Work Text:
If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.
— Donna Tartt, The Secret History —
Steve knows there is no going back to his old life, so he quits his job as a photographer and goes back to college to study art history. It’s only been four years since he dropped out, but now everything before the forest feels like a lifetime ago.
The fall semester goes by in a flash of lousy coffee and late nights spent pouring over textbooks, and before Steve knows it it’s December and he’s sitting at a lecture about Dionysian myths.
“Wine, madness, sex, death. These are the first things that come to mind when we think of Dionysus, but we should remember that they’re also the god of epiphany, of revelation. Twice born — once of mortal woman, once of the king of the gods — blurring the boundaries of gender, of humanity itself. Most terrible yet most gentle to humankind, it is said.”
The projector whirs, images flickering by.
Click. Dionysus riding a leopard, their long hair adorned with leaves of ivy. Click. Dionysus surrounded by a pit of snakes, holding an overflowing goblet of wine. Click. Caravaggio’s Bacchus.
The lecturer moves in front of the screen and for a moment his face disappears, morphing into the face of the god. ”To us Dionysus represents the reverence the Greeks had for wild, uncultivated nature. They’re a figure of death and rebirth, inspiring fear and awe in equal measure.”
Click. Figures wrapped in animal skins, arms and heads laden with lush grape vines. Click. Maenads dancing among the pines, wielding thyrsus staffs, terrible eyes shining. Click. A stampeding herd of deer.
“The rites of Dionysian cults remain mysteries, but from what we do know the scholars tend to agree on elements of ritualistic music, intoxicants and orgiastic celebrations.” The lecturer pauses, gesturing around him. “People venturing into unknown terrain — desolate woods, barren mountains — and returning with tales of the inexplicable,” he continues, voice suddenly sounding like it's coming from far away.
It’s only then Steve notices he’s lifted his own hand to his neck, fingertips brushing behind the hinge of his jaw. He folds his hands into his lap, looking down at his desk.
The lecture goes on; honey and wine bubbling up from the ground, streams turning into milk. Maenads with snakes slithering up their arms, licking the blood and sweat from their body. Trees uprooted like matchsticks.
“When we look at these themes of ritual madness and religious ecstasy, we will come to find Dionysus not dissimilar to the first subject of the spring semester,” the lecturer finishes. “So let us start the new year by learning about the Great God Pan.”
◆
Steve wishes a couple of his classmates happy holidays before leaving the lecture hall and making his way down the corridor in a daze. He has to pull himself together just to get into his car, and then he sits there for a moment before braving the drive home.
He pretends to think about it for a few days, even after spending way too much money on a last minute plane ticket. His hand keeps straying to the side of his neck, a faint throb just under the skin there.
I dream of rivers with a hundred mouths and mountains where the leaves turn over like silver fire.
On the shortest day of the year Steve gets on a plane, hope trapped inside his chest like a bird.
◆
The forest is once again quiet, the ivy growing over the ground and on the trunks of the trees less vibrant than back in the summer months. Steve thinks he can smell mint, and something spicy he doesn’t recognise. The air is dry and cool, the thick layer of pine needles crunching softly under his feet.
He kneels by a large tree, keeping his eyes to the ground. “I know you can hear me,” he says, although he’s not exactly sure who is listening.
He doesn’t look up until he senses a presence somewhere ahead, standing silent and still.
They’re holding a staff topped with a pine cone, a fawn skin draped over their shoulders. Their eyes are clear and grey, somehow familiar, and there’s an antlered wreath on their head of long, red hair. Bronze pigment swoops up their cheekbones, arching above their brows.
And you know, their hair was on fire yet it didn’t burn.
“You shouldn’t have come back. You survived us once, you might not be so lucky again.”
Steve wants to point out it wasn’t luck the first time around, but decides against it.
“Do you know what day it is?”
“The solstice.” Steve feels the cold weight of the word on his tongue.
They nod, pulling the fur tighter around them, and their voice takes on a strange echo as they stare off into the distance. “The Gate of Capricorn, which we also call the Gate of Death.” They seem to snap out of something, then; their eyes focusing back on Steve. “What exactly did Bucky tell you, about us?”
He blinks in a mix of growing confusion and dawning understanding. “…Bucky?”
They tilt their head, and Steve realises the antlers aren’t actually a part of the wreath — they’re a part of them. He swallows, his throat tightening painfully, no words coming out.
“They didn’t…?” They trail off. Their face looks young but the eyes are ancient, and heartbreakingly sad.
Steve shakes his head. “They never told me their name.”
“They were right not to.” They look back at Steve, their mouth now set. “You shouldn’t have been able to find us again, either, not unless—”
“Not unless I let him.”
The voice is just as soft as Steve remembered it, and it tugs at something deep inside his chest, down between his ribs.
“It’s okay, Wanda. Will you please give us a moment?”
