When Shiro woke, everything was dark, and the stone was cold under his hands, and the flickering flame of torches cast a thousand shadows on Adam’s terrified face.
He scrambled to his feet with a gasp, scraping his knees on the rough stone, thin sandals digging into his feet. The dampness was suffocating, a blanket of wet air filling his lungs until he was drowning. He reached out to Adam, to touch and hold him, finally, finally, finally, but his hands would not obey, nor would his arms stretch out. Instead he only stood paralyzed and looked at him, watched as the shadows danced across his face. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Where were his glasses? Adam couldn’t see. He needed to see.
“Son of the Skies, Grand Master of the Lyre and the Silver Tongue,” boomed a voice, not loud, but strong, strong enough that the pebbles on the ground shook in fear and the water rushing behind the walls of the cave froze. Shiro looked up, terror making his movements jerky, fragmented, and saw for the first time in front of him a throne grander than any he’d ever seen, woven together with bones and skulls and ash, studded with gold and diamond. The flames of the torches soared, burning brightly, blinding white in the blackness of the cave, illuminating on the throne skin of bleached bone, eyes of crimson rubies, and a crown of blood and marrow, dripping in rivulets down his face.
Hades.
Shiro did not know how he knew the god, from where the certainty came, but he was sure: in front of him, giant in stature and horrifying in posture, the god of death and dying and riches sit before him.
“Orpheus,” Hades thundered, more final than before.
Shiro knew that Hades spoke to him. He was Orpheus. He knew also, somehow, that he was the one who had demanded an audience, he was the one who stood trembling in front of the King and asked a task impossible, implored the mercy of the god for whom mercy was a slight, an insult.
“Do you understand the gravity of what you ask? I am moved by your plea, by your song. But what you demand is an imbalance. A disruption of the natural order. Your lover died of no unnatural means. To send him back to the living would be to risk the delicate balance of life itself, for no gain for anyone but you and your love. And still you ask me?”
Sweat dripped into Shiro’s eyes, even as he shivered from the cold. He looked over to Adam — to Eurydice — who stood frozen beside Hades’ throne, black tendrils of poison still lining his skin from the venom of the snake that befell him; the lines of betrayal because Shiro could not save him, because Shiro left him behind.
To die.
He would not leave Adam behind again. Not at his own behest, not at Hades’, and most certainly not at the world’s. He would choose Adam, this time. This time he would choose to be selfish.
He turned to the god, resolve hardening his jaw, straightening his spine, even as terror churned in his belly, trembled his hands.
“I understand that gravity of my request. And I make it again — I beg you, Lord of the Underworld, for the return of my love’s soul.”
This time, he would choose Adam.
The god stared at him for several minutes, unmoving, unspeaking, endlessly. He looked silently ahead for long enough that Shiro felt as if his would skin wrinkle and his hair would grey. He feared he would be trapped in this cave until he perished, and he and Adam would never be free.
“I will grant you his freedom,” Hades said finally. “Your performance and bravery are admirable, boy. You have nearly won your prize.”
Shiro swallowed. “Nearly?”
Hades’ gaze grew cold. “My domain is large, and treacherous. You have played waylaid your way into it, and now you must find your way out. Your love may follow you, and once you are both in the land of the living, there you shall both stay until the sands of time finally return you to me.”
“Thank you,” Shiro gasped out, hunched over in his relief. “Thank you, my lord —”
Hades held up his hand for silence, and Shiro’s tongue grew heavy in his mouth.
“But,” he warned, “Eurydice shall walk behind you. And if you look back, even once, he will remain here for eternity, and he shall never be with you again. These are my terms.”
“I accept,” Shiro said hastily. Immediately. Hades could have suggested any sacrifice and he would have made it. This would be easy; a sacrifice only of faith.
“Go, then,” said Hades.
Shiro hesitated. “Adam, call out to me, so I know —”
“Go now, boy!” Hades boomed, coming to his feet, and the weight of him shifted the walls and shook the ceilings, a rain of rock falling from the sky. “Do not look back!”
