks.
“Everything,” Izuku says, surprising himself with his own vehemence. “He was brave, Shouto. Selfless. A sacrifice like that is worth divinity, but a sacrifice wouldn’t be so value if life weren’t so valuable. And life is only valuable because it ends. Because it can be lost.”
Shouto doesn’t answer, unless staring at him and curling his hands into fists can be considered an answer.
“But I didn’t bring you out here just to tell you that,” Izuku says. He points to the ring of rot around the stone threshold. “Do you know what that is?”
“It’s… decay,” Shouto replies. “Dead plants and animals. Rotted things.”
“Look deeper.”
Shouto frowns in confusion, then steps past him for a closer look at the decomposing ringthat borders the threshold. He stretches a hand toward it, then pulls it back.
“Well?” Izuku prompts.
“Seeds.” Shouto’s voice is soft. “There are seeds, beneath. It’s not life, yet, it’s just…”
“It won’t be, through winter,” Izuku says, locking his hands behind his back. “But, come spring, when it’s warmer and rainy, they’ll grow. I don’t know what they’ll be yet—I don’t have any control over that. And I have to be careful not to touch anything. But it’ll grow.” He swallows. “I can’t give life. It’s not in my nature. But I can make old things rot and break down, and by doing that I can help new things grow, under their own power.” He falls quiet, waiting for an answer, and when Shouto offers none, he continues. “Y-you… I know you said you were only staying until spring, but I hope you can come and see it. I-it won’t be half as nice as what you can probably make, but… it’s still nice to look at.” He stops again, watching Shouto’s back, wondering if he’s making any sense. “It’s not the power I was born with, but it’s how I choose to use the one I was. In the end, no one gets to decide that but me.”
Shouto’s hands shake.
“And you’re not any different from me,” Izuku adds. “I don’t want to be your enemy. I refuse to be your enemy, especially for such a pointless reason.”
Ultimately, Shouto doesn’t reply at all, but he does follow Izuku back into the Underworld. He doesn’t look angry, or upset. He only looks thoughtful, and Izuku wishes he could read what is on his guest’s mind.
They find Eri in the entrance hall when they return, sitting crosslegged on the ground. She’s not alone; mortal spirits are clustered around her, watching her work. A book lies open in front of her, and a woven basket by her side. As they draw near, Izuku can smell dried herbs. She’s arranged a few piles on the ground between her knees and the book, and she reads by her own light.
Eri looks up as they pass, but Izuku waves to her before she starts to stand. “Don’t let us disturb you,” he tells her. “Just passing by.” She smiles, and her hair falls over her face when she looks down at her book again.
As they leave the entrance hall, Izuku sees Shouto looking over his shoulder at her. “The dead like her,” he explains. “Her divinity’s growing, too. I’ve heard some of the spirits call her things. Light-bearer, witch of the crossroads, that sort of thing. She’s good with herbs and magic.”
“You said before that you took her in.” It’s the first thing Shouto has said since the threshold. “You didn’t answer before, but… how did she come to be here?”
Izuku considers brushing the question off again, but decides against it. It’s not like it’s some great secret; even the one they swore to protect her from technically knows where she is and how she came to be there. “Her father’s name is Chisaki.”
Shouto stops in the middle of the hallway, before hurrying to catch up again. “She’s a Titaness?” His mellow voice is tinged with shock.
“No. She’s a goddess like you and me. But she ran from her father and ended up here, so we sheltered her. When the Titan Chisaki came looking for her, we didn’t give her back. And when he tried to take her by force, Mirio died helping us seal him away.” He can’t keep the guilt from his voice when he admits that. “She’s been with us ever since.”
He doesn’t say it like it’s a reassurance. But he hopes it sounds like one, all the same.
Weeks into Shouto’s stay, he sees the Reaper for the first time.
