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The boy sleeping in the lake looked dead, his skin waxen pale and his limbs unmoving, weighed down by the waterlogged folds of his kimono – white, but in the style of a wedding and nearly translucent the sodden fabric was so fine. Silvery hair floated around his head, a moonlit halo to frame fine features, the soft fan of thick lashes, the slack arch of his lips almost blue with cold. The only proof that he yet lived was the nearly undetectable rise and fall of his chest, an ebb and flow matched in steady rhythm with the ripples that washed against him from Guren’s steps.
Guren, standing atop the water, bent down and lifted the boy from the lake.
He was thin, a nearly insubstantial weight in Guren’s arms, more stardust and the silvered planes of his reflection in the water than living, breathing human boy. The sleeves of his kimono, trailing in the water as Guren turned and began to make his way to the shrine entrance, did not disturb the surface. He had been left nearly too long; barely anything remained of the boy’s soul.
As Guren’s feet touched land, the smooth, glittering cobblestones of the path that led to the looming red torii gate of the shrine, even that faint rise and fall of the boy’s breath stopped.
There would be no going back for this boy, not in any recognizable form. He belonged to the far shore now.
That was just as well. Guren, the god of the crimson lotus blooms, had no need for a bride with mortal attachments, always looking back to a realm now denied.
The god of death had need of a bride. This boy, in his wedding kimono the color of a funeral robe, half dead himself and beautiful, would suffice.
He had been left for just that purpose, after all.
–
Gathering up the faint threads of the boy’s existence was a delicate affair. Guren, far more used to the blunt trauma work of severing the bonds between body and soul, spent five days and five nights hunched over the body (and it was a body, life barely clinging to it by nothing more then tenacious, desperate will alone) carefully, painstakingly feeding power into the boy, pulling together the scraps of the boy’s memory and weaving them back into a seamless whole, a personality, a person.
By the time he finished, his vision was blurry with effort. A headache pounded between his eyes, sharp staccato beat that matched the faint flutter of the boy’s heart in his cold chest.
The boy inhaled, lips parting as he greedily sucked in life. A flush spread across his skin, warmth chasing away the lingering pallor of the lake’s waters.
Guren straightened and stretched, grunted as something popped in his back. “You’re a pain in my ass already,” he said to the boy with a grimace. As though in indifferent answer, the boy only sighed in his sleep and turned over, snuggling into the plush pillows of the bed.
Guren’s bed. Guren scowled and went to find a pallet to sleep on. He didn’t have the heart to move the boy when he was still so near to his death.
–
The boy, when he woke up, was no less trouble than he had been on the border of life and death.
Guren entered his room to check on him only to be greeted by the empty bed, cold sheets, and no sign of the boy to be found. Already he could feel the headache from the night before returning.
Grimly, he set about searching the shrine for any trace of his wayward bride.
First, he checked the lake, relieved to find no signs that the boy had attempted to leave the shrine. He wouldn’t have succeeded, his existence still too fragile to endure beyond the insulating power of Guren’s domain, but there was no trace of the fraying threads of life that showed he had tried to make his way back to the mortal realm.
Next, Guren looked in the kitchen, to no avail, then dusty store rooms, living quarters brimming with soft cushions and throws, bathing rooms with steaming pools, even the dark, windowless room where his servants, minor demons themselves, made their home. Nothing.
Wasn’t a bride supposed to be obedient, not making Guren waste half the day just looking for a glimpse of him?
Finally, Guren turned to the heart of the shrine, the altar room behind locked door and barrier seal. There should be no way that the boy was inside, but there was no sign of him anywhere else, and to find him there would be most vexing besides.
The boy, Guren suspected, was going to be nothing but vexing.
Guren slid through the barrier, the seal recognizing his presence and parting before him, magic rippling over him in a sinuous veil. He felt no surprise to see the slim, pale figure of the boy before the altar, leaning against the smooth stone, head tipped back to study the charms hung along the ceiling, all twisting from their hangings in the still air of the room, softly glowing.
At the sound of Guren’s footsteps, the boy looked down – not a boy, but a young man, the bright ice chip blue of his eyes too world weary by far, the youth of his slack, sleeping face proven a lie by the sharp intelligence Guren found staring at him, the defiant challenge the young man wore like armor and weapon both.
“I guess I should be grateful you didn’t just tear the seals apart,” Guren said after a moment, watching as the man stiffened, shoulders going back, bracing himself for—what, a fight, in the heart of a god’s domain, the sanctuary of Guren’s power? He would be nothing but a smear of dust and Guren would barely have to lift a finger.
“I thought,” the man said with a thin smile, “it wouldn’t be very polite.”