Shiro turn and fled. He ran from the cave, from the throne of bone and blood and the flames that stank of rot and the god that held the souls of everything that had ever lived in his palms. He ran past the weeping poplar trees, silver in the eternal night of the underworld. He ran until his sandals ripped and his feet bled on the unforgiving ground, skin cracked and torn. He collapsed finally to the ground, heavy breathing the only sound in the heavy stillness of the Underworld.
“Adam?” he called softly, once he had his breath again. “Adam, are you behind me?”
He heard nothing, even when he held his own breaths. Not the quiet uptick of an inhale, nor the steady sigh of an exhale; not the shifting of clothes and skin, not the shuffling footsteps of a man waiting. Not even a faint heartbeat. There was no sound but the near-silent rustling of the poplar leaves, and the slow movement of the river Lethe.
“Please,” he begged. “Just — even a click of your fingers. Please let me know you’ve followed me.”
When no sound made known the presence of his love, he pressed the heels of his hands to his red and aching eyes, holding back a sob. He had to have faith. He had made the selfish choice, and now he was paying the price. He would stave forward, eyes steady, until they were both securely back to the land of the living, and then they would both live their lives.
Onward he trekked, much slower this time. He limped and pushed his way over the uneven ground, careful of fragments of forgotten bones and shattered glass, of spilled dreams and broken promises. He walked along the bank of the Lethe until the temptation of its waters grew to strong, and then he followed the bends of the Phlegethon, occasionally plunging his hands into the searing flames of it to drink when the exhaustion grew too great for him to continue.
For weeks he stumbled on the floor of the Underworld, crying out for any hint of his love’s faith, of him following, only to receive stony silence in return. On some days the hopelessness grew too great for him to ignore, and he would collapse in a heap, forcing his head down so as to not look behind him, and weep. He did not know where he was going, nor how long it would take to finally escape. Or even if he ever would. All he wanted was the barest glimpse, the smallest assurance that Adam had even been allowed to follow him from Hades’ throne. What if he had not? Hades was not known for his mercy. For him to allow Shiro an audience at all had been a miracle. He had sworn no oath, made no promise. For all that was certain, he had simply said what Shiro wanted to hear to get him away from the throne room, and Adam was still trapped, soul severed and alone, hopeless.
But there was some hope. Shiro could not hear him, could not see him, could not even catch the barest hint of his scent — peppermint and evergreen — but he trusted Adam. Even when they fought, even in anger, he trusted Adam. Even when they tore themselves apart Shiro trusted him. He had to trust that Adam would fight to follow him, and that he was right behind him.
After months at least of travel, although no time passed in the barren fields of the unloved and unliving, his hope was finally in sights. A bright light shined from the side of a mountain — too warm to be from the endless night of this barren hellscape. Shiro knew in his heart that once he reached that door, once he clawed his way up the mountain and through to the light, he would be free. He and Adam both — please let Adam be behind me, please, please make a noise or a sound or even the barest huff of air, please, I need to know you’re here with me that you’re behind me that you followed me that you want to live with me that you want to be with me that you want to live Adam please please please — would be free.
He stumbled finally through the light, out of the frozen and uncaring darkness and into the gentle warmth of the sun on his skin, the scent of the grass in the air, the packed earth under his cheek and his hands.
The land of the living.
Finally.
With relief more palpable than he had ever felt, he turned finally behind him, praying to any gods that would listen that he would find Adam behind him, sandals on the ground, chestnut hair glowing golden in the sunlight, gentle smile rivalling the brightest stars.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When he gathered his courage to open his eyes, slowly, too afraid to go quickly, he saw finally the face of his love. Adam stood tall behind him, long and lean and beautiful, one step into the warm beauty of the world.
Only one foot was still behind him, mid-step, toes of his sandal barely brushing the rough stone of the Underworld.
“No,” Shiro moaned. A freezing dread rose slowly from the soles of his feet up his legs and arms and froze over his heart. “No!”
