Chapter Text
Mayoi was only four years of age when he first experienced being brought to death’s door.
Children are foolish, they make mistakes, and from those mistakes must learn as they grow older. For Mayoi, it was as if his parents were expecting a perfect little jewel to be conceived for their fervent prayers and absolute faith. But for them to be instead rewarded with a child so sickly with features so unusual, it was as if their god had spat on their faces, and so bore resentment for him.
He had reached for a book up on a shelf that reached far beyond his reach, and so took a stool to slide the book out. It wasn’t his intention to make the bookcase rock, it wasn’t his wish to have the plant holder sitting on top fall and cause a mess on the ground either. But when his mother had seen the mess, she scowled and grimaced, but it wasn’t for the soil and pieces of terra cotta that had ruined the floor.
“I-I’m sorry, please let me out!”
Mayoi’s cries were in vain, fists pounding weakly at the door as his mother locks the door from the other side.
“Hush, wicked child!” She hissed. “Learn from your crime. Repent and reflect, and may the god have mercy on you.”
When her footsteps disappeared, Mayoi fell to his knees in defeat, for how can a child as frail as himself fight back against his mother? And so he brought his hands together and whispered his prayers with tears rolling down his pale cheeks.
Only two days pass until he’s released, for any more and he would have surely died. His mother held her head up high, and his own father seemed unbothered by the ordeal. Nonetheless, they had set him free, and allowed him to regain what little strength he had to begin with, and that was enough for him to believe that their god was truly looking over him.
His parents never hit him, nor did they ever throw daggers of constant verbal abuse his way aside from the occasional insult, however they lived their lives as if Mayoi never existed in their. At some point Mayoi would have preferred instead to have been treated like a pest than an insignificant insect. And so he prays, prays that his parents pay heed to his existence, prays day and night for them to remember they have a child.
At ten years old, Mayoi’s wish is granted when his father sets light to his dioramas.
“It’s a waste of space.” His voice is cold and unfeeling. “Clean it up afterwards.”
The destructive flames swallowing his perfect world are all that fill Mayoi’s eyes thoughts for the next few days. The little cuts and pinpricks covered by multi-colored bandages on his fingers seem to sting as all his hard work turns into ashes. They burn when he picks up the brush and pan to clear the remains. Later that night he presses together his ash-covered hands and prays again.
At ten years old, Mayoi wishes for a new family.
Later that night, a voice visits him in his dreams. He finds himself standing in front of the shrine he and his family used to visit from time to time, although nowadays it finds itself worn from the lack of people coming by. He himself can’t recall when they’d stopped by last, and come to think of it, he can’t even recall the last time his family had prayed together.
“Do you wish to leave your family behind?” A voice speaks out as Mayoi examines the shrine from outside, earning a tiny little squeak from the boy. He is silent for a few seconds, pondering whether he should answer or not.
“I’m afraid…” Mayoi answers at last, his volume barely above a whisper, but the entity can hear him clearly, even beyond what he voices. “I want a family who will love me, too.”
For a moment the voice doesn’t speak, and especially in his dream, what mere seconds felt like an uncomfortable number of hours to Mayoi.
“Very well,” the voice returns, and Mayoi bites back the urge to ask where the owner of it had gone “continue to pray to me. Steel your faith, and in time you will have your wish.”
“I will watch over you.”
When Mayoi wakes up, Mayoi feels as if a tenth of his own weight had melted off his body. He quickly sits up, feeling around until he’s ensured that he is most certainly back inside the world of the living. He clutches his blanket, unsure of what to make of his dream, but then again what else does he have to rely on? He peers out the window to see the sun rising in the horizon, and the image of the shrine in its poor state flashes in his mind. He feels a tug in his chest— Pity? Guilt? Sympathy? Or perhaps the god that presides over it would find that insulting? But he couldn’t ignore the message either. And so he decides, gathering the cleaning equipment he’d used to clear out his destroyed dioramas earlier, to clean the neglected shrine. Surely his parents wouldn’t care enough to ask, right?
Before the sun has fully risen, he slips out of the house and makes his way down the road, and into the winding path through a forest to the shrine in his dream. When he arrives, the state of the place causes his heart to ache, and he wonders to himself how the god has yet to resent them for their ungratefulness. Pressing his hands together he offers a prayer before working on removing the overgrowth first, with hands so delicate yet meticulous taking care not to damage anything by accident. The thought of creating a diorama of the place as an offering crosses his mind, but his father’s scornful attitude follows shortly after. The idea is quickly discarded along with the vines he’d cut away.
