hi, i'm alive
i don't know if i'll ever finish this fic so uh, i'll leave what i've written so far here for your amusement. maybe it'll motivate me, who knows.
fic snippet below :)
original sinner
[prelude]
Listen, this is not a new story, but neither is it an old one. You will understand as we go along, I’m sure. I know everything, of course, but I will not tell you everything. Because that would be boring, wouldn’t it, and, after all, we are here to have fun.
This is a story about two men, though sometimes they are not men, and in some ways, this is not about them at all. But you do not know that yet, so play along for now, would you? I will give you their names, though in the old story, these are not their names. It will be obvious enough what roles they play.
Anyways, here is Max, and there is Charles. You know their names already, and their faces, too, let’s not pretend. So, I will not waste time describing them, en detail, except for when it makes for pretty words, as that is what I’m here to do.
But enough for now, let us begin.
act one - the garden
[Max]
This thing, it starts with Max, because it always has. He is first, in most things, and so he is the first to notice the cave. It is not unusual for Max to be the first to note the changes in his garden, because well, it is his garden, and he rarely leaves it, and the others rarely ever come here, preferring the lower planes of Mount Olympus. So he notices, of course, when the cave appears, a gaping black mouth hidden in the depths of his orchard, rotten apples strewn across its opening, luscious reds and yellows, juice and flesh seeping back into the earth.
He does not venture inside, not right away, woven basket on his back full from his daily harvest. Sometimes, changes in his garden come and go – rarely ever do they interest him enough to stray him from his tasks, his work, his labor. Plays and toys put there by divine creatures, perhaps, or just freaks of nature. And Max is not concerned with the wilderness - rather, he takes it and cultivates it and orders it neatly until it does the things he needs it to do. Agriculture, that is what the humans will call it, later. It grows, yes, from the earth as the wild does, and it produces and, eventually, it rots, only to begin again. But in spirit, it is entirely different, just as Max is entirely different from the others.
He does not come and go as he pleases, does not play jokes on the humans to cure his boredom - Max does not have time to be bored. There are things to do, things to grow, things to harvest, things to sow. It was not his choice, he doesn’t think, though eternity is far too long to remember, at some point. It is just how things are, and the others get upset if he doesn’t provide, their view always lush and their tables always full. Not that Max cares much if they are upset, but they annoy him less if they are happy, and being bothered, that is what Max hates the most.
So, he does not go into the cave, not right away. Perhaps it is one of Sebastian’s experiments, he is not sure. His caverns are not far away, after all. He does not go in, no. Not until he is sure.
Now, however, he is. Max is sure that there is a thing, a thing in the cave.
He lets the straps of his basket glide from his shoulders, broad, slightly rosy from the sun, and sets it down carefully by the entrance to the cave. He sees now, that while seeming to swallow any daylight sneaking its way through the cover of the tree tops above like a hungry mouth, it has its own light. Soft and yet cold, more like starlight than the glow of a fire, from inside its depths, crawling all the way to its entrance via an uncountable mass of crystals set into its walls. It does not look man-made, is either natural or divine, and aren’t those the same thing, really? In jagged peaks they grow out of the stone, in every color imaginable, and Max thinks, very much displaying a similar variety as his flowers do. Rich and deep, jewel tones of blood and sea and moss and heaven.
There are veins, too, of metals, tracing the way into the cave’s insides, like arrows pointing to some sacred place, gleaming as if alive, as if already molten, straight from the earth’s core.
It seems too beautiful, Max supposes, in the way that traps are, only who would its creator attempt to trap? No one comes here - no one but Max. And Max is already trapped, isn’t he, so there would be no use, putting a cage inside a cage, albeit a bit smaller, and darker, and not made of things that rot.
He has nothing to fear, has never learned to, anyways, and so he goes in. Driven by a sense of curiosity, almost, something he has not felt in a long time, not since the first buds and seedlings sprouted under his careful fingertips, blooming in the view of his unblinking eyes, watered by his sweat, his body’s own life. He does not think he has ever seen any of the others sweat, or cry, or bleed, except for him. Maybe, he thinks, that is the reason he can, he does, to feed the hungry mouths of his kindred.