Like everything else about the Underworld, Toshinori is nothing like what he expects. Beyond the scrawny build and nearly skeletal appearance, he bears little resemblance to Shouto’s idea of a personification of death. His hair is a bright, messy mane of gold, and he dresses in eye-catching reds and blues. Shouto’s first impression of him is a bright roar of laughter that rivals Mirio’s, before the older god sweeps an equally gleeful Izuku into a bear hug. Even shy little Eri comes close enough for the Reaper to ruffle her hair with a spidery hand.
Shouto hangs back. He has no previous interactions with the Reaper to fall back on, so he simply watches the reunions unfold. Izuku chatters away, stuffing more words into a few seconds than Shouto can reasonably manage in five minutes. Toshinori bends an ear to listen attentively, but from his vantage point, Shouto can see lines of worry in his gaunt face.
Of course, that might mean nothing. This is the first time Shouto has ever seen him, so he has no idea what is or isn’t normal for him.
Eventually, Toshinori looks up and notices him, and Izuku steps back to beckon him over. Shouto comes forward, burying his uncertainty deep. From what Izuku has told him, Toshinori is well aware of his father’s animosity in ways that Izuku is not. How would he react to seeing his rival’s son imposing on his own ward’s hospitality?
As soon as he steps within reach, he finds himself swept into a hug as well. It’s far more restrained than his embrace of Izuku, but it still catches Shouto off guard.
“Welcome, my boy,” Toshinori smiles when he pulls back, patting him heartily on the shoulder. Still dumbfounded, Shouto can only nod politely. “I trust your stay has been a comfortable one?”
“Very,” Shouto replies. “Izuku has been a gracious host.” I feel safer here than I’ve ever felt anywhere else.
“It’s good to hear.” The Reaper smiles at him, but even then the worry lines deepen.
Even Izuku notices now. “Did you run into trouble?” he asks.
“I have a purpose in being here, besides seeing your face again,” Toshinori replies, turning to Izuku again. “I’ve—well, nearly every god in all the realms, by now—er. We’ve all been hearing quite a bit from Enji, lately.”
Shouto’s heart sinks like a stone in quickmud.
“What do you mean?” Izuku asks, tensing.
“He’s looking for his son,” Toshinori sighs. “Demanding to know who is hiding him, who has spirited him away, honestly I couldn’t keep track of all his accusations. But it seemed to me that you might like a warning.”
“Wait—” And now his pulse is in his throat, nearly choking him. “He thinks I was taken against my will?”
Toshinori shakes his head with a sigh. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
Shouto is pale. “He’d never think I’d come here on my own,” he says. “But if he thinks I was taken—he hates you enough to suspect you.”
“Enji has accused me of far worse in the past,” Toshinori tells him, as if that’s supposed to be reassuring. “You are a guest here, and that places you under our protection. No one may force you to leave if you do not wish to.”
“I can’t—” When the Titan came, we didn’t give her back. When he tried to take her by force, Mirio died helping us seal him away. “I can’t ask you to defy him for me. He’s strong, and he’s vindictive, and…” Shouto’s voice trails off. He could survive, couldn’t he? Even if Enji came for him tomorrow. Spring is nearer now than it was before. He could survive until then.
“The choice is yours, my boy,” Toshinori tells him.
“Thank you.” Such a useless phrase, that. “For your kindness.”
Izuku pulls him aside later, away from Toshinori and Eri and Inko and any wandering spirits who might overhear. That is how Shouto finds himself in the death god’s bedchamber, sitting in a chair with Izuku’s knees nearly touching his.
“Shouto.” Deep green eyes hold his gaze, and Shouto doubts he could look away even if he wanted to. Izuku’s hands are cool as he clasps one of Shouto’s. “I never asked before, because it’s your business. But… can you tell me why you’re running from him?”
Shouto can only look into those eyes for so long before it all spills out.
“He wants to defy death,” he blurts out. “He wants—he wanted eternal summer, once. B-but he can’t have that, he knows the other gods wouldn’t never stand for it, so… he wants to create life that death can’t touch. But he never could, so… m-my mother’s a goddess of ice and snow, and he hopes I can succeed where he failed. To create life that won’t die in winter.”
