Archive of Our Own

“I'll find you in the light of the half moon, in the sunlight that leaves us soon; anytime you are near. And I’ll keep you from the grip of the winter cold, from the stories that age us all, and any cries that you hear -- and when you run, I’ll run, into the depths of the deep black wild; when you run, I’ll run to the ends of the earth for you, child.” 

-- Luca Fogale, Interlude/The Ends of the Earth

Lee Minho turns five hundred years old.

He is a god, therefore he doesn’t physically age: despite being half a millennium old, he has no wrinkles, no white hair and doesn’t look ragged and wizened like an old man. As disturbing as it sounds, he has the body of a twenty-something year old; his attitude and liveliness belie his age. His mind, though, is far more advanced: he’s wise, and holds abundant amounts of knowledge and wisdom, centuries and centuries of it. It is knowledge that has been passed on from god to god, down for generations, and Minho holds it, stores it, for the next god that will come along after he’s gone because, even though he’s a deity, his body isn’t immortal. His soul, on the other hand, is, but won’t remain attached to his seemingly ‘human’ body: once this perishes, his soul will travel upwards towards the sky and rest among the stars, beside the other gods that came before him. That’s how gods are supposed to live and die.

Eternity waits for him as he turns five hundred years old. In two hundred years time, he’ll be saying goodbye to his bones and flesh and leave his body behind to wither and decompose and become one with the earth. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but nothing is really tying him down to overlong his stay -- not that he can do that even if he desires to. He has lived peacefully so far, taking care of the same forest he was assigned to. Though he has never stepped out of it, he has no wish to. It has changed with time, grown and flourished and bloomed, villages started to build themselves around it but no one dared enter it for reasons Minho does not know yet. As long as it’s treated adequately, he would let anyone in if they meant no harm. In truth, he isn’t bothered by loneliness, but has wondered what it would be like to have someone to call a friend.

But Gods have no friends -- that isn’t their purpose. They are brought into this world to gather as much useful information as they can, and to help the mortals achieve a good level of life as best as they can. Despite being deities, Minho believes Gods lack plenty of things humans do not, one of them being their ability to love; Gods have no understanding of the human heart.

One fateful morning, the five hundred year old god meets a rather peculiar boy.

The sun is bright as Minho shields his eyes from the light with a hand, walking down the grass-path towards the new village by the riverstream. There are spring flowers growing at the sides as he walks, and the forest is as green as it has ever been; it’s a breathtaking scenery, and Minho will never get used to it. The god knows the place well like the palm of his hand, he has walked these paths for many centuries and taken every possible route, and has explored the land enough to make a map of it from memory. The trees sway in the wind and the birds chirp up above on the branches, and Minho greets each and every one of them; it’s not like he can communicate with animals, but he’s what the mortals would call the king of the forest. He listens to the bugs buzzing and the leaves rustling as he makes way to the edge of the forest: he checks on the village, as it’s something he has been doing at least once every year for the last seven years, ever since it first began growing. He takes a deep breath, relieved: everything’s going well. More houses can be seen, though they are still somewhat precarious, and they have built mud roads for their transportation carts. There are a plethora of kids that weren’t there before, he can see a cluster of them playing with what seems like a handmade ball. More importantly, they seem happy. Minho’s pleased.

Everything seems peaceful this morning, just like every other visiting. The sun will be great for their crops, and Minho can barely wait to see them rejoice in this year’s harvest. Minho has seen his fair share of famine in the years he’s walked the earth, and knows very well what a crushing, devastating sight it is. He would never wish for mortals to go through something so desperate and unsalvage.

When he’s turning to leave and walk back into the depths of the forest, Minho catches a glimpse of something scuttling behind a tree a few metres away from him -- something’s lurking, hiding. Something doesn’t want to be seen by the god.

Gods fear nothing. “Hello,” he greets, expecting a proper answer. Silence replies. Softly, he calls out again -- he wouldn’t want to scare the poor creature.

The head of a boy pops out from behind the tree. His hair is hazel and covers his eyes slightly. “What’s your name?” the boy asks, still hiding behind. His face resembles no fear, just caution.

“My name is Lee Minho, what is your name, boy?” he asks him back, always with a soft tone; maybe this way he won’t be feared. He tries to sound as calm and welcoming as he possibly can. Truth is, he doesn’t quite know how to interact with humans, as they tend to keep their distance. This might as well be the first time he has a human so close to him, and surely the first time he’s spoken to one face to face, in such close proximity.

The boy steps away from the tree, fully revealing himself. He’s wearing a striped shirt and shorts, both blemished by mud. “I’m Han.” He takes in Minho’s attire; he’s dressed in a deep blue hanbok and his long, brown hair is combed neatly, undisturbed by the wind, and it glistens in the sunlight. “What are you?” he asks bluntly, like little kids do. “I’ve never seen you in the village.”

“I am the god of the forest,” he says. Gods do not lie, even if the kid doesn’t understand it he won’t lie to him. “May I ask why you are here? Are you lost, perhaps?”

Han shakes his head. “I wanted to see if you were real.” The boy smiles a crooked smile, Minho figures Han is around seven or eight, he’s missing a few baby teeth and his knees are scraped and roughen. His left one is bleeding, crimson blood oozing down his leg, dampening his white sock. “Do Gods have healing abilities?”

“Depends,” he answers nobly, always graceful. Formality is always required, no matter who he’s addressing. “Come, allow me to heal your wounds.”

The kid doesn’t hesitate; he follows the deity in silence and allows himself to be guided into the forest. Minho sits him on a fallen tree trunk, and gently lands both his hands on the boy’s knees, covering them. Light seeps through the spaces between his fingers, and Minho urges the boy to cover his eyes for a moment, afraid to leave him blind with such divine light.

When he’s done, he removes his hands. The little boy stares at his knees in astonishment, gaping. They’re fully healed now, like they weren’t bleeding just a moment ago. “Thank you!” he says, and it’s so genuine. He smiles, full of innocence and youth. Humans are enthralling. To have one up close, Minho isn’t used to this.