His steps echo as he advances into the cave, and the air is silent and still, as if the cave is holding its breath, not wanting to scare him away, luring him deeper. Until he hears a faint rippling, dripping, lapping. There is a body of water. And, Max sees as he approaches, there is a body in the water.
Do not get him wrong, he is not a man of wisely chosen words sometimes, is he? The body is not a body in the sense of a thing long dead, but is very much alive. A thing, of some kind, animated by life’s mysterious forces, breathing, moving, beating under Max’s stare. And it, he? they, are beautiful. Captivating. Alluring. The natural succession of the path Max has followed, pretty stones and glistening walls. Max is not known for his patience, what with the way he stomps his feet and lets a field take seed and grow and bloom in the blink of an eye, so he opens his mouth to speak.
“Are you a naiad?”
Green eyes snap to him, the same moss-leaf-sea color of some of the crystals that led him here, and the thing cocks its head, resting it on its crossed arms, folded over the edge of the little pond it resides in, milky white body warped under the surface of the minty water. It is not quite green and not quite blue, yet very clear, though only a stone-throw further back, Max cannot make out the bottom, light swallowed instead by a yawning black depth.
The little light falls into the cave, apparently, from several fist-sized holes in the ceiling, roots dangling in the air, connecting Max once again to the world of his own making, and it bounces off endlessly from the water’s dancing surface, to the gems in the walls and the colors all around them.
“And you, an anthousai?” The thing retorts, pink lips parting to reveal pearl-colored teeth, sharp canines glinting.
Max frowns, forehead settling into creases, creases that will never stay. So is the curse of eternal youth.
“What makes you say this?” He wonders, subconsciously tensing his shoulders, broad back, thick arms. The furthest thing he can imagine from the pale-colored creatures he sometimes glimpses, rushing giggling from his gardens, dew sticking to their feet.
“You have petals in your hair,” the thing points out, lop-sided grin crawling over its face. Max shakes himself, a bit animal, and his frown deepens as he sees, indeed, a few rose and white petals gliding to the floor like fresh snow.
“Oh,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair, chopped short, roughly above his ears, “it is because I was in my garden, working, of course.” He does not mention that he is never anywhere else. Never does anything else.
“Of course,” the thing laughs, then, and it sounds a bit like the silver bells the humans sometimes ring at the altars they make for him and his parent, begging for spring, for harvest, for anything but the cold, cold dead.
“The darling maiden, then, I suppose, not the elder one? I know the name they’ve given you, but I do not know what it is you call yourself,” it says, gaze sharp and wide at once, raised eyebrows opening its face, inviting him in.
“Max,” he answers, without even thinking of lying. He has never really learned how. And besides, it has already proven it knows who he is. He wonders if the question before was just to tease him.
“And you?” he asks. The naiads are many, and even if few dwell in caves, Max does not know their names, apart perhaps from Thetis, their sister-queen, in the far-deep of Poseidon’s realm.
“Charles,” it says, switching positions, muscled arms straightening to lift itself half out of the water. Max notes the flat planes of its chest, and sees only now, the white silks and linens clinging to its skin, drifting in the water around him like fog, obscuring a subtle tan warming his flesh.
Dark curls fall into his face, tickling just so the nape of his neck in a tousle, droplets of water clinging to the hair.
“Is this your pond, then? The cave was not here before,” Max remarks, skipping any pleasantries. He does not know any better.
“You could say that,” Charles says, not answering any of his questions. Max swallows a huff, afraid, perhaps, to scare the pretty thing away.
“I got bored, lonely, I suppose. So I came here. Do you get lonely, too, Max?”
Max bites at his top lip, at the inside of his cheek, thinks.
“I don’t really know. I am alone, always,” he answers, skipping over the bit where his parents come to visit, on occasion, every three to four decades or so.