“But there is life that doesn’t die in—”
“It’s not good enough for him!” Shouto yanks his hand from Izuku’s, fearful that his father’s flames will flare up within him. He can’t burn Izuku, he can’t ever ever let any part of his father touch Izuku— “He wants the world to be evergreen. He doesn’t understand death the way you do, the way you taught me.” There are tears running down his face now, unchecked. “He doesn’t see it for what it is, he doesn’t see how beautiful the world is for it, he just sees a contest that he wants to win and he doesn’t care who suffers, not my mother or me or—”
Izuku’s arms are around him, pulling him into a hug. Shouto’s tears dampen the raven feather lining on his shoulder. The embrace is painfully tight, with a fierceness that can’t be anything but love.
“That’s why,” Izuku whispers hotly. “That’s why you were—you were draining yourself trying to grow things that didn’t belong in winter.”
“Had to be stronger,” Shouto replies. “Stronger than—than death, than cold…” His voice catches in his throat. “He found me sleeping, after you brought me tea. Dragged me up. That’s why I came.” He buries his face in Izuku’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in danger. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
“Shouto.” Izuku presses him back, holding him firmly by the shoulders. “I told you once before. We’ve kept a Titan out.”
“I’d rather face five Titans than him,” Shouto replies.
“You won’t be alone,” Izuku says. “I promise. No matter what, you won’t have to face him alone. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“You already have, Izuku,” Shouto lets his head rest against Izuku’s, grounding himself in the here and now. “What you told me about—about choosing how to use your power.” He swallows a sob. “Whether or not I can create something that thrives alongside death—I don’t know. Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. But… I won’t use it for his benefit. He can’t force me, because it’s mine. You taught me that, Izuku. It’s mine.”
“It’s yours.” Izuku looks at him from inches away, gazing at him like he’s something precious, something unspeakably wonderful. “It’s yours, and Shouto, it’s beautiful.”
Shouto fights back more tears, and in that moment he makes up his mind. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“If you could choose something,” Shouto says. “Something truly alive here, and growing, and—and thriving… what would you want? Fruit? Flowers?” He thinks of the silver and gold orchard in the entrance hall. “Real trees?”
“Flowers,” Izuku replies. “Bright ones. Yellow, like the sun. I’d fill the fields with them, so that the dead could have something lovely to look at.”
“All right,” Shouto whispers. “All right.”
I can do that, he thinks. If anyone can, then it’s me.
As far as he knows, his father still doesn’t know where he is. Perhaps he has time to perfect this, before everything goes wrong.
It had all seemed so pointless, back when he stood in that clearing in the snowy woods, struggling to force life into dormant seeds and buds. But now… now, it’s different. He’s not going to force something to go against its nature. He’s going to create something new. And this time, it will be because he chooses to.
Shouto takes to wandering off on his own, first to secluded chambers and corridors and then to the room where he is staying. Working in the Underworld’s fields would be ideal, since that’s the closest to true soil that this realm can offer. But the fields are teeming with souls, and any one of them might blurt out his workings where Izuku can hear. So instead, he takes some of the soil and carries it away.
It is no small task, to create an entirely new kind of life. But Shouto is determined, and nothing will stop him from reaching this goal.
Not even a little eavesdropper, spying at his door.
He has been working for days with little progress when he finally notices Eri’s presence. The little goddess is quiet and stealthy, but eventually Shouto catches her watching him work.
His first instinct is toward exasperation, but he finds he can’t stay annoyed with round eyes like that. With a sigh, he beckons her in. If he leaves her to spy from outside, she’ll only draw attention to herself, and to him.
“I’d like it if you could keep quiet about this,” he says awkwardly. “It’s… supposed to be a surprise.”
She nods, and settles crosslegged on a chair to watch. She makes a habit of it, from then on—coming in and watching him work. Eventually she stops taking the chair and sits down beside him instead, watching without a word.
Until, one day…
“I stole from him.”
Shouto isn’t expecting her to break the silence, and startles a little over the pot of Underworld earth he’s working with. Miracle of miracles, he’s managed to coax tiny green buds from them. They are not the bright flowers that Izuku wants, but they’re a start.