“Right.” Guren snorted, took a look around the room. Nothing was out of place except the man where he shouldn’t be, behind spells that he shouldn’t have known how to undo. “So the Hiiragi finally paid up, and you’re the sad bastard who got stuck with the job. Got a name?”
Something shuttered in the man’s eyes, a brief flicker of rage behind the empty smile on his face, but his tone didn’t change as he swept into a bow, hands folded, kimono draping gracefully around him. Beautiful and deadly, as sharp edged as a hidden blade.
“My name is Shinya,” the man said. “I hope you’ll find me to be satisfactory tribute, Lord Guren.”
–
As it turned out, the only thing satisfactory about Shinya was his looks. Everything else was infuriating, from his annoyingly sly smiles to his irritatingly not-quite sardonic remarks, to the way he was barely more than a ghost in the shrine, flitting from room to room, never quite occupying the same space as Guren at any one time.
Guren would have said Shinya was afraid if it weren’t for the way he’d wave as he vanished through a doorway, cheerful and mocking in equal parts.
The first week, Shinya spent prowling the shrine like a stray cat. When Guren sought him out, he could, without fail, be found in precisely the last place Guren wanted him to be, and even then, Guren only caught glimpses of his pale hair, buried in a mountain of spellbooks or speaking to one of the servants, listening with all apparent signs of serious interest, to the demon’s cheerful chattering.
And yet the second Guren tried to speak with him, Shinya clammed up. His smile turned fixed, almost a rictus, and that cool gaze seemed not to focus on Guren but somewhere behind him, the distance beyond, as though Guren wasn’t even there.
He would speak with the servants for hours, but no more than a few words at a time to Guren, answering questions with evasions for answers. Sometimes, Guren thought lovingly of dumping Shinya back in the lake where he’d found him.
He had no idea what Shinya ate or where he slept, or if he even did at all. He must, he was still more human than not despite what Guren had done to preserve his life, and that meant he needed mortal things like food and rest – but Guren couldn’t catch even a glimpse of Shinya in the kitchen, never saw him with his eyes closed, let alone sleeping. Still, Shinya seemed to be doing well, if the speed with which he bolted from rooms when Guren entered them was any indication. He must be eating and sleeping somewhere.
When he asked the servants, he immediately regretted it.
“Oh, Lord Shinya’s very nice! He’s teaching us about all sorts of mortal things, like coffee and toast and these things called cars!”
Or, “He said it’s really important to be straightforward when confessing to the girl you like. Isn’t Lord Shinya wise?”
And, “He’s been asking about you. Don’t worry, Lord Guren, he’s just shy!”
That particular demon had looked a little shifty. When Guren demanded what Shinya had been asking about, it had squeaked and scurried away, claiming duties left undone, leaving Guren with a scowl and a sinking feeling, like he was losing control of his life one easily swayed servant at a time.
After that highly unsettling encounter, Guren meant to corner Shinya. It was only right that his bride spend at least a little time with him, wasn’t it? He wasn’t asking for much.
To his great annoyance, Shinya cornered him first.
Guren stepped into his room and froze. Shinya perched on Guren’s bed, waiting for him, his eyes demurely lowered, his hair gleaming in the soft, warm light of the candles spread through the room.
He’d found, somewhere, no doubt with the demons’ help, those traitors, another kimono, this one so deep a red that it was nearly black, lurid against his pale skin like blood against snow. It had slipped off one shoulder, baring the fragile curve of Shinya’s collarbone, too artful a scene to be anything but contrived.
And yet, despite himself, Guren felt flushed. He swallowed, want gathering in his stomach. It felt, bizarrely, like he was seeing Shinya for the first time.
Shinya looked up. His eyes were dark, and for once he looked at Guren, gave Guren the full weight of his attention.
Like a moth to a flame, Guren found himself pulled helplessly across the room in answer to that stare.
He dropped to his knees before Shinya, slid his hand up the cool, crisp folds of the kimono, the smooth line of Shinya’s throat, to cup Shinya’s cheek.
“I thought,” Shinya murmured into the quiet of the room, “you might like this better than the drowned look.”
“I do,” Guren breathed. Everything felt slow and liquid, hazy like a dream. In the candlelight, Shinya looked warm and touchable, shadows falling across his skin in rich patterns, inviting. Guren’s thumb slid down Shinya’s cheek, over his lips, and Shinya’s tongue darted out, soft and pink, to swipe at the tip of his finger.
It would be easy to stand, tip Shinya’s head back, to take a kiss. Guren could already taste it, sweet from Shinya’s soft, full lips. He could push Shinya back onto the bed and peel the kimono off in increments, revealing inch after inch of the smooth expanse of Shinya’s skin, perfect and unmarked like a canvas waiting for Guren.