He feels tired, and he laments the state of his body, but quickly looks back up realizing that tomorrow was another day, and so the day after that, and the day after that too. Picking up the cleaning equipment, he returns to the path, stopping halfway to look back.
He repeats this everyday, until finally the shrine itself becomes akin to one of his own creations, only this time he was sure that this can’t be taken from him. It was a place of solace for him, where the loneliness that gripped him daily could not seem to reach him. Yet when he gazes at the stone structure, he can’t help but sense its grievances from having been forgotten for so long. And so, on the seventh visit, he brings with him not a broom or a brush, but a handful of flowers he’d picked along the way. Placing them on a surface, he sits on his knees in front of the shrine and offers a prayer.
“I’ll visit you too, from now on.” A thin smile spreads on his face. “So neither of us will be lonely.”
And so he did, once a week, every week since then. He would bring flowers, sometimes he would bring snacks in the form of ripe fruit or sweets. Knowing his parents wouldn’t be bothered to care even if they noticed his absence, he could spend hours just sitting by the stone structure, speaking as if he was holding a conversation with the god that presided within it. He would start bringing his own books along with his humble offerings, reading and discussing literature, speaking fondly of places from both fantasy and the real world that he longs to visit.
“I couldn’t see them myself, and so I tried to make them with my own hands… The places I’ve imagined in my head.” The corners of his mouth drop into a frown as he remembers what his father had done, and he feels himself become smaller. “I’m stuck here… Aren’t I?”
He asks, but receives no answer from the voiceless shrine. “Even just once, I wish to see a field of flowers with my own two eyes.”
That night, it rained upon Mayoi’s return home. Upon returning to the shrine a week later, he nearly drops the tangerines in his hands when he sees small flowers thriving by the shrine. Though far from the field of his dreams, it was enough to bring him to tears. He arranges the fruit as he usually would, and spends the next few hours in the company of the flowers, and the god that loves him dearly.
He gathers some of his belongings in a bag, and stows them away under his bed. At some point, his parents decided to acknowledge his presence again, if only to have him do chores seeing as his body was no longer as weak as it once was. Although it was a pity that they saw it as an opportunity to take advantage of, Mayoi couldn't help but feel thankful. Surely, this strength was a gift, a way to help him out of this hell he was born into. Along with his weekly visits to the shrine, once a week he would also be sent to buy things from the local market. Though speaking with others was something he was yet to get used to, seeing as his conversation partners so far have been with a god who doesn't answer back, and his stuffed toys that were even less responsive. It was never not nerve-wracking, and even holding a conversation with the vendors proved to be difficult. Still, at the very least it was a way for him to put together a plan of escape, gathering and saving up change he'd receive for use later on. Having read enough as well, he knew just where he could go, and how he could survive.
But on the night just before his birthday, he returns from his weekly visit to the shrine to find his bag and belongings strewn across the room, and the box where he had been keeping his savings inside empty. In the midst of his shock he fails to hear the footsteps approaching his room from outside, and it becomes too late when he hears the door slam shut with a click. He feels his blood turn cold, and suddenly he is four years old once again.
He sinks to his knees with his arms around himself, lip trembling and eyes welling up with tears. Why? Why was this happening? Wasn't this supposed to be a way to his happy ending? He feels a lump form in his throat, and he grips his violet locks in his fists, tugging hard, praying that he could wake up from this nightmare. Everything feels unreal, as if the world could collapse at any moment, and he certainly hopes it would. His chest rises and falls in quick succession as his breathing grows erratic, mind abuzz with everything and nothing at the same time.
He closes his eyes, trying to find a quiet space in his head.
I will watch over you.
The voice from a dream he had as a child resurfaces in his mind. The voice of the one thing that has been keeping his hope intact this whole time, and now he wonders if the god has abandoned him, too.
The mere thought drives him to tears, and they roll freely down his face in streams, dripping down to his lap. He wants to know, at least, if it was true. Surely, he has nothing else to lose now, right? And so he stands back up, wobbling a little, and he walks to a small box in his room where he’s hidden little trinkets he’s picked up and kept. He looks through the small pile, and retrieves a pin.
In moments, he unlocks his bedroom window and slips out, his mind still static, and his body almost moving on its own as he makes his way down the road, through the winding path through the never-changing forest to the shrine he’s most familiar with. The usual peace doesn’t take over, and instead he feels his stomach grow heavier as he draws closer, until he falls to his knees in front of the shrine.
At seventeen years old, on the night before his birthday, Mayoi begs to be taken from this world.