“What?”
“You’re not supposed to eat here,” she says, without looking at him. “If you eat the food of this world, you can’t leave, or it pulls you back.”
“Yes, I know,” Shouto says, turning back to the pot. “Inko told me, when I first woke up.”
“I stole the fruit, and I ate it,” Eri continues. “I wasn’t supposed to and Mother told me not to, but I did it anyway. Just in case he comes back.”
“Who?” Shouto asks.
“Father,” she says, and Shouto’s shoulders go tense. He sets the pot aside. “He always found me when I ran away, and made me go back with him. But now, no matter what happens, I’ll always come home.” Tears well up in her eyes, but she wipes them away before they can fall. “Izuku says he won’t come back, but I still get scared.” She raises her watery eyes to him. “You’re scared too, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” It’s hard to speak. “But Izuku… Izuku makes me less scared.”
“Me too,” and this time the tears do spill over. She reaches up and touches the side of his face—lightly, lovingly. “He touched me just like that, when he found me. Gentle. Nobody ever touched me like that before.”
Shouto takes her hand. She leans over, pressing into his arms, and he cradles her close enough that he’s sure she can hear his heartbeat. “Me, too,” he whispers.
“I hope you stay,” Eri whispers, clutching at the folds of his tunic. “And if you can’t, I hope you always find your way back.”
Shouto strokes her hair, mindful of the little horn the curves up from her temple. “That’s a powerful blessing, little light-bearer.”
Eri doesn’t let go of him. “It’s the best one I know.”
The days are getting longer again. They are well past midwinter, and Izuku both looks forward to the coming of spring and dreads the day Shouto will leave them. He’s had a visit from both Ochako and Tenya, and with it the chance to introduce his new friend. The other young gods are delighted with him, and Izuku can tell that Shouto lets himself relax around them, as well.
Speaking of Shouto, his friend has been busy lately. Izuku isn’t sure what keeps dragging his friend away to his room, but he lets him go without a fuss. If Shouto means to explain, then he will on his own time.
Things have been quiet in regards to Enji, as well, and Izuku can almost hope that the summer god’s temper has passed. If Shouto must return to him, then he will do so in spring, well-rested and at the height of his strength. If Izuku has his way, he won’t have to return at all, but the choice is Shouto’s. He knows best, after all.
Izuku is in his bedchamber one evening, passing the time over one of his scrolls. He thumbs over the page with inkstained fingers, going over his notes and reminders of the goings-on in the Underworld, famines and floods that have brought more souls into his domain. There’s a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he says, and looks up to see Shouto opening the door and stepping inside. Grinning, he sets aside the scroll and discreetly wipes leftover wet ink from his hands. “Good evening, Shouto.”
“Evening.” There’s a nervous air about him, and a small earthenware pot tucked under his arm. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” Izuku answers readily. “Did you need something?”
“Well… not exactly.” Shouto dawdles by the door for a moment longer before crossing the room to him. “It’s just—I’ve been working on something, and… and I wanted to show you.”
“Not overworking yourself again, I hope?” His tone is half-teasing, but all it gets him is a nervous little smile from Shouto. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” Shouto clutches the pot with pale fingers. “Could I sit down?”
Izuku motions him over and pulls up another chair, and Shouto sits down with the pot balanced in his lap. Glancing in, Izuku finds it filled with familiar gray earth. For some reason, his heart skips a beat.
“I borrowed this from the fields,” Shouto explains. “It took me a while, but… I finally managed it.”
“Managed… what?” Izuku looks down into the pot, barely daring to believe—to breathe.
“Watch,” Shouto says, and Izuku watches.
Deep within the Underworld, a flower blooms yellow under Shouto’s power. Shouto presses the pot into Izuku’s hands, then steps back.
The flower stays.
Izuku stares. His hands tremble around the pot, and Shouto returns to his seat and takes it before he has the chance to do something silly, like drop it. With a smile playing about his lips, Shouto takes Izuku’s hand in his own and moves it closer, much to his alarm. “W-wait, don’t—I might—” His fingertips brush the petals, and he waits for it to wilt and die.