Charles hums, legs treading water, elegantly, or something similar. Max usually does not have much use for words.
“You do all the work on your own then, in the garden?”
Max makes an affirmative noise, decides to crouch down, feels it is perhaps more polite, to level their height.
“I understand,” Charles says, though Max is not sure what work nymphs do, apart from giggling and humming and singing and looking fanciful.
He says as much and Charles laughs, full, and more from his chest. Max thinks that he likes the sound of it, more than the bells, even, and he likes even more that he is the reason for that sound coming out from the cavity of Charles’ chest.
“I take it you think I am beautiful, then?” Charles asks and this time, Max cannot prevent the noise escaping him, a very ungraceful sort of laugh, if you will.
“I would be very stupid not to think so,” he answers honestly. He can feel himself leaning closer, as if drawn to the other via a force more powerful than his own will and he watches Charles’ muscles strain as he pushes himself further out of the water. The wet fabric clings tantalizingly to his hips.
Max is unsure what the burning sensation in his loins means. He has never felt such a thing before.
Charles’ eyes seem very big and very dark, pupils blown wide.
“Have you ever kissed someone, Max?” he asks as he settles to sit on the ledge of the pond, crossing one foot under his body, the other leg still creating soft, lapping ripples in the water.
Max shakes his head. He is of course aware of the concept. Being a god he has seen and heard many things, if only in story. There has, however, never been anyone allowed in close enough proximity to him for such a desire to form in his mind. He suspects it is connected to the lingering warmth in his core.
Max blinks in surprise as a cold hand curls around his arm. He can smell the damp clinging to Charles’ skin, can smell himself, earth and warmth, reflecting back to him in the space where the two clash.
“You can if you would like to,” Charles says, more quietly than before, “kiss me, I mean-”
Max does, swallowing the last waves of sound escaping Charles’ mouth with his own. Though he has never partaken in this particular activity before, the innate logic of it reveals itself easily as their lips meet. The point of it, to share breath, to trade the softness of lips, the bone-hardness of teeth, the slippery heat of tongues, comes to him easily. He is, after all, a goddess of life, of creation.
He hears Charles’ sharp intake of breath, his nostrils flaring, can feel him sway, and so he puts a hand to his nape to steady him, tilting his head to allow their bodies to align in a manner more favorable to gravity.
He comes away for a moment, still close enough to Charles’ face to feel the air moved by his fluttering eyelashes.
He considers the passing of time. Notes the dimming light falling into the cave, yellow and orange. Thinks of the apples in his basket that need to be delivered to Olympus before supper.
His hand squeezes the warming flesh under his palm, thinks that it must be blushing.
“Thank you,” Max says, before backing away and standing up. Charles looks up at him in a daze.
“That was very nice,” Max offers, “I think that I enjoy kissing. I think I would like to do it again, if you are to remain here for a while longer, though I must go now.”
Charles blinks at him, clearing his throat with a subtle cough.
“Oh, of- of course,” he says, somewhat meekly. As if suddenly recognizing his surroundings, eyes fleeting up at the streaks of light falling onto his skin, painting scales of sun onto his body, he tenses. He begins to slide back into the pool, drifting over to the gaping deep.
“I also must go. But if you return tomorrow, I shall be here,” he says, a small smile twitching over his mouth, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
Max swallows, feels his heart flutter. He nods. And then, he leaves.
[Interlude]
[Charles]
"Angel, " he calls me Does he know that I'm falling From a precipice that I tripped off long ago? "You're so pure, " he says Does he know, I'm forsaken? The original sinner But soon you'll know
This is what Charles thinks. Of course, these are stolen words, not my own, not his certainly, he is not poetic enough, but they work well enough to summarize the prolonged internal ramblings of a lonely god at the brink of insanity, don't they? Divinity is a nasty business, after all, and quite taxing on the mind. I will leave it at that, lest his ramblings span another ten pages. So, moving on.
