Archive of Our Own

It was the wrong thing to say. The arms around his waist grew tighter and Peter learned that night that his father was stronger than he could ever imagine; his father broke down. Silent sobs wracked a body ten times bigger than his and it was as if his questions unleashed a dam that had struggled to remain contained for millennia. That was precisely what had happened, his mother explained much later. In that moment, however, his father had given Peter a happier explanation; one that wouldn't fill him with sorrow and anguish like it did his father.

Your sister fell in love with her own gift, the moon, and now she sits atop it. She laughs and nebulae are born; when she runs across the sky, the stars run alongside her. She looks over us now, she'll look over us forever.

Your gift, my son, sits far away for a reason. You must never get too close for although it is not as beautiful nor as bright as your wings, one day it will be strong enough to wound titans. It is a gift for you to admire, yes, but one that might save you in battle.

So if titans attack, it's my responsibility to use its power? To protect you and mother?

Exactly, sweet boy. Only you will discover the path to what will become this planet's Sun. If the titans come, you will lead them to the star, trick them into flying higher and higher until the star vanquishes them. You will hide amidst the clouds, safe and sheltered. Alive. Can you promise me you'll protect your family?

Yes, father.

He is told the truth when his uncle dies. Peter holds his mother, watches as diamonds scatter from her weeping eyes. It is the morning of a new millennium and the gods are mourning the fall of their own. While his father ravages the sky, wails and roars inside the biggest thunderstorm this planet has ever witnessed, his mother whispers to him. In between lightning strikes and booming, deafening thunder, he starts to understand. His uncle died on the same day his sister had flown into the skies two thousand years ago, into what they call space, to play with the moon their father had gifted her. But gods cannot survive such environments. Even the god of gods, his father, barely lived after bringing Peter's gift from the depths of the void home.

Peter kisses his mother, wipes away the gems clinging to her lashes and goes in search of the path his father had mentioned. He would never let another titan slaughter a member of his family.

-----

They call him Apollo here, the sun god. Appropriate, since he's spent nearly a thousand years trying to plot out a path to his star. It's beautiful now, a bright fire illuminating everything on Earth. The sunlight, pure and soft, streams through the windows of an inventor's tower and he considers the nature of love instead of contemplating how many years his parents have gone without his sister.

Daedalus, his companion in this odd venture, says the same thing as his father. "Say I make you a pair of wings. If you fly too close to the sun, you'll die and I'd rather not have your death on my conscience. I'd be bawling in the streets and what will happen? The whole of Athens will want my head fried by lightning. A young man's death, that can really fracture a community, Icarus. I'd, I'd know." The man, a genius ostracized by his home and forced to reside in Athens, falters in his tinkering, eyes glassy.

Peter stares at him from his perch on the window, at ease a hundred feet from the rocky ground. There are feathers sticking out of black hair, wax splattered on tan forearms, twine curled around clever fingers. The miniature he's working on is hidden by stacks of scrolls and ancient sketches piled atop the permanently tilted desk Peter had his half brother (the humans name him Hephaestus and Peter wheezes, clutches Michelle's arm while she howls with laughter. Ned huffs, throws hammers and chairs at their heads while cursing their lineage.) make for the man. He doesn't need to see it to know it will be beautiful.

Michelle had looked at him oddly the first time he brought the tiny sculptures home, surprised Peter stopped flying long enough to meet a human and actually interact with them in order to get the pretty figures. But he never asked Daedalus about them, and the human didn't mention anything either. Because the mathematician (Peter had stared at him when he'd confessed he was an architect, craftsman, tinkerer and mathematician. Who knew humans could be so talented?) left the little statues on the windowsill Peter unofficially claimed as his own, he always assumed they were for him.

"What are you working on?"

"Hmm? Oh, just some wings. I'm modelling them after Apollo's, but I don't have enough of a clear reference to do the details." Back from what Peter suspects is a tragic trip down memory lane, Daedalus continues with his newest invention; the human is too focused to notice Peter's chest has stopped moving.

Peter didn't know it could do that.