“Shiro,” Adam whispered, quiet and crackly and desperate. “Shiro —”
As if a thousand hands had grabbed onto his tunic he was suddenly yanked backwards, pulled back into the depths of the unknown.
“Shiro! Help me! Please!”
“No! No! We made it! We were on land!”
Shiro lunged forward, desperate to grab him, to finally wrap his arms around him after days weeks months years of stumbling through the barren wasteland without any indication that Adam was following and he couldn’t lose him now, not now, please, they were so close, they were on land! Their feet were on the soil! They were so close, please, no, no —
He reached forward as far as he could, fingers brushing Adam’s, before he was pulled away with a final cry of Shiro’s name and the stone was shut behind him.
“Adam!”
Shiro gasps awake with his hand still outstretched, reaching for a soul that had already disappeared from his life. Everything is dark, but this time there is no cold stone under his hands, only soft blankets. And the flickering of light doesn’t come from dimly lit torches, but the strange glow of the Altean crystals that power the castle.
There is no Hades. No underworld. No desperate bid for Adam’s soul.
Shiro buries his face in his hand and cries.
On reflex he tries to touch the gold of his engagement ring, something he’s done to self-soothe for ages, but the stark reminder of why he can’t do that anymore only makes him cry harder. The metal of his left hand is cool against his heated skin, unforgiving.
Why couldn’t he have been selfish? Or maybe he was selfish, choosing the Kerberos mission. Maybe Adam was selfish, to try to keep him from it. He doesn’t know. He’s thought about it — spent hours and days agonizing over it, locked in a Galran prison cell — and there’s never a clear winner, in his mind. He knows Adam cares about him. Cared. He still feels the open wounds in his chest, the feeling that his heart was ripped open and bared to the world when Adam slipped through his fingers. It haunts him. He dreams about it often, every single night, in a myriad of different ways. It’s always painful.
The Greek mythology allegory is new, though. He has to hand it to his subconscious — it never runs out of new ways to torture him.
He forces himself to take a deep breath, pressing his fingertips into his eyes until it hurts.
“You don’t have time for this,” he whispers to himself. “You have a mission tomorrow. You need to sleep.”
He forces himself to lie back onto his pillows, untangling the blankets and dragging them up to his chin. He slows his breathing, steady inhale, steady exhale, trying to lull himself into a deep slumber.
He lies awake until the alarm sounds in the morning.
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There’s a knock on his door.
Keith freezes. There’s never a knock at his door.
“…Yeah?” he calls out cautiously, dog-earing his book and setting it down on his mattress. Shiro doesn’t knock, Shiro just calls out from wherever he is. Or texts him. And it’s not like Keith even has friends over, because he’d have to have friends to have them over. Shiro is also, as it turns out, equally as uncool, and never has company.
The door handle turns, and Adam pokes his head through the crack.
“You busy?” he asks.
Keith blinks. “Oh. Hi.”
That makes sense. Adam is here a lot. Keith has kind of forgotten to count him as company, actually. He kind of just appears at random times. Keith is half convinced that Adam is actually some kind of hologram Shiro has created to argue with, mostly because imagining that is really funny.
But he’s never come to Keith’s room before.
“Hi,” he says back, smiling slightly. “Shiro had to run out to handle something because the Garrison would delve into chaos without him, apparently. So he’ll be gone until after dinner.”
He looks at Keith expectantly. Keith stares back, eyes big, because he has no idea what the hell to say to that. Like, he’s correct, Shiro is the one and only thing holding the stupid school together, but Keith’s not quite sure why Adam has come to announce that to him.
“So are you free?” Adam repeats.
“Oh,” Keith says, startling a little. This is a — Adam is seeking him out. Intentionally. Planned. The fiancé of his foster — father? brother? mentor? Keith should ask more questions — has made plans, and they include Keith. Keith is being considered as someone to be hung out with.
“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m free.”
“Cool,” Adam says, nodding. “C’mon.”