The boy stands up, dusting some of the dried mud off his clothes. “You know,” Han says, “No one wants to enter the forest because they think it’s haunted,” he laughs, like little kids do, eyes playfully sparkling, “they think it’s haunted! And that you’re a god of death or a demon or something.” The God doesn’t understand what the kid finds amusing in that. Though it’s false, he wonders where the humans got that idea from, seeing as demons do not exist in this world. He figures this is what the mortals call imagination. Gods do not have that -- it’s intrinsically human.

“You should not say that,” he corrects him, but the kid pays him no mind whatsoever.

“You’re the kindest god I’ve ever met.” They’ve only just met. And he’s only just healed him, nothing more.

But there aren’t any Gods on Earth besides Minho, the deity’s sure of this fact. “I am the only god you have ever met.”

Han chuckles. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re kind.” An unfamiliar warm feeling spreads throughout Minho’s heart. The boy is honest to a fault, and the god appreciates it; he’s seen many wars to know that humans do not always speak the truth.

A faraway voice calls out for the boy, vehement and shrill and insistent. The boy’s smile falters for a second. “I better get going,” he says, not before turning to face the god once more and asking, “Will I see you again?”

The sun shines a little bit brighter. “You know where to find me.”

And then the boy disappears behind the bushes, leaving the God alone again.

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Soon enough, Minho finds the boy again, this time squatting by a bed of flowers that have just recently sprung from the ground. It is a fine morning, and the sun above spreads its rays throughout the forest. The prominent smell of morning dew is still hanging in the air and the birds are chirping lively.

It hasn’t been a week since their first encounter, however the boy appears to know his way around the forest pretty well for a newcomer. He also isn’t afraid of the deity, despite not knowing Minho that well. Perhaps it’s because the god doesn’t have a menacing aura, or maybe the boy is too trusting, too naive. There’s a chance he’s too young to sense any dangers, and he’s not cautious enough.

“You seem fond of these flowers,” Minho notes. They’re gorgeous and so delicate, Minho loves gazing at them too. He loves to look at them on sunny days especially, because they look the most vibrant and lively and colorful. He sometimes talks to them too, though he’ll never admit this to anyone.

“What are these called?” he says, without diverting his gaze. It’s like he doesn’t acknowledge the god’s presence whatsoever.

Minho doesn’t find this disrespectful. He’s young and doesn’t know he should be more proper when addressing a deity. “These,” he says, taking a seat next to Han on the grass, “are white chrysanthemums. And they bloom everywhere in this forest.”

Han’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “They’re so pretty!”

“That they are.”

Despite their beautiful and desirable outer appearance, their symbolism isn’t as pretty. Han is a kid, therefore he won’t be interested in a flower’s meaning, so Minho keeps the extra information to himself -- he probably doesn’t even know flowers have symbolism, why should he? Kids his age are only interested in playing around until the sun sets and eating gratifying food, based on Minho’s knowledge.

“You can take one if you want,” he offers. “They grow very fast.” Gods can make any flower bloom, as the forest is their domain.

Han’s hazel eyes light up, as if the god is giving him the world. He plucks one from the grass, and stares at it for a while, finally adding a very high-pitched, “Thank you!”

Such a small flower, an insignificant one among the rest, can make Han cheer up -- he’s so simple. So childish and young and innocent. So easy to please. His emotions are so raw -- it’s something the god doesn’t entirely understand.

Han might think Minho looks human, but there are many more differences than similarities between them; perhaps they might not be perceptible enough.

“Can you show me more flowers?”

“It would be my pleasure. I am very fond of them.” They both get up from the grass and face each other.

Han stretches out his hand.

Minho’s baffled at first. And then he remembers: this is a form of greeting. They’re never done this before, but the god steps forward and shakes his hand, bowing a little. Then he pulls away.

Han’s hand remains outstretched in the space between him and Minho. He cackles, “No,” he says. “Here,” he takes Minho’s hand and holds it in his.

“I thought only romantic couples held hands,” he says, relying on his knowledge.

“Parents hold their children’s hands when crossing the road or when they’re scared,” he explains. The god’s delicate hand is cold in his, but oddly pleasant. It’s soft against his tiny, rough hands. “It means I will take care of and protect you. It also means ‘follow me’. In this case though,” he shifts his hand so that now Minho’s holding his hand instead, “I’ll do the following. That means you must care for and protect me.” He smiles, bashful; his cherubic face turns rosy.

Minho would do that anyway. Human lives are precious and must always be protected. Of course, animal and vegetable lives are important as well. To the god, everything on Earth is sacred and anything that has life, from a plant to a person to a whole village, is a top priority and must be protected against any and all kinds of harm.

The god walks Han around. His eyes wander from flower to flower, from tree to tree, until there isn’t a single corner his eyes haven’t laid upon. They go wide in amusement, like he’s seeing everything for the first time. And it truly is a beautiful scenery, with a myriad of colors and tones and smells. They stop every once in a while to smell the flowers and touch the flower beds and petals; Minho teaches Han about the difference in scents, from pungent ones to soft ones. The human states that the lavender’s smell is his favorite. The way he talks, how his eyes shine when he says it, and the way his face lights up, the smile on his lips as he speaks are all things the God finds diverting.

Han asks questions as they stroll. He asks about the flowers, the insects, the sky and the grass and anything that catches his attention. Han urges for details, relentless in his questioning; wanting to know, for instance, where do flowers come from. Do they come from the grass? From the earth? Do you plant the seeds? Do they just magically appear? Minho always searches for the right words, precise enough to fit his idea of truth but not entirely so -- he’s eight, the god doesn’t expect him to understand such complex biology just yet. What flower is this, what’s it called? Is this a chrysmum? Minho laughs, correcting him, glad to have caught such innocence coming from him. The deity attempts to answer as far as his pre-existent knowledge will let him, in hopes his replies aren’t an absolute letdown and, of course, free of lies.

The god’s become convinced that Han is made of sunlight. There’s just something about him that’s warmer and brighter than the sun, and the only possible explanation is that there’s sunlight inside him, bursting through the seams, shining through his eyes as he gazes at the forest’s flora. His amazement enriches Minho’s amazement of human understanding and brain development; he doesn’t admit it, but the kid is some type of test subject, though the god would never treat him as anything but sacred and human and valuable.