Mouth dry, he shakily asks, "Apollo? The sun god? That's who the statues are for?" Daedalus flushes, clears his throat and why can't Peter get Michelle, the god humans call the wisest of all, out of his head? She had, once, picked a figurine and analyzed it. Stared unblinking at the bottom with an amused smile. He scrambles for the one he always keeps with him, a half moon and a sun joined to form a circle. It doesn't exactly have a flat bottom, but there in the back: For the loveliest of beings.

He hasn't received a gift since, well. He looks at his star, hanging in the sky and spilling light over the world. A gift to Icarus, a friendly companion, is one thing, a gift to a god...

"It seems silly, I know. But back home, we would give offerings to those we thought beautiful. Those who had somehow helped us. When I was," Daedalus stiffens, spits out the word like it personally condemned him, "exiled, I walked to a cliff close by. About half a day away from here. I'd been shunned by people I knew since I was a child, forced to leave my family, my home. I was in a bad place, so I decided to end it. The ocean was lovely anyway, it wouldn't be a bad place to die. And just when I'm going to take the last step, I see him. Soaring, as elegant as a bird, as fast as a shooting star. I couldn't believe it, a god. The sun hit his wings and I, I was blown away."

He knows that cliff, has launched himself off it for decades after he discovered it would be the best start to his path, at an ideal height and angle.

Peter watches, transfixed, as Daedalus dives into his papers, hands yanking and pulling at weathered scrolls. "Icarus, I can't even tell you how beautiful he was, how his wings glowed. I thought I was dead, I swear. He gave me purpose; I decided I wouldn't rest until I replicated the sight. Ah, here we are. These were some of my first sketches. That day, I paid for this place, my materials, charcoal and paint. Didn't even have a chair, I just got to work." The human walks over, hands Peter drawings that look like they should be revered in temples.

More than three millennia old and he's never seen works of art lovelier than the ones he gently holds in his trembling hands. Daedalus captured him mid flight, wings aloft and spread wide, stray feathers drifting down into the ocean. "Here, I found one the next week. I have it on me all the time. It's softer than silk." His own feather is offered back to him and Peter is reminded of his parents. His father asked his mother to marry him by giving her a favorite diadem she had lost years ago. He had searched for it endlessly, embedded lightning bolts so he could find it if it were ever lost again.

And here Peter is, with a human who leaves gifts out in the sunlight for him and dedicates his life to recreating him in flight. "What was the first thing you drew? These are relatively new scrolls and I know you started living awhile ago." His feather is still perfectly intact, a drop of his golden blood, now dry, at its tip. They usually disintegrate after a few days. If his calculations are correct, it'd be five months since the feather was torn by the wind.

Daedalus purses his lips, looks to the sky. "I lost them. It's going to rain soon, you should go home, Icarus. With this weather, I don't think Apollo is going to bring the sun back any time soon." A glance outward and ah, his father knows he's here. The thunderstorm will begin shortly.

Peter doesn't understand why he says it, can't comprehend the reason behind his heart's betrayal. "That's not my name. Apollo. Or Icarus. The gifts have been lovely, beautiful, really. But you probably didn't know they act as a declaration of love to gods."

They stare at each other. This is the first time he has been afraid of a human, of their reactions. He is an immortal god with plans to chart the stars in a time of war, a being of light and power no human could grasp. And here Peter is, with his heart fluttering like a newborn star in his chest, feather clenched tight in his fist.

"No. I know about the declaration. When the figures were gone the next morning, I thought that maybe Apollo had come. Had accepted them. It was foolish." Daedalus works his jaw, steps back from Peter. "I should've known I was being taken for a fool. Leave the drawings on the desk and don't come back. I've been accused of murder before, but this time they'd be right." The human spins around, heads to the door with anger radiating from him in waves.

Gods do not know how to love. Not properly and rarely each other. There exists too much time between them to love like humans believe they love. His own father and mother grow apart for decades before finding their way to each other again. It is not done for the loss would be too great if death fell upon them. With humans the worry is amplified due to their foretold short lives.

If his sister cannot live, he will live for her. And what is life without a love destined to be doomed? What is life without attempting to deny destiny?

Peter rises from his perch, ignores the encroaching storm with its booming thunder and streaking lightning, and spreads his wings completely, calling the sun forward for his star's light to shine upon him.

Daedalus falls to his knees, covers his eyes and shakes with his back to the god. "I don't deserve to see. Please, this is enough. This light is enough. Your shadow is enough."