The yellow petals are soft to the touch, and they remain yellow and soft. Izuku’s hand trembles as he touches it again. The flower stays.
“I asked Toshinori to test that, when he visited the other day,” Shouto tells him. “Not even the Reaper’s touch can kill this flower.” He adds, with a touch of amusement, “He was overjoyed. I had to plead with him not to spoil the surprise before it was ready.” When Izuku doesn’t answer, he places the potted flower on the table beside them. “Yellow as the sun. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
Izuku can only manage a harsh sob before the tears come streaming down his face. The flower sits cheerily on his desk, bright and perfect and alive, immune to his touch and his presence and the power of death that overflows and spills from him.
“H-how?” he says hoarsely, trying in vain to stem the tears. “How did you…?”
“It’s my power,” Shouto replies. He still hasn’t let go of Izuku’s hand. “And this is how I choose to use it. Not for him, or his glory. For me. And for you.”
Izuku gazes at him with rapt wonder, trembling with held-back sobs. “But… why?”
“Why—” Shouto shakes his head. “Surely you must know, by now.” His grasp on Izuku’s hand tightens. “You must know what you’ve done for me. You must know—” He breaks off, looking down at their joined hands. “Izuku—”
“I did nothing more than what you deserve,” Izuku says. “When I met you—you looked so sad, every time I saw you, and I couldn’t leave it alone. You deserve to be happy, Shouto. You deserve to be safe, and loved, and I—”
Shouto kisses him before he can get any further.
Izuku’s heart stutters and restarts. His face is warm, cradled between Shouto’s hands as Shouto kisses him with a tenderness that nearly brings more tears. Shouto’s mouth leaves his, just long enough for him to whisper “You too, you deserve that—” before Izuku loops his arms around Shouto’s neck, and returns the kiss with all the warmth that a god of death can possibly offer.
He barely realizes that they have risen before he feels Shouto gently bearing him down onto the bed, kissing and caressing until the fire of life and love fills him from end to end. “I love you,” slips easily from his lips as soon as they have a moment of freedom, and Shouto’s mouth is warm against the shell of his ear as he whispers his answer.
It is not yet dawn when Izuku wakes.
He is warm still, curled up beneath soft blankets with Shouto tucked against his side, one arm thrown loosely over Izuku’s chest. The side of his face rests against white and scarlet hair that smells of flowers and growing things, and Shouto’s breath tickles the side of his neck.
Izuku smiles in the dark and presses his lips to the scarlet side of his hair. For a few minutes, he listens to the rhythm of Shouto’s breathing and basks in comfortable, drowsy warmth.
A flicker of unease interrupts his contentment. Faintly, he recognizes it as the very sensation that must have awakened him.
Izuku wants nothing more than to stay where he is, but he knows better than to ignore an instinct. And so, reluctantly, he slips carefully out of Shouto’s loose embrace and sits up. Pressing one last kiss to Shouto’s forehead, he dresses quickly and slips out into the hall to investigate.
“Be careful, my lord.” The first soul he meets is one of the mortal spirits, a woman named Izumi who came to him hand in hand with her husband, lamenting the orphaned son they left behind. “You have a visitor. The god of summer is here.” He nods his thanks, and she vanishes.
He finds Eri next, wide-eyed with fear and alarm as she wanders through the dim hallways. “He’s here,” she whispers when she sees him. “He’s angry.”
“Thought he might be,” Izuku says.
“Where is Shouto?”
“He’s asleep,” Izuku replies. He kneels by her so that they see eye to eye. “Eri, listen. Go back to your room until it’s safe, all right? And no matter what, stay away from the entrance hall.”
She nods reluctantly, and runs off.
Straightening the raven-feathered cloak around his shoulders, Izuku neatens his hair as best he can and fits his circlet over his head. By the time he’s approaching the entrance hall, a small retinue of spirits have gathered around him. Mirio is among them. Izuku doesn’t bother giving himself a moment to brace himself—now is not the time for hesitation.