Han becomes Minho’s first friend. Gods usually don’t have those, but it isn’t prohibited. He isn’t completely sure what he should do now that the previous loneliness is gone, but he enjoys the time they spend together, and he cherishes it more than the human can know.

No matter how much Han compliments him and his immeasurable amount of knowledge, Minho denies being a perfect deity. Gods aren’t flawless. In fact, they are far from that. For starters, they can’t harbour feelings, and are unable to comprehend them; thus, they lack empathy and compassion and guilt. They may be knowledgeable but they don’t know everything ; they only know what has been brought down to them from the gods before them, and they continue to learn everyday. They don’t age and don’t die, so in a way they don’t experience life. They heal but can never get hurt. They don’t know any form of pain.

Ultimately, they are nothing like humans. And one day, years from now, far into the future, Han, like all humans do, will die. And the friend he has now will leave him alone and the lifestyle he knew will return.

And then, Minho will have to get used to loneliness again.

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One sunny afternoon, Minho finds Han standing by a tree, the place they usually meet and the place of their first encounter -- his visits have become a ritual. He is watching the branches high above, neck craned upwards. The robins and hummingbirds chirp along their tune, wary of him but they don’t fly away in fear.

“May I ask what your purpose is?” he asks, catching the boy by surprise. Sunlight seeps in through the gaps between the lime green leaves. “Do you wish to scare the birds?”

The boy flushes red, shaking his head. He looks back at the deity for a moment before glancing down, avoiding his gaze. “I wanna learn how to whistle, so I can whistle with them,” the boy says, sounding embarrassed.

“I shall teach you, then.” He’s never taught anyone anything, but Han is a fast learner, and it sounds like it’ll be fun and something he doesn’t want to miss. Just something to kill time. “First,” he instructs, “you have to pucker your lips. Then slowly blow air through them. The tongue needs to be relaxed. Try it.”

Han’s first attempt makes Minho frown. It’s barely audible, like he’s just blowing out nonexistent candles on a nonexistent birthday cake.

Han’s second attempt is a tad better. He still looks like a fool though, as if he’s trying to blow bubbles. It’s still inaudible but he keeps on trying and trying, face turning redder and redder each time, blowing air out of his mouth with puckered lips but still no success.

After about twenty attempts, he says, panting, somewhat breathless, “One day I’ll get the hang of it, you’ll see.”

A smile escapes Minho’s lips, and he covers his smirk with his hanbok’s sleeve. He’s enraptured by the kid and his foolishness, and it makes him crave for more. More reactions, more expressions. More, more, more. It’s like he’ll never get tired of Han. Humans are fascinating.

“You smiled!”

His high pitched voice brings Minho back from his thoughts. “Pardon?”

Han’s eyes sparkle, radiating with pleasure. “You finally smiled!” he squeals, joyous. His voice grows bubbly, “I’ve never seen you smile. It’s nice.”

The deity doesn’t think he’s ever smiled before -- there hadn’t been anything to smile about. It’s not like he frowns or looks serious in any way, but rather always remains expressionless and serene; nonchalant. A quiet giggle comes out as an airy sound when it passes through the deity’s lips -- no one has ever made him smile before. Han has so many of his firsts.

The smile on his face grows a bit, and Han smiles at him too, baby teeth bared to the world. They’re alive together at this moment in time, and it’s entirely theirs.

Ah, Minho thinks, finally understanding, this must be what they call happiness.

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A pattern becomes established soon after their first encounter, the last words of little Han unraveling their following encounters. Now, Han arrives, usually breathless, with a smile on his face and blemished clothes, and when he spots the god by the tree, he waves, and the god returns the smile, ready to face another morning teaching the human about this place he’s extremely fond of. Han’s thirst for knowledge is insatiable, as if looking somehow to match the god’s level of wisdom. At the end of the day, though, he’d end up satisfied, languid in the gathering of information.

The following morning, as usual, the kid arrives punctually, and Minho teaches him about the plethora of flowers that bloom in the forest, about the birds and the songs they sing; he teaches Han to whistle again, and despite being bad at it, it makes the younger smile. He hopes the kid will get the hang of it soon.

The God finds himself enjoying the time spent with Han. He’s interested and curious about the forest, and yearns to know everything, to learn everything there is to learn from Minho. He’s patient and kind and cheerful, and Minho wonders when this innocence, this curiosity, will fade out. He wants to see him grow up -- he’ll be a fine young man. He also hopes that spark never disappears. He loves his high-pitched voice and mannerisms, typical of youngsters.

“These are dandelions,” he points out to a flower bed, on one of their many walks around the forest. The yellow and white heads perk up and the wind sways them slowly, caressing them gently. “You must make a wish and blow its petals away. Allow me to demonstrate,” he plucks a dandelion from the grass and, with the stem between his fingers, he holds the flower close and softly blows. They watch in silence as the wind traps the petals away.

“Will it make your dream come true?”

Minho would love to say it will, but he’s not certain. In fact, he knows it won’t: firstly, because he didn’t wish for anything and secondly, because dandelions aren’t magical beings and there’s nothing stored in the god’s knowledge about flowers making wishes come true. So he just smiles at Han, in hopes it answers his question without the need to lie.

“I wanna try!” he says, and plucks one from the grass. He stares at it, thoughtful, for a few seconds before sending the petals away. He watches as they dance in the wind and disappear upwards into the sky, in between the leaves from the trees and the clouds.

The god won’t ask what he wished for, because if there’s something he knows, is to never ask what one wishes for, for the wish won’t come true if they do. Even if he does, in fact, want to know.

But it’s not like the god believes in wishes anyway. That’s so… human.

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Without the god’s awareness, weeks pass by, and they turn into months, and those months become years. Nothing noticeably changes; the forest is the same as it has always been, and it grows and flourishes and thrives and it will never dry, wither and die, not as long as the God is around to preserve it.

Minho doesn’t change. His face is youthful and so is his body, mismatched to his actual age. His hanbok remains unblemished and ironed, and his hair is still long and brown and combed. His knowledge is all there, stored inside, helpful at times but useless sometimes.