"Why won't you look at me, the same young man who spends his afternoons with you while you tinker away?"

"I doubted you. I doubted a god, a heavenly being, an immortal, powerful deity."

Peter laughs. He laughs and the room is bathed in gold, no shadows to be found. Walking slowly so as not to startle the shaken man, the sun god approaches Daedalus. "Do you honestly believe I would've expected anything else from you? You've been stubborn since the day we met, I wouldn't have been friends with you if I couldn't handle it."

Daedalus swivels toward him, frowning and simultaneously pouting, "I am not that stubborn. You're the one who doesn't make sense, why ask me to build you wings when you, you, oh, you have wings." The frown forgotten, now the human stares at him in wonder, in a quiet awe that is more subtle than that of the worshipers at his temple.

Peter blinks, isn't sure what to make of this gentle reverence. "I need armor. For my wings. For when I fly close to the sun." Michelle, he is sure, must be dead by now. Death by laughing over how he just sounded. A god and he can't talk right when a handsome human looks at him like he's something beautiful.

"You're really doing that? Gods, you'll die, ah. I don't know your-"

"Peter. I have to get close, Daedalus, I have to. If the titans come back, I have to lead them to the sun. I can't do that if I don't get close. Are you listening to me? I didn't...break you, did I? I've never shown someone my true form." Peter chews on his nail, a bad habit he picked up from Ned. Daedalus is just, just grinning on the floor, mouthing the same word over and over.

"Peter. Peter. Peter. That suits you."

Flushing, he bows his head, mutters a thank you. His name hasn't been complimented before.

"You're exactly the same. A little more feathers, but the same. Gods don't age at all, do they?"

"We do, slowly. We met at the market a month ago, of course I'm the same." Daedalus chuckles, stands up from the floor and cracks his back, sighs at the stretch. "Peter, that was five years ago and I've been in exile for fifteen years. Those gifts? Started leaving them on the windowsill the day after the second time I saw you."

He gawks at the man, tries to discern if he's joking. Gods are notoriously horrible at keeping track of time, but surely. Surely he would have noticed. Wouldn't he?

The inventor hands him a different drawing, this one with the date in a corner. (Oh, five years ago.) That's not what immediately catches his attention, though. Daedalus didn't sketch his wings alone, the human sketched him in his entirety, face included. "I saw you, that day at the cliff. You were so high up, but I caught a glimpse. Imagine my surprise when a decade later you show up at the market, still cloaked in sunlight and still lovely. I wanted to meet you, so I made you the first figurine. Told myself it couldn't be you, I was seeing things."

"The sun and moon was your first gift. Were you trying to court me then? Woo me as a human?"

"Yes. Have been the entire time, Peter. Not all the figures reference Apollo. As the years passed, I forced myself to stop wondering if you were a god. Forced myself to believe what I saw that day on the cliff was a dream. It helped and I. I fell in love, I suppose. But I couldn't forget the god of the sun. When all the statues were taken, I was a bit surprised. You didn't say anything and Apollo didn't do anything. I kept making them." Peter looks at his first gift from Daedalus, finds it ironic it was made for Icarus instead of Apollo.

"All I need now is to discover your name isn't Daedalus." He laughs wryly, shaking his head and trying to get things in order. Courted for half a decade and he hadn't noticed. Whoever said gods were wise clearly hadn't met one.

When he looks up, the artist winces. His mirth fades quickly. "Do you have any idea the amount of information I've had to process today? Do you know how serious courting is for us? My mother will not let me go until she sees each sculpture. I'm going to need a calendar, now. I'm the sun god, it shouldn't be that hard to pay attention to the number of days that pass, Daedalus; I let five years slip by."

"I wasn't sure if you were a god, I couldn't give you my name. How could I guarantee you wouldn't curse me?" Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, rolls back his wings to relieve tension. He can hear Daedalus start sketching him.

"I can't believe I'm going to fall for you."

A pause. "You don't have to."

"No, I'm going to. Tell me your name, then. At least Michelle can curse you if you make that horrible breakfast again."

"First of all, you're a god; human food will taste bad. Second, who is Michelle? Third, don't move. If you waited this long to tell me, you'll wait while I get this done. I spent more than a decade hoping to draw your wings right. Fourth, my name's Anthony."