The entrance hall is brighter than usual. It’s mostly because of the god standing in it, dressed in flames as well as finery. He is nearly as tall as Toshinori, twice as broad, and as sturdy and imposing as an oak tree.
Izuku is half his size, smaller and slighter, with a mantle of raven feathers instead of flame.
Enji’s anger shows plainly in his eyes. Izuku’s boils beneath the surface, covered over with a smooth, glasslike finish.
“Welcome to my realm,” he says steadily, with a polite nod. “You honor us with your presence, Father-Earth.”
Enji’s eyes blaze wrathfully. “Spare me the niceties. I’ve come to retrieve my son.”
“You stand within the boundaries of my domain, uninvited,” Izuku says flatly. “You have no right to make demands.”
“I have every right, you miserable brat!” The flames leap toward the ceiling. “I let you and your realm have all the rest of my creations, but that one is mine. Now where have you taken him?”
Izuku nearly loses his temper then and there, but he feels Mirio at his back, remembers Eri hiding in her room and Shouto peacefully asleep in his own. He keeps his head. “Who says that I have taken him anywhere?” he asks. “If he came of his own accord, then that would make him my guest, and under my protection. The result would be the same, in the end.” His eyes narrow. “You can’t have him.”
For a moment, Enji is silent. The flames burn lower, but he is every bit as angry; that is how Izuku knows it is dangerous.
“What do you think it will cost you to defy me?” he asks. His voice drips menace.
Izuku grins. “Look around you, sheep-bearer. What price do you think I can’t pay?” He tries not to enjoy Enji’s twitching eye too much. “You have no claim to anything here. You demand that I return your son to you, but I did not take him; he came to me of his own free will, as an invited guest. You could try to command him to return with you, but I can already tell you what his answer will be. You might then try to take him by force, but as a gracious host I would be honor-bound to protect him.” The spirits at his back murmur in agreement. “And considering that you’ve barged into my realm, accused, insulted, and threatened me, I think I’ve been more than accommodating already. Would you care to try my patience further, or will you leave peacefully?”
“Do you honestly think,” Enji snarls. “That a spoiled, sheltered whelp like you has any place challenging me? You think you can win by hiding behind the rules of hospitality—me, the god of sacred law?”
Izuku gathers up every drop of contempt in his being, and funnels it into a single flat look. “For the god of sacred law,” he says, “you’ve done a pretty poor job of following them so far. Do you think your divinity makes you better than the laws that govern us?”
The god of summer matches his contempt with blistering scorn of his own. “Funny that you speak of betters, when you speak this way to gods older and greater than you.”
“You came here alone,” Izuku points out. “You are both outnumbered and in the wrong. No matter what you say, you can’t give me any orders that I would be obligated to follow.”
“Perhaps I can’t,” Enji replies. “But I can burn my way through your halls until I find my creation, and drag him out by the hair if need be.”
Protective fury howls in Izuku’s heart, eager for a fight. “You can try.”
“For all the good that would do you,” Shouto adds, from the back of the entrance hall.
Izuku turns, wide-eyed, to find Shouto striding into the room. He’s dressed, still rumpled from sleep, but straight-backed with his chin held high. Eri follows him, clutching at the hem of his tunic, wide-eyed with mingled fear and determination. In one hand, Shouto carries a small knife in a loose grip. And in his other…
Izuku’s breath catches in his throat.
“Eri,” he says, gently chiding. “What have I told you about stealing from the kitchens?”
The smile she gives him is shaky but brave.
Shouto halts some distance away and begins carving into the pomegranate in his hand. “Honestly,” he says, almost casually dismissive in a way that masks the tremor in his voice. “It’s almost as if you have something against the possibility that I might get a full night’s rest. You know wintertime makes me drowsy, old one.”
“My tolerance for your petty rebellion is wearing thin, Shouto,” Enji growls.
Shouto rolls his eyes. “What tolerance?” he says scornfully, and pops three seeds into his mouth.
Every god in the room can feel it when it happens. The creation of the binding is a smooth, quick thing, as clean as a key turning in a well-oiled lock. Shouto gives the rest of the pomegranate to Eri.