Shinya would let him. Shinya had set out to seduce him, there was little doubt of that, a perfect, proper bride waiting like an offering in a god’s bed.
An offering. A sacrifice.
Guren remembered one of the memories he’d pulled from the thread of Shinya’s life: a vast, underground room, a knife in Shinya’s small hand, the bodies of other children lifeless on the floor around him, lying in pools of their own blood – the same blood spattered across Shinya’s face, dripping from his hands.
Chosen, the Hiiragi’s men had said to Shinya, and Shinya had smiled back at them, an empty, meaningless smile, bright and full of nothingness, a void where his heart should have been.
That same smile was on Shinya’s face now.
Abruptly, Guren yanked his hand back. His fingers felt warm from Shinya’s skin, hot, like they’d been burned. He staggered to his feet.
Shinya looked up at him, lovely and inviting, just for him, still smiling. Nausea rose in Guren’s throat.
“Whatever they told you I wanted,” he bit out, “I don’t.”
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Shinya watched him, didn’t say anything, no plea to call him back; Guren didn’t see the smile drop off his face, the surprise, and the thoughtful look that took its place.
–
Guren woke to a footfall, barely more than a whispering susurration of sound. He almost thought he’d imagined it; there was no echo, nothing moving in the dark of his room. Except— a presence, unmoving and cloaked in the shadows, standing just beyond the moonlight streaming in through the window over Guren’s bed. Shinya was staring at him; Guren could feel the weight of his gaze, unmistakable, pressing in on him.
He waited. In the silence, he could hear the quiet sound of Shinya’s breath.
Shinya took a step, loud enough that it must have been deliberate, and another. He didn’t stop when he reached the bed, just climbed up onto it, and Guren sat up, a question about to leave his lips.
He didn’t have a chance to ask it. Shinya pushed him back against the pillows and straddled him, pinned him down by dropping heavily onto his lap. The red kimono spilled across the bed, almost liquid in the silvery light, clinging to Shinya’s limbs.
“Shinya—,” Guren began, and choked as Shinya slid a hand under his shirt, cool fingers splaying over his hip. He swallowed, tried again. “Shinya, you don’t have to—”
Shinya cut him off smoothly. “I got that. It was pretty obvious when I got all dressed up and you left.” There was no trace of a smile on his face. If anything, Shinya looked annoyed. “I guess,” he continued with pointed blandness, “at least it wasn’t at the altar. That might really have hurt my feelings.”
Guren scowled and tried, ineffectually, to push Shinya off.
“I’m not interested in taking an unwilling bride to bed,” he said. Again, Shinya interrupted.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not unwilling, isn’t it?” He rocked his hips. Guren tried to stifle a strangled sound.
“You’re not—”
“Guren,” Shinya cut in, “this is what I’m here for. I knew that from the beginning.”
“I’m releasing you!” Guren snapped, feeling sick. He’d known from the first, an offering, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this, blood and death and a child fighting for survival, sacrifices in Guren’s name and the winner stained red to be the bride of the god of death. “You’ll go back to the mortal realm tomorrow. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
Bizarrely, Shinya laughed. When Guren looked at him, he was smiling again, but it was no smile Guren had seen on his face before, not in Shinya’s time in the shrine or in the memories he’d coaxed back into Shinya’s existence. This smile was soft, a small, quiet thing, warmth lingering at its edges, reaching Shinya’s eyes.
He looked, impossibly, happy.
“I don’t want to go,” Shinya said. He leaned forward. Instinctively, Guren put a hand on his waist to steady him, and frowned as Shinya touched their foreheads together.
“I don’t want to go,” he repeated. “You’re the first who’s ever given me that.”
Before Guren could ask what he meant, what he’d given, Shinya tilted his head, pressed his lips against Guren’s. The kiss was nearly chaste, a warm brush of soft lips that Shinya deepened after a moment when Guren didn’t push him away, tongue sliding against the seam of Guren’s mouth.
With a sigh, Guren let him in, let Shinya kiss him. He sank back against the pillows, Shinya’s weight pressing him down, the heat of Shinya’s body warming him. Shinya was lithe, strong beneath Guren’s hands. Beautiful.
They surfaced from the kiss, and Guren found himself smiling at Shinya, breathless, and Shinya smiled back.
“Give me a chance,” Shinya said. “I want to choose this.”
“Just one chance,” Guren said. “But you look like an idiot in that kimono. Get something less ridiculous.”
Brightly, Shinya said, “It worked, didn’t it?” He paused, tilted his head, like he was deep in thought, before adding, “But since you object, you can wear it for the ceremony. You’ll make a much prettier bride.”
Whatever protest Guren had was lost in the heat of Shinya’s mouth as Shinya kissed him again.