Han grows. His youthness remains, his face still cherubic despite his remaining innocence gradually changing to maturity. His baby teeth are all gone, no more scraped knees. He’s taller now, his face features a bit sharper but not quite defined. Still, Minho can see the boy he has within, and his childlike innocence seeps through sometimes.

Minho gifts Han a flower crown for his twelfth birthday. He purposely chose the flowers he knew the boy had stared at the most and the ones with the best scent. He intertwined daisies and dandelions and chrysanthemums. It’s messy, but put together tightly and in place, and no petal is missing from any flower. It didn’t take him that long -- gods are quite skillful -- and he didn’t have to think much about it either, so in every way, it is a perfect gift.

Han puts it on in utmost gratitude. In exchange, he shows Minho the present his parents gave him that morning before he went out to find the god waiting for him in the forest.

“This is a harpoon. You know the riverstream near our village? We use this to fish. Do Gods eat?”

Even after all these years, he’s still curious and still asks the god questions. Minho has come to like this exchange. “It is not necessary nor required, but it is allowed.”

“Have you ever tasted fish?” The God shakes his head. “I’ve just recently learned how to fish with this,” he says, pride lacing his tone, prancing around and showing off, “this harpoon is a birthday gift from my parents. They say I’m old enough now and that I can help them out. You know? I’m the oldest of six brothers, cool right?” he rambles on, and Minho lends him his ears. His voice has deepened with time, still cracks from time to time though.

In all these years, his yearn to study humans hasn’t died out. Han is still as interesting as he first was when they met each other four years ago. There is still much more to learn, more knowledge to acquire and store, so much that it’ll never be enough. It will go on and on forever, from god to god in succession.

He still amazes Minho in everything he does.

Han’s growth also means that, in a way, he’s closing his death -- it’s decades from now, Minho has learned that humans in this region have an average life expectancy of 83 years -- and that saddens the God. In comparison, Han’s life is ephemeral while the god’s seemingly eternal. He also knows their time in the forest is limited.

Oftentimes the god finds himself wanting Han to stay with him in the forest, reluctant to let him go at the end of the day. The continuous company has made Minho somehow dependent on him, in spite of very well knowing he needs to get accustomed to loneliness again like he used to, because sooner or later loneliness will come searching for him and it’ll get him when he least expects it to.

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One morning, a tragedy befalls them. Like the dome engulfing them in their own world is breaking.

Han arrives later than usual, breathless, an uncharacteristic worried look on his face: the god has never seen him so frightened. He’s shaking, and his eyes reflect unwavering fear. His hands carry his most precious harpoon and he’s gripping it tightly, almost painfully so.

“You need to hide right now,” he pants, beads of sweat on his forehead. “They’re coming for you.” Han stretches his hand, panicking; Minho knows well what the human wants him to do: follow him.

“Who is?” He asks, concerned but not overly desperate, unlike the kid. He refuses at first, taking a few steps back. Who would dare attack a deity? It’s absurd.

“The village. It’s my fault, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You need to go.”

“The village?” The God wants to ask why, to be informed of the situation to know how to deal with it adequately, but he takes Han’s hand and allows to be guided deep into the forest; in hindsight, he shouldn’t have done that.

Han hides him between bushes and branches and rocks, so that he blends with his surroundings. The God, squatting, stares back at Han expectantly. “Stay here,” he says, almost like a plea. His tone is unstable and shaky, like he just ran for his life and doesn’t know what to do.

Something within Minho doesn’t feel right, but he lets him go. He watches as the tiny figure disappears between the trees. The uncertainty is making him restless and uneasy, and the waiting is even worse.

Gods have exceptionally good ears. It’s a supernatural ability. He can hear branches cracking underneath their feet as the villagers grow closer to his hiding place. He hears them spitting words like demon and devil and harm and killing and death and the god can’t bear to hear such blasphemies from such kind people. It’s like they’re cursing at the world. Then, silence, like they have halted.

Shouts disrupt the silence, like there’s a horde ready to attack. From his place and counting the distance and the outgrowing fear, he can’t clearly distinguish what exactly they’re saying now, however he instinctively knows they are angry and furious and violent and he fears both for Han’s safety and the forest -- he can smell smoke, like the mortals brought torches with them.

A deafening shriek paralyzes the god. His stomach plummets into the bottom of an ocean; into the depths of a void. He knows that voice all too well and, without thinking it twice, he darts towards the sound.

He approaches the shriek in what feels like a second. Like a hunted deer, he finds Han lying on the ground, dead silent, body twitching compulsively. Minho kneels beside him, resting Jisung’s torso on his legs, Minho’s arms wrapped around his colorless face. Han’s eyes are wide and they hint unmistakeable fear and pain, and his lungs exhale and inhale rapidly, like the act of breathing is hurting him.

An arrow, impaled on his heart. The hole in the center of his chest outspreads and his heart gushes blood rhythmically from the wound, soaking the grass underneath his body and Minho’s hanbok.

Minho tries to stop the protuberant blood, he attempts to close the wound with his hands and use his power, but to no avail -- he only gets his hands dampened with blood. It’s thick and it flows through his fingers as they clasp the ripped flesh. He feels the blood move over his hand, and it’s such a dark shade of red, so much it’s almost black. His pulse slows until it finally stops. Minho holds his body in between his arms, but he's gone, eyes wide open; they are staring at him but at the same time they’re looking beyond him and Minho knows he’ll never catch him and bring him back. His pupils have lost all light, and his soul is no longer inside him.

He is gone so fast he can’t even pronounce his last words: even so, the god swears he heard his name fall from those open lips, softly, like a whisper in the wind. Like a last wish.

Gods can’t bring people back from the dead -- when they die, they’re gone. That’s all there is. Death is part of a human life, and they can’t intervene in that process. No healing power and no praying can ever bring them back. It’s the feeling of hopelessness, so strange and crude, that makes way inside of the God’s heart.

