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It’s getting late, Little Moon. Finish the song. It’s not that late. You are my moon, Little Moon, and it’s late enough. So climb down out of the tree.
—Richard Silken, "The Worm King's Lullaby," War of the Foxes
On the outskirts of a town somewhere, there is a small park that holds only a single wrought iron bench, a bush of white roses, and a tree. The bench has been there longer than the park and the white roses are not so much white roses as they are flowers that are beautiful and covered in snow. All beautiful flowers are roses and it has been snowing for so long that the roses have never been any color other than white. The tree is a tree.
In the small park that holds only a single wrought iron bench, a bush of white roses, and a tree, a man called Sukuna is talking to the tree. The tree is not talking back, because trees cannot talk, but the moon is. Not the big moon, though— the little one.
“Won't you come down?” Sukuna pleads, as he has been for some time. He does not remember for how much time, but only that it has been some time. His neck aches from the ceaseless looking-up that it has been doing. “It is so late, little moon. Climb down.”
The little moon shifts among the branches and Sukuna frets over the possibility that the branches will break, sending the little moon crashing to the ground. That cannot happen, for the moon is meant to be in the sky. Or in his arms. Yes, the moon is meant to be in the sky or in his arms.
The moon is not meant to be in a tree. Sukuna had tried to tell the tree that it was wrongfully harboring the moon but the tree did not reply and, most worryingly, seemed content to let the moon stay as it were.
“My name is Megumi,” the little moon says. “And it is not that late.”
He shifts again and the branch he is sat upon creaks ominously. Sukuna lurches forward so that he is directly underneath Megumi’s perch, his eyes level with Megumi’s bare feet.
“I know, little moon,” Sukuna soothes gently, as if Megumi is a frightened animal. There are rabbits on the moon. He reaches his arms high above his head. “But it is late enough. You must be cold. Now come, I will catch you.”
“I am not cold; I am scared,” Megumi says. He does not sound very cold even though he should be and he does not sound very scared even though he said he is, but maybe that is normal for moons. “Will you really catch me?”
“I really will,” Sukuna promises. “And, you see, I am very cold right now and holding you would keep me warm. Won’t you keep me warm, little moon?”
Megumi sits on his branch and thinks. He does not want Sukuna to freeze. The snow is falling heavier than usual, after all, and the man is only wearing a dark coat. It is a handsome coat, but it does not seem to be suited for the weather.
“I can,” he says, finally. He likes that Sukuna asked him for warmth. Most everyone believes that the sun is hot and the moon is cold, but that is not true. Megumi is not cold. “But if I am with you, who will be the moon?”
“The big moon will be the moon. The little moon must climb down the tree so the big moon is able to climb up,” Sukuna reasons.
Megumi thinks, again.
“That makes sense,” he concedes. He eyes the distance between his branch and Sukuna’s outstretched hands. “Catch me.”
So, Sukuna does. Megumi jumps from the tree, a flightless bird, and Sukuna catches him. Pretty little bird with his hollow bones and delicate limbs that fit perfectly in Sukuna’s big-handed grasp. Little moon, little bird, and— he shivers in Sukuna’s arms as he settles, curls into a ball— little rabbit.
The single wrought iron bench is not comfortable; it is covered in snow. There is so much snow, now. Sukuna sits on the snow so Megumi does not have to. Megumi sits on his lap. It feels right and warm, since the moon is meant to be in the sky or in his arms.
“I came here because I heard a song,” Sukuna admits. Megumi has spent the past few minutes staring vacantly into the bush of white roses and Sukuna hates to disturb him. “At first, I thought it was the tree but the tree will not speak to me, so I do not think that it would sing to me either. Would you finish the song?”
“Look at the moon,” Megumi whispers instead, pointing towards it. His gaze has shifted from the roses to the midnight sky.
Sukuna looks at the moon and Sukuna looks at Megumi's hand. It is a lovely hand, as pale and luminescent as brushed silver, and Sukuna wants to hold it.
I do not want to look at the moon , Sukuna thinks. I want to look at you . I adore you, little moon. I always have.
Just then, Megumi’s gaze meets Sukuna’s and oh-so slowly, oh-so preciously, he begins to sing the song that brought Sukuna to the small park on the outskirts of town that holds only a single wrought iron bench, a bush of white roses, and a tree but also Sukuna’s entire heart.
Sukuna thinks that he has loved Megumi for longer than there has been a moon. In the dark quiet of a billion stars still asleep and the empty plane of existence free from all kinds of matter yet to be, Sukuna had already loved Megumi. He is sure of it, now.
The song ends, regretfully, but the final notes ring in Sukuna’s ears as the falling snowflakes reflect the remnants of it that linger, still.
“That is the rest of the song. I would sing more, but I have already stayed for as long as I could,” Megumi says, once everything, even the snow, has grown silent. “Are you warm now?”
“Yes,” Sukuna smiles. It is a handsome smile, like his coat. “I am warm. Thank you for shining on me.”
Most everyone forgets that the moon is a little bit like the sun, just a little bit opposite. They both still shine, both are warm. All Megumi has ever wanted is to bring light to the world but if he cannot have the world, then at least he has Sukuna. Maybe they are the same, or would be the same, but it is late now. It is too late now.
“Good night, little moon,” Sukuna murmurs, because he, too, knows that it is too late. “I love you very much.”
And Megumi says it back, he does, but he is the moon and he is the ghost at the end of the song and he is not there, really.