“I’m just a stain.” He says, his voice as cold as the night air. “Even the insects on the ground are above me.”
Each word he says is like a dagger through his heart as he comes to terms with his position in this life.
“Please,” he brings his hands together “take my life.”
He expects no response, and not once has he ever searched for one.
A wind sweeps through the forest, soon turning into a gust that picks up the leaves fallen onto the soil. When Mayoi looks up, he finds someone else standing before him. A man with eyes the color of Mayoi’s hair, and hair the color of Mayoi’s eyes. Two dots decorate the right side of his face, and a pair of horns protrude from the sides of his head. As their eyes meet, the winds die down, and the tempest in Mayoi’s chest follows suit.
Mayoi is speechless— he doesn’t know if he should be afraid, or stay calm enough to see what happens next. He feels like a scared little animal, and although mere moments ago he was begging for his life’s end, he was now fearing for it.
When the figure moves, he shrinks away instinctively, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms in front of his head. When nothing happens, he slowly lowers his guard, and turns his head to see a hand extended towards him. He looks up, finding the stranger was now close enough for Mayoi to see the sympathy in his amethyst eyes,
“Are you hurt?”
He asks, and Mayoi feels a shock of electricity run up his spine.
“I’m…” With a moment of hesitation, Mayoi soon takes his hand. And though this was the first he’s held anyone’s hand before, the feeling seems… Familiar. “I-I’m not.”
He’s brought up to his feet, but the stranger doesn’t release his hand just yet. Mayoi stares into his eyes in silence, unsure of what to say, but the silence between them is quickly broken as the taller man speaks.
“Do you wish to leave your family behind?”
And that’s when Mayoi remembers. A dream he had long ago, the very same dream which has kept him alive these years. He remembers the voice, calm and pleasant, and ever inviting. He remembers the question, and the answer he’d given, as well as the promise he’d received after.
In time, you will have your wish.
Mayoi feels his gut wrench, a sense of betrayal and guilt following soon after. He purses his lips, sharp teeth gnawing at them as his hold on the stranger’s hand tightens subconsciously. He wishes he could blame it all on the man standing before him, all his sorrows and his grief, yet he knows it isn’t fair. And so all he can do now is cry, to let all his frustrations flow like a stream, and to hope that when he opens his eyes, everything will be better, with a reason for him to smile again.
“I can’t…” He whispers. Before the stranger can speak, Mayoi clutches at his white sleeve, lifting his head to look at his god in the eyes. “I can’t leave behind what was never mine.”
The stranger’s face conveys astonishment, but soon thereafter back into a serene expression.
“I’ve heard your prayers.” He says, raising a hand to cup his cheek, brushing a thumb against his bottom lip. “Your resolve is solid, I can see you are firm with what you want.”
“Then—”
“Then I shall take you from this life.”
Wrapping an arm around his waist, he pulls him closer, until he can sense the way his heartbeat quickens.
“Unable to return, and the life you lead here will be no more. You will live with me. Is that what you wish for?”
A flurry of emotions takes Mayoi over, the thought of leaving the only life he’s known for one full of uncertainty truly seems daunting.
But he looks back on that life he’d be exchanging, and it becomes all too apparent that anything… Anything would be a much better alternative. His hands on his chest, his fingers curl as he answers.
“I have no place here…” It stings to say, but the truth is never easy he supposes.
His dreams of a paradise have been set alight, long ago. “So I will follow you, I will be whatever you want me to be, m-my god…” The phrase feels a bit odd on his tongue.
“...Tatsumi.”
“Eh?”
“Please, call me Tatsumi.” The man who calls himself Tatsumi then lifts his hand, raising it to his lips. He gives him a smile that eases his nerves. Though, there is some hesitation evident in his eyes. “Fufu, are you to deny me my first request from you?”
“H-huh? Oh, no— I.. I-I’ll be in your care from now on, Tatsumi-san.”
The flustered look on his face causes Tatsumi’s smile to widen, and with that, the winds pick up once more, swirling around them in a dance.
“Let’s take our leave, Mayoi-san.” He says, tucking a violet lock behind his ear. “I will grant your wish.”
An affirming nod, Mayoi feels his feet leave the ground, and instinctively he clings to the other man, his eyes squeezing shut as he holds his breath. With none but the moon to witness their ascension together, the winds die as the pair vanish without a trace, departing from the world of mortals.
At seventeen, Mayoi decides to run away from a prison that was meant to be his home.
And at the age of eighteen, he devotes his life to the one who had loved him through it all.