The villagers are coming closer, yelling, and shouting at each other, and Minho has lost count of how many arrows have flown in the forest. For once, he feels fear. They keep coming closer and closer and closer, approaching him desperately, and Minho considers -- just for a split second -- leaving him behind. But he could never.

His anger and newfound malice manifest in the form of thorns that rise from the now-cracked ground, sealing the space around him off from the rest of the world. The thorns grow and grow until they create a dome of spines and thick branches and the fire in his eyes keeps burning until Minho can feel it consuming him little by little, slowly, searing everything inside him black. The light seeps in through the gaps, but they’re small and not enough to illuminate anything inside the dome, as if the darkness is swallowing everything whole. The long shadows surround him, menacing, lurking, waiting to eat him whole, too. He can’t hear anything anymore but his own breath, a panting, hurtful sound he’d never thought he’d hear coming from himself. A combination of terror and overbearing rage. Minho feels so small and cold all at once, despite the blazing flame within him. His heart races faster as it continues beating against his chest, attempting to break free from his ribcage.

On his own again, protected by the thorns forming the dome, Minho creates another flower crown, akin to the one he gifted some time before, and buries the body of the boy out of respect -- he deserves nothing less. In a way, it’s befitting; Han once revealed that the forest had become his favourite place on Earth. He makes white chrysanthemums bloom from the earth and he knows they’ll continue to bloom forevermore. And the fire within him finally ceases. 

Once he’s done, for the first time in five hundred years, the god weeps. It’s strange and confusing and uncomfortable and unfathomable, why his eyes expel water like a fountain, and Minho fails to understand the changes he’s going through. Ah, he thinks, this is what they call grief. How do they recover from this wound? Such raw human emotion is unbefitting for a god. In truth, tears shouldn’t be possible for him but, for once, he doesn’t feel like a god at all.

He feels like a boy, having lost the boy he cares about more than anyone in the world. His first friend, his companion and apprentice, the first person who got close to him in spite of very well knowing he wasn’t human. He feels lost, like he’s missing something crucial  and irreplaceable. Like he has given a part of himself to the boy and the boy, in return, has left him a part of himself -- the memories.

The boy will never come back from death. He won’t smile at Minho like he used to, won’t laugh with him, Minho won’t get to hold his hand ever again. The loneliness comes for him sooner than Minho would have expected and it’s crushing, because he wasn’t expecting it so soon. Han could’ve lived so many more years, he would have continued to grow and learn and accompany him. It’s utterly unfair, how Han’s been robbed of his adulthood.

For now, he exits the dome, unable to destroy it or tear it down as it stands like black stain against the color of the rest of the forest. It’s like the God has buried Han in the center of his heart, and that small bit will never recover its color again for as long as the forest stands.

The god could’ve died of sadness, of a broken heart, but then again, he cannot die, not yet and not from mortal ways. His heart, however, breaks and it will never recover from such a lethal wound. It’s like a smidge of this world’s darkness has blemished Minho’s heart beyond healing. It isn’t such a bright place any longer, not without him, the boy made of sunlight.

It’s like he’s been stripped bare, and he rejects his title and his divinity because he loathes them and it’s unbearable to him to keep on living on his own again -- he’s forgotten how to do that, how to survive alone.

Though he rejects them, they don’t leave. If he could refuse his title of deity and immortality, he would’ve given them all up right there and then but no such thing is possible, unfortunately -- Gods are cursed and miserable beings, and their inhumanity enrages Minho. He never once questioned why he was a god to begin with -- maybe he had the aptitudes to be one, he does not know, --and he never wondered if he had once been human, like Han. How does one become a God? It isn’t a deity’s job to ask themselves where they come from because they cannot be compared or studied like humans can. They just exist and then they exist some more, for eternity, but cannot be seen by the eyes of the world. What’s the point?

The god has another two hundred years to live, give or take. And he spends the majority of them ensconced in his cave, afraid to take a step outside in fear a human attempts to hunt him -- not that they would succeed, seeing as the god can’t die by the hands of mortals. He cannot bring himself to walk through the forest like he used to because everything reminds him of Han and the time they spent together and the countless mornings and afternoons they walked hand in hand through the greenery paths.

Minho has learned something valuable from all of this: Gods feel pain. Physically though, they can’t. But their hearts beat, and they feel and they break. Minho’s heart is broken, shattered and unfixable. He’s hurting. He’s grieving, just like a human. He knows pain like no other, it’s ripping him apart. It’s excruciating and knows no divine power can make it go away or lessen it because nothing can bring someone back from the dead. It’s hopeless. It’s heart-wrenching.

He wants to see Han again someday, and says it aloud, begging with his whole being; it’s a wish. Silence replies, and the wind blows softly.

This is loneliness again.

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Spring unfolds into summer and summer becomes autumn and so on, and the years fly by and they hide one behind the other while the god hides from the world, in a cave. Now a recluse, he refuses to take a step outside and greet the forest like he used to and avoids his responsibilities. His grief turns him unrecognizable. This world has tired him.

He remains that way for many years. In the spring of his six hundred and ninety ninth birthday, the god breaks free from his self made cocoon and steps outside for the first time in centuries. He feels he’s had enough of being inside and would much rather spend the remaining year on Earth under the scorching summer sun or the pelting spring rain, to make up for the time ensconced in the cave. He doesn’t hate the world, he simply wishes he wasn’t here anymore; living has become waiting for his body to give in and his soul to reach the sky and find its rightful place among the other gods.

He unbelievably becomes accustomed to loneliness again, and his grace and elegance are gone for good. In its place, gloominess and nonchalance become protagonists. He’s a pessimist now, grumpy and stern. His abrasive persona is foreign to his former kindness and goodness. His rage has subsided yet remains present within him.

He is not the happy God he once was when the world felt like utopia; the gruesome ordeal has changed him. At least he doesn’t feel empty anymore: the acceptance of being unable to change what has happened or rewind time eases the storm inside his heart and he’s mainly okay now, enough to recognize that he can’t keep living like he previously did. The suffocating and dull darkness makes way to the light of the sun as he steps out of the cave he used to call home.

The forest is his home. Bright and colorful and lively. The sound of chirping birds, leaves rustling in the breeze and grass crunching underfoot are all too familiar. His favorite place to be.