Scowling, he flaps his wings and sends every single sheaf of paper flying. The human stares at him, unamused. Peter rolls the name on his tongue, tests it out and fails to think of what it would do to a human if a god said their name while in their true form.

"Anthony." It falls like honey from his tongue, golden and precious, holy from a holy mouth. His blood, the blood of a first born son of Zeus, wasn't as pure and light. Anthony shivers, grips the desk tightly. The human's eyes glow now, bright and decidedly not human. When he speaks, his words are slurred and lazy. "What did you just do to me, Peter?"

Peter blinks. Well. "I think I made you like me."

------

A century after he knowingly accepts Anthony's courting gifts, his father accepts Anthony as Peter's lover. They take to the skies to celebrate, the gods with the wings they've had since they were created by the waves and Tony with the wings he perfected after crafting them for decades. They have some of Ned and Michelle's feathers, a sign of friendly love and affection, but mostly they're composed of Peter's own feathers. Should Tony fall, he would always find his lover.

They are dancing in the clouds, happy and free, his mother teaching Tony how to pass through them without getting drenched by their hidden rain, when the titans come. Silently, they aim. Silently, they fire.

He sees his mother shove Anthony away from an arrow, sees it pierce her heart instead of his lover's. Hears how she sighs, sweetly and gently. Sees the kiss she presses to Tony's cheek as he clutches her body, eyes glassy and mouth moving over the letters in her name repeatedly. His father sees it too. Father and son notice the titan that fired and fates are sealed.

Michelle whisks his mother and Tony away, gray wings wrapped tight around her charges. She wears no armor, none of them do, but no weapon will harm the people he loves. Michelle won't allow it. With them safe, he gives chase with his father, tearing apart any enemy that dares stand in his way.

-------

He flies too close to the sun.

The titans are nearly dead, but the murderer who stole his mother away is still breathing, locked in battle with his father. The gods are not who they once were, and his father has grown tired. He will not survive, Peter knows. He knows because two thousand years ago, every titan would already be ash mingling with ocean foam. Now his father struggles, can barely avoid the killing blow that comes after him.

His father will die. But if he will die, then so will the titan. Peter remembers his promise as a child and decides that, at least once, he'll play with his gift. He'll dance with the sun like his sister danced with the moon.

He leads his father onto the path, hurtling through the clouds faster than he has flown before, wings burning due to the wind clawing at his feathers. It does not matter. His father follows him and the titan cannot escape.

They break through the layer of clouds that shroud Mount Olympus' peak. Peter keeps going and he does not stop. Flames flicker atop his shoulders, sink into his skin and singe his bones. It does not matter. His father follows him and the titan cannot escape.

The earth is shifting, turning and it is nearly sunset below them. He stopped feeling the fire eat away at his secondary feathers minutes ago. He isn't flying as fast. It does not matter. His father follows him and the titan cannot escape.

This is higher than any god, besides his father, has gone. The sky turns into space here, blue becoming black and home as far away as it could be. His lungs ache, his bones protest and his wings. His wings are half gone now. How did his sister survive the path long enough to reach her gift? Did she reach it at all? It does not matter. His father follows him and the titan cannot escape.

They are no longer on Earth. Not truly. Peter calls the sun with his remaining strength, tells it to burn brighter than it ever has, commands it to shine. His gift heeds his summons, glows more than a supernova, glows more than an apocalypse. He cannot breathe. His body is crumbling. His wings are alight. It does not matter. His father now leads and the titan cannot escape, but he cannot follow.

Peter follows anyway.

The last thing he sees before his vision goes golden is a thunderstorm in space, blue light mingling with the stars his sister chased across space.

He flies too close to the sun and he dies.

A lightning bolt strikes his chest, restarts his heart and sends him crashing through the atmosphere, falling into sunset and a cool ocean.

--------

Tony asks him, once, if he regrets accepting the inventor's courting gifts. Peter inhales slowly, closes his eyes against the harsh light streaming through the window. Seeks his lover's hand in the dark and is not disappointed. He clutches the limb, brings it to his mouth to press kisses on the fingers that crafted him wings of copper and dreams. This man has never failed him and Peter won't fail him either.

"No. I don't think I would know how to."

He flew too close to the sun, but his lover brought him home.