Izuku turns back to the god of summer, smiling brightly. “I think you have your answer,” he says, stepping back. “Thank you for your visit. Perhaps you’ll honor us again sometime.”
“No,” Enji growls. “Damn you—do you have any idea how long I have worked for this?”
“I’ll return in spring and summer,” Shouto says, without looking up at him. “As a compromise. You can do without me for half the year, can’t you?”
“You were supposed to conquer death, boy,” Enji says, seething. “That was what I made you for, you treacherous little worm!”
Shouto smiles, as bright as the yellow flowers that bloom at his feet. Izuku’s heart soars at the sight. “Who says I haven’t?” He steps away, and his father stares openly when the blossoms remain.
“You—” It’s as if, in that moment, he forgets to be angry. “How—you actually—” Rage turns to shock, and then to smug delight. “You actually did it. You made the first step toward my goal.”
“No, I didn’t,” Shouto replies, and now he stands beside Izuku with Eri clutching at his wrist. She trembles, but her light shines a little brighter. “I created them, and I didn’t do it for you. In fact, I could only create them at all because, for once… I wasn’t thinking of you.”
Enji’s eyes spark, but Shouto pushes on.
“I made them as a gift for the Underworld’s master, and their place is here,” he says, and slips his hand, fingers stained red from the pomegranate, into Izuku’s. “And now, at least until spring, so is mine.”
The summer god’s face twists with displeasure as his eyes fall upon their joined hands. Izuku can see the wheels turning in his head as he weighs his options, as he wonders what might happen if he drags Shouto from this place anyway.
Izuku shifts his stance from polite neutrality to a loose, almost casual readiness. The shadows of the Underworld leap and twist in the firelight. The spirits stir. Eri’s soft, nearly inaudible whisper echoes strangely with eerie power.
At last, after a few tense moments, Enji steps back. A mask of composure slides on over his prideful temper. “Well then,” he says, as if he’s the one dismissing them. “Until spring, my son.” With that, he turns and leaves the entrance hall.
Tension leaves the denizens of the Underworld like a heavy breath. “Thank you,” Izuku says as the spirits disperse. “Thank you for your support.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mirio reminds him with a wink, and promptly vanishes.
“Is it over?” Eri asks. “He’s gone? He won’t fight us?”
Izuku looks to Shouto, who shrugs. “He is prideful, but for all his talk, he’ll obey the laws. Attacking the Underworld would risk the wrath of the rest of the gods.”
“Go tell Mother, Eri,” Izuku says. “She’s probably awake by now, and wondering what the fuss is about.” The little goddess scampers off to obey, and it is only when she is gone that Izuku sighs and lets himself sag further with relief.
Shouto steps closer, enough to press against his side. “If nothing else,the half-year compromise I offered should appease him.”
“Oh.” Izuku can’t help letting his shoulders slump further, with disappointment now rather than relief.
Tilting his head, Shouto meets his eyes with a look of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, it’s just…” His face flushes again, and really, after all they’ve been through, he ought to stop doing that. “W-well, I was hoping that, by winter’s end, I could convince you to stay longer. But now you really do have to leave, so…” His voice trails off.
Shouto’s eyes soften with sorrow, and Izuku regrets his words almost immediately. “It can’t be helped,” he says, and Izuku hangs his head. “But… that doesn’t mean we can’t see each other. You can always visit, can’t you?”
“It—it might not be a good idea,” Izuku murmurs. “Your Underworld flowers are the only plants I can touch, without…”
A warm, gentle hand lifts his chin, and Shouto’s smile chases the sadness from his heart. “I think spring and summer can survive a few visits from you. I’ll want to see you. Your friends will, too. And then…” He leans closer to Izuku’s ear. “You’ll have me from the start of autumn, after that.”
Tears prick in Izuku’s eyes, and he blinks them back with a quiet laugh. “I’ll hold you to that. No matter what… come back to me. Come home.”
Lips brush his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and Shouto seals his promise with a kiss, as sweet as the red seeds that bound him.