The sun shines down through the trees above, warm rays falling upon him like the softest caress and bringing a small smile to his lips -- he hasn’t felt this warm since he passed away. The memory still hurts, a pang to the heart.

He wanders around the forest. The trees are taller now, trunks thicker and rounder. Some of the flower beds have died and been reborn in other places, like they migrated from one place to the other. It’s like the forest has continued to grow and bloom even in his absence. He dares not take the route that’ll lead him to the thorny dome -- is it still there? He doesn’t want to know. Not yet, not ever.

Instead, he walks until the forest meets the riverstream. In the past, it used to flow next to the village, their main source of water.

The village has turned into a small town with the years, and the mud roads have turned into proper asphalted ones. The carts are now cars, and the harvests have become supermarkets. Brick houses stand tall and mighty, unbreakable. It’s not quite a city, but compared to the village it used to be, it has come a long way.

Life has changed around him. Everything has carried on. The unknown doesn’t scare him, as nothing does any longer.

Minho kneels down in front of the riverbank and dips his hand into the icy water. It sends chills down his spine, a forgotten sensation. His fingers brush against the bottom algae, slimy to the touch. He lifts his head, watching the birds as some chirp and some others set flight up overhead.

The sound of footsteps behind him startles the God, who in response turns around quickly, rising to his feet. There’s nothing there, but he can’t help looking around suspiciously anyway just in case. The feeling of being watched doesn’t leave him.

There isn’t anything there, he double checks. Only flowers on the ground, swaying with the wind and robins humming their anthems. The feeling of eyes staring at him doesn’t leave him.

It’s only when he notices movement out of his peripheral vision that he decides to fully face the entity. He doesn’t have the patience he once had. If someone’s out to get him then let’s get on with it already. “Get out,” his voice is rough and harsh, cold and firm. It’s not really a question, more so a demand. He might as well use the deity card and make others obey him from now on.

Minho watches in confusion and irritation as an unfamiliar figure approaches him, unsure at first but then picking up his pace, reaching the God in no time. The stranger comes to a stop right before Minho, slightly looking up at him with big eyes that seem to be filled with hope.

The man speaks first. “Here you are,” he says, with an air of familiarity and with such a friendly tone, like he knows the God on a personal level. “Where were you?”

Minho’s caught off guard. He takes a few steps back. The sheer audacity of this man is both incredible and haunting. “Who are you?” He’s forgotten how to interact with mortals. More than that, he wants to ask why he knows him -- he looks young, and can’t possibly be one of the mortals who took part in Han’s demise.

“I would love it to explain it to you, but I’m afraid you won’t believe me,” he chuckles, flashing a smile. The man has heart shaped lips and dark ash blonde hair, and can’t be much older than twenty years old, give or take. He looks laidback and is surely bold, and the God wonders where this confidence comes from.

He looks familiar. A wave of nostalgia, melancholy and heartache washes over him, unwelcoming and invasive. He resembles Han if he had had the chance of growing up. He has the same childlike innocence, the same look in his eyes: a mix of wonder and amazement. The same crooked smile, so genuine and wide. The laugh is similar as well, just a bit deeper than Han’s. He’s taller though, older.

He’s Han and yet he’s not at all, because Han’s dead. The image of him soaked in blood still comes to the god’s mind from time to time, to haunt him and break his heart all over again -- as if it had healed in the first place.

“I’m Jisung, by the way,” he speaks again. “It looks like you wanted to know my name, so--”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, tone shrill. “Get out of my sight.” He won’t be dealing with mortals for the remaining time. It’s a defense mechanism, a kind of protection -- no one else will die because of him. He won’t allow that to happen again.

“Don’t you wanna know what I’m doing here?”

“I said I don’t care.” His voice unintentionally rises in anger, almost a screech. The mortal doesn’t even flinch, like he knew his presence would have this effect on the deity.

The man purses his lips, looking around before deciding to sit on the grass. There’s a few metres between them and Minho wants nothing more than to move away, but something about the mortal’s eyes are so open and honest and inviting, like they’re reeling him in.

If he doesn’t look at him, he won’t be sucked in. So he turns around and walks away before the man can get to his feet and follow his trail.

It seems like loneliness doesn’t want him anymore.

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Minho finds the man again, like he has been waiting for him.

The afternoon sun sets in the horizon, the gaps of the trees drop honey-colored light from its leaves, making the forest appear golden. The golden hour is something Minho has missed witnessing for many years, and its beauty remains intact. It still has the power to take his breath away.

He stands by a tree, leaning against it while the sun bathes his melanin skin. Under the rays of the sun, the stranger glows. His body seems to expel this soothing aura under the setting sun, which casts an orange tint over his hair, his clothes, his skin. His eyes are dark with an unfathomable emotion, and when they meet Minho’s nonplussed expression, his lips stretch into the same smile as the sunset; warm and welcoming. His eyes recover that light and that kindness they had that day. The god does not know him, but he feels the mortal pulling him in, like he willingly walked right into his palm.

Minho has no choice but to face the man, in hopes he can leave him alone once and for all. He wants nothing to do with this mortal. Yet he finds himself drawn closer; it’s as if some invisible force is drawing them closer together.

The man asks something simple, to break the ice. This awkwardness is something the God hasn’t felt before, and it’s uncomfortable. “Why did you run away? I just wanted to talk.”

He talks like he knows the God on a personal level -- at least this question’s easy to answer. He lies, the stranger’s idiotic face irritating him, “A God is not obliged to talk to anyone they don’t want to. It wasn’t my duty to hold a conversation with you, so I didn’t. End of story,” he concludes, “And by the way, I don’t have to answer your questions if I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” he says, “but you answered me.” Minho’s answer amuses the mortal for some reason, who shows his pleasance with a foolish little satisfactory grin. Preserving the peace and harmony of the forest is going to be a hard task with him around.

The deity sighs, his short temper making itself known. “I forgot your name, mortal.”

“Jisung,” the man replies. “You can call me Ji if you want, that’s what people call me anyway,” he adds, “and what should I call you?”