Keith scrambles off his bed and to the door, not wanting to give Adam time to change his mind. Not that it matters, or Keith cares about hanging out with him. Or anybody for that matter. But he’s curious, so.
“What are we doing?” Keith asks, jogging after him. Adam is a power walker. There’s not a lot of space to power walk in the small apartment, but Adam manages to leave him in the dust anyway. More fuel to Keith’s hologram theory.
“Well, obviously I love your brother more than the moon and stars,” Adam says matter-of-factly, striding over to the kitchen and opening counters.
Keith blinks. Well. That’s one question answered, he supposes.
“But I’m worried.” Adam sets down his armful of supplies; a small mixing bowl, chopsticks, a knife, a cutting board, and an array of vegetables. “Takashi tries very hard at everything he does. It usually gets him quite far. But cooking?” He shakes his head, grabbing a strainer and a head of cabbage and stepping over to the sink. “I don’t know who cursed him, but he’s physically incapable. And you’re thirteen. You’re growing. You can’t eat boxed noodles and peanut butter sandwiches all day. It’s bad for you. Come here.”
“I eat a lot of fruit,” Keith offers, feeling strangely like he has to defend Shiro, or something. Not even necessarily against Adam. Perhaps against the Allegations. “He’s very big on oranges. And mandarins. All citrus, really. There’s a lot of it.”
Adam rolls his eyes. “That is because Takashi read a book about scurvy when he was fourteen and is now terrified of it, because he is a goober. He’s also afraid of squirrels, if you’re wondering. He found out that some of them are carnivorous and never recovered.”
A tiny, barely there smile quirks his lips. Keith bites the corners of his mouth so it doesn’t get any ideas, then steps hesitantly towards the kitchen island, across from Adam. He watches him scrub the leafy vegetable, careful to get in all the nooks and crannies, then pat it dry. He moves to set the cabbage down and then seems to think better of it, leaning back against the sink.
“Get me the salt,” he says, gesturing to a bowl on the counter with pursed lips.
Keith narrows his eyes at it suspiciously. “Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Adam observes.
“You answer very vaguely,” Keith returns.
Adam barks a laugh. Keith finds himself pleased at the reaction.
“I’m going to scrub the cabbage with it,” Adam explains. “It’ll draw out the moisture and take out any leftover dirt, too.”
Satisfied at the answer, Keith grabs the salt bowl, bringing it over. He moves to go back to his spot but Adam stops him with a wet hand around his wrist, gently guiding his hands towards the cabbage. Keith wills his shoulders to relax.
“One hand open to support it, one hand in the salt bowl,” Adam instructs quietly. “Grab a handful and start rubbing it in.”
Hesitantly, Keith grabs the offered cabbage, hyperaware of how his shoulder brushes against Adam’s bicep when he moves; how he doesn’t move away, but he’s not crowding, either. Just…close.
“I can actively feel my fingers pruning,” Keith says in disgust.
Adam snorts. “Yeah, they do that.”
Step by step, Adam guides him through chopping vegetables, measuring spices, mixing sauces, and handling the stove until Keith is working his way through a basic stir-fry like a pro. He’s more shocked than he should be when he tries his first bite of it and likes it.
“You have managed to avoid being cursed, too,” Adam says around his own bite, pleasantly surprised. “I was worried that living with Takashi would curse you by proxy. But this is good.”
“I mean. It was stir-fry. We chopped and we fried. Hard to fuck up,” Keith points out.
“You’d think. When I tried to do this with Shiro, the pan was charred so bad we had to throw it out. I don’t even know what he did. I was right there. It’s like he destroyed it by rancid vibes alone.”
Keith hides a smile in his noodles. Adam notices anyway, and grins.
“Sounds about right.”
“You’re good, though, kiddo,” Adam says, and his hand is heavy on Keith’s head. “You’re good.”
Keith swallows the sudden lump in his throat. His face gets red.
He leans into the touch.
———
other parts in this universe
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