Steve sees them appear behind the red-headed figure, and he feels a sudden pull towards them but doesn’t get up. His heart, though, might be in danger of stopping right in his chest, because—
Bucky is just standing there, framed by evergreens and haloed in the last light of the day, holding a basket of pomegranates like a goddamn Rossetti painting. They’re also dressed in furs, layered over the same kind of robe Steve’s seen them wear before.
Wanda glances at them both with an unreadable expression before taking the basket from Bucky and retreating back into the trees without another word.
Bucky approaches Steve slowly, just like the first time they met; their one arm held out, palm facing up. Their hair is gathered around their head, stems of pine and shoots of ivy woven into the intricate braids.
“You came.”
“I didn’t know if it was—” Steve clears his throat and casts his eyes down “—I just didn’t know,” he finishes, dumbly.
“Hey.” There’s a coaxing lilt to their voice that makes the yearning inside Steve’s bones hurt even worse than it did before. “Please look at me?”
Steve can tell Bucky is closer, so close he can feel the warmth radiating out from them, and the scent of mint and spices is stronger, combined now with something citrusy. He looks up and the sight of them would be enough to render him speechless, if he wasn’t already.
Their breath is fogging the air around them, their sharp features highlighted by swatches of metallic paint. They give him a small smile, melancholy but fond, and he finds himself blinking back tears. He reaches out and takes their hand, pulling them down to him.
Bucky folds themself into Steve, easily, and he swears he can hear their heartbeat in the quiet of the woods. He winds an arm around their waist, his other hand pressing their palm against his chest.
They nose at the skin below his ear and draw a sharp, unsteady breath. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“This is where I—”
Steve nods, barely trusting his voice to speak. “It won’t— I mean, it healed, but it…” He stalls for words, his hand tightening around Bucky’s wrist. “It aches,” he adds, burying his face in their hair.
“I didn’t know,” they whisper, their mouth now brushing against the scar. “I never would have—” their voice sounds on the verge of breaking ”—I thought I was protecting you.”
“I tried to stay away.” Steve presses the words into the side of their head. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, their fingers entangling with his. “Don’t,” they say, breathless and quiet, now looking up at him. “You couldn’t.”
Steve shakes his head, his other hand coming to cup Bucky’s face, thumb tracing over their mouth. “No, I couldn’t.” To his own ears, it sounds like an oath.
Bucky’s lips are stained crimson. Steve thinks it might not be blood.
◆
By the time they kiss the sun has already set. Steve is barely able to make out the contours of Bucky’s face, so he traces them with the tips of his fingers, whispering nonsensical things into the cold air between them. He licks at the seam of their lips, tasting pomegranate, his chest flooding with relief that might well be misplaced, but right then he doesn’t let himself care.
Bucky pulls him to the ground with them, down onto a bed of winter dry vegetation, their bodies fitting together in a way Steve hasn’t forgotten — and god knows he’s tried. Bucky’s breath is hot and fast on his neck while he peels back layers of fur and cloth, their name on his lips like a prayer, every touch an act of worship. Steve lets his palm trail over the stump of Bucky’s arm without thinking about it, fingertips trembling over the puckered skin, and feels them go tense under him. He’s about to withdraw and say he's sorry when Bucky lifts their hand over his, a whispered 'shh, it’s okay' pressed into the line of Steve’s jaw.
He holds Bucky as their mouth opens against his and Steve delves into it, into the honeyed warmth that has haunted both his sleeping and waking hours. The tang of citrus is now on Bucky’s tongue, in the sweat that breaks out all over their skin, and Steve lets his whole self be engulfed in the furnace of them.
◆
Steve keeps touching Bucky afterwards, as if lying naked with their limbs entangled wasn’t close enough; he skips his fingers over the ridges of their ribs and runs his nose along their hairline, thinking to himself, I can’t believe I found you again.
Out loud he says, rather uncertainly, “They said something about the solstice that I didn’t quite understand.”
“Wanda? They’re always so dramatic, it’s just a midwinter festival.” Bucky nuzzles against his shoulder, their hair now undone and spilling over his chest. “We celebrate death, but we’re also the manifestation of the rebirth that comes after,” they say, lightly, as if that explains the whole thing.
Steve tips their chin up with a finger. “Tell me.”
Bucky’s voice, low and gentle, lulls Steve into a haze and he thinks he hears, or feels, the familiar thundering of hooves as his mind slips further away. He can see the clearing now, too — evergreen branches spread over the ground. Dancing, singing. Baths of milk and rosemary leaves. A stone altar adorned with antlers. Burning bundles of herbs; eucalyptus and vervain.
Steve is drawn back into the present by Bucky’s lips brushing over his heart.
“Come on, we don’t have long,” they murmur as they pull him up, smoothing his hair back.
They dress each other in the dark, hands lingering over expanses of uncovered skin.
Steve cradles Bucky’s face between his palms, thumbs pressed against their cheekbones. “What happens now?” He's not sure if it's the question he should be asking.
“I’ll show you,” Bucky says, and Steve follows them deeper into the woods.