“Minho,” he answers sternly. “My name is Lee Minho and I am a God. And I won’t ever be calling you Ji.”

“That sucks,” he says, before releasing a breathy laugh. “You just did though. And the god part, well, the hanbok gave it away,” he titters, gesturing at the robe covering Minho’s delicate, slim figure.

Minho looks down at his blue attire. His hanbok has no other colors, the only thing of color apart from the blueness is the beige silk cloth tied around his waist. The deity tries to hide his annoyance -- he’s extremely fond of his hanbok. The bottom of the curved sleeves with the sharp angles of the lining of the collar illustrates the softness and elegance every deity should proudly reflect.

The God doesn’t think he’s making fun of him -- rather, he’s kind of rude. And cocky. If he wants to offend him, Jisung’s one step too close to getting what he wants. He doesn’t know what he’s in for if he makes Minho mad -- a god’s fury is no joking matter.

“Did you know I am a God? You don’t seem surprised, mortal.” It’s somewhat insulting that Jisung isn’t the least shocked to meet a God -- this doesn’t happen every day. What happened to the astonishment? He defiantly holds his ground.

Jisung sits down by the tree, beckoning Minho to do the same. He doesn’t -- he stands firm, crossing his arms over his chest and hiding them inside his sleeves. He won’t lower himself to obey an insignificant mortal; a venerable god should not stoop that low.

“I was about to tell you something the other day before you ran away,” he starts. “You just ran, that’s very rude. I thought Gods were supposed to be noble and kind. That wasn’t especially nice of you.”

“As I said before, I don’t have to answer you.” If it was the old Minho, he would’ve been noble and kind, but not any longer.

Jisung dismisses him. “It doesn’t matter. You wanna know why I came, don’t you?”

That catches Minho’s attention. Indeed he does. Curiosity blends in together with uncertainty. Jisung leans back into the tree, watching the sun slowly descend behind the trees. “There’s this one rumor that’s been going around for many years. I just wanted to know if it was real.”

“What do you mean by real? What’s real?”

“You,” he says. “The lonely God wandering through the forest. You’re here.”

His words strike Minho with a strong sense of déja vu. “Are mortals afraid of me?”

“No,” Jisung replies, shaking his head. “They don’t really care that much. They don’t think you’re real, in this time and age.”

Minho’s sighs, relieved. Nobody’s coming for him anymore -- he shouldn’t have been worried in the first place because it’s been centuries. Unending, interminable centuries. All those people chasing after him are now long gone and dead, buried somewhere or turned into ashes.

“Why did you come? Why did you really come?” What’s his intention?

“Do you promise not to freak out?” Jisung is still looking up when he finishes his sentence, and he turns his gaze towards Minho. He doesn’t wait for the God’s answer. “I just had to meet you.”

For a moment, Minho is at a loss for words. “You’ve met me alright. So now what?”

Again, Jisung shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? I thought Gods were supposed to be smart people.”

Jisung’s especially adroit at making Minho’s forehead vein pop off. “We’re not people, mortal. We’re deities.”

“Right, my bad,” Jisung retracts. “You’re still missing the point, deity,” he teases. “And stop calling me mortal, I’m Jisung.”

He rolls his eyes in pure annoyance; Minho hates to admit that Jisung is bold and daring and quite inconsiderate. His audacity is beyond the God’s understanding. He takes his time answering, “ So? Are you gonna tell me or what?”

In the past, he would’ve been more polite, more proper. He would’ve chosen his words carefully, addressing the mortal with respect and nobility. But in all honesty, he couldn’t care less about what this person thinks of him -- all Minho can think about is getting out of there as soon as possible, preferably before the night comes.

Jisung opens up, “I knew that we’d meet. I had to wait, and I think you had to wait, too. But I don’t have to wait anymore. We’ve both waited enough.”

Minho looks at the ground, contemplating his answer, Jisung’s words lingering in the air between them. “What does that even mean?” is all he can manage to say amid the confusion.

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised, but at the same time expecting such an answer. He’s quick to respond, “All my life, I always knew I had to meet you. Something was calling me to this forest. Something within me was saying that there was someone waiting for me here. Ever since I heard the rumors of the lonely God, I knew it was you. You can call it destiny or just a feeling, I don’t care. What I care about is you. I want to get to know you. I had to, in this lifetime.”

Something about this sudden confession makes Minho feel uneasy. “Why?” it sounds stupid saying it out loud. He’s making such a big deal out of this.

He watches Jisung speak with his eyes glued to the grass. “I don’t know, that’s what I have to find out.”

The God is taken aback by his answer, by the sincerity in Jisung’s voice. He’s straightforward and honest -- why? Why now? Why Minho? He’s just a God, a mere rumor.

“I cannot help you with that,” he finally speaks, curtly. “I don’t want anything to do with people. I’m just as you said, a solitary God.”

“It’s actually lonely God,” he corrects, teasing yet again. And it’s his words that dissolve the tense atmosphere, his jokes lighten the mood and it’s precisely what both of them need. “I’m not asking for much, just don’t kick me out.”

“I never kicked you out,” he defends himself, narrowing his eyes slightly in annoyance.

“Your eyes speak, you know, they were fuming, telling me to get out because I was invading your sanctuary.”

“Nonsense.”

Jisung laughs, a genuine sound of amusement, and there’s something about him that makes Minho want to laugh, too -- something about the way Jisung’s mouth curves upwards into a smile, how his eyes gleam, how he holds his stomach with both hands. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, but it lacks authenticity.

They don’t say much for the remaining time, and the silence is filled with the sounds of the forest; wind howling softly, robins chirping and flying, grasshoppers cricking.

The sun has nearly set completely, and the darkness looms closer. It’s peaceful, in the end. Jisung’s silence speaks volumes; he’s already said enough.

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Despite not being obliged to follow Jisung’s one condition, Minho doesn’t kick him out the next time he finds him wandering around the forest.

He doesn’t speak either, regardless of the mortal’s greeting. Ignoring him is what’s best for Minho. Jisung doesn’t know the exact reason for this defense mechanism, yet keeps his mouth shut after that. He doesn’t need to force anything on Minho, not after their talk the other day.

Minho keeps an eye on the mortal, watching over him and not even trying to hide it. He keeps him close yet he keeps him far, afraid Jisung will overstep his boundaries. It’s still uncomfortable and barely bearable.

Jisung doesn’t do much, and Minho begins to get bored. The mortal just walks around, hands in his pants’ pockets, eyes fluctuating between the ground -- the flowers -- and the sky -- the tall trees.

Unbeknownst to Jisung, out of utter boredom, the God lies on the grass and falls asleep. He doesn’t dream anything -- because Gods do not have dreams like people do -- and once he wakes up, he discovers he’s on his own again.

He won’t call out his name. He shouldn’t care what the mortal does. It’s none of his business, after all.

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Several days go by in absolute silence; no exchange of words, no greetings, no contact whatsoever. Jisung steals a few glances here and there but that’s it.

Minho still keeps track of him, and he can’t figure out how the mortal entertains himself by just walking around and taking naps here and there. Minho’s bored out of his mind. At the very least, Jisung’s not a disturbance.

The God should be relieved; this is what he wanted. Despite his wish coming true, something feels out of place. Odd. The silence is becoming unbearable but he won’t be the first to break.

He knows Jisung is doing this on purpose. He wants the God to approach him first, to speak first, to address him face to face once and for all.

And one day, Minho loses him.

Out of sight, Minho begins searching for him, unaware that this is all Jisung’s plan and that he walked right into his trap.

“So you’re looking for me now?” he asks, atop a roble, legs dangling from a thick branch. He’s smiling like a little kid, teeth bared to the world.

“I don’t want you to inflict any harm to the forest,” he explains, somewhat offended. He shouldn’t have to explain himself to a lowly mortal. Minho feels compelled to say something, anything, because it’s better to listen to the mortal talk rather than allow the silence to reign over them again.

It’s not necessary. “How old are ya?” he asks, letting himself fall from the tree and landing next to the god. Oh my, thinks Minho, sighing, he got comfortable. It’s not as bad as he thought, though.

“How old are you?” Minho retaliates, not wanting to share information first. He’s not used to such informality. And they’re standing way too close, he’s not used to the proximity either. He takes a few steps back.

“I’m twenty one.” Jisung doesn’t seem fazed nor offended by Minho making some distance between them. In fact, he settles on the grass, feet sprawled, and invites the god to do the same. Minho does, crossing his legs, always pompous.

“You are more than a hundred years too young.”

Jisung cackles, enjoying himself. “Age is, ultimately, just a number.”

Minho shakes his head in disagreement. It’s a distance, a difference. They’re too far apart.

“So?” he says, “Your age?” Nobody has ever spoken to him in such a way, it’s not precisely demanding yet Minho feels like he has to answer.

“I’m approaching seven hundred.”

“Pfff, you’re ancient,” Jisung says, waving dismissively. “You look my age, three years older at most.”

Minho takes that as a compliment. Gods do not age physically -- his body is a collection of acquired knowledge, an amalgam of arbitrary consciousness and memories. Gods are eternal beings who have existed since the beginning of time and when they die, they pass on with no memory of their time spent alive.

He nods at Jisung’s assessment. “That does sound accurate,” he concedes, “though, technically speaking, if I were human I’d be long dead.”

“Probably, yeah,” Jisung says listlessly. “How come you don’t even look like an old man? Is your youth as eternal as your age? What’s up with that?”

He doesn’t know why he finds himself explaining gods’ physiology to Jisung, but he attentively holds on to every word that escapes from Minho’s mouth. There’s this one part he omits; how old Gods are supposed to live on Earth -- he doesn’t consider it important. Jisung’s not supposed to know any of this anyway.

“So, basically, what you’re saying is that you’re Faust,” Jisung deduces. The God scowls, confused. “You know, Faust by Goethe. It’s a very old tragedy, really. Haven’t read it but it’s famous. I thought you knew it. I thought Gods were supposed to know everything.”

“I don’t,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint. Care to explain?”

Jisung sighs before starting, “Faust is this man who’s obsessed with knowledge, the man wants to know everything, from science to religion to morals. He becomes frustrated when he realizes no matter how much he investigates, he still doesn’t hold all the knowledge. So he makes a pact with the devil -- basically he exchanges his soul for unlimited knowledge.”

“And how is that similar to me?”

“Well, for starters, you’ve come to Earth in search of knowledge. And no matter how much information you acquire, it isn’t enough. That’s why you keep coming, that’s why there are so many gods that came before you and many more that will come after you’re gone.”

Minho would never sell his soul -- that’s not possible. His soul is sacred and immortal. Moreover, devils don’t exist. Mortals are such imaginative beings, making up stuff they’ve never seen to feed their minds on fantasies. He used to find it fascinating -- now it sounds pathetic.

“How does the story end?”

“He dies. It’s a tragedy after all. His wife and kid die, too. Sad book, right?” He breathes out a laugh. “I’m not really into sad things.”

Surely he wouldn’t be. The god doesn’t picture him as a masochist.

The afternoon sun bathes them in gold. A gentle breeze passes through the trees, highlighting the prominent sweet smell of grass. They sit together in silence, letting the robins take over with their lullabies. Soon, the sound of crickets and cicadas surround them as the night approaches.

Jisung has fallen asleep, and the God gazes at the mortal lying next to him. He finds it mesmerizing how his chest expands and retracts with his breaths, and he finally notices the long eyelashes. And his small hands, yet his arms seem strong. He takes a look now because he knows he cannot do it when the mortal’s awake; Minho avoids eye contact as much as he can. If not, the hazel eyes will pull him in and he’ll be doomed.

As the sun sets, the cold wind seeps in. With it, the goosebumps in Jisung’s arms become prominent, eventually waking him up from his slumber -- a new season will soon be upon them.

“You know,” he says, yawning and stretching before standing up, eyes bleary, voice rough, “I had a dream once. I wished upon a dandelion that I wanted to stay with my loved one for eternity. Maybe next time I’ll tell you all about it.”

Then, before Minho can say anything, he waves goodbye and disappears into the shadows of the early evening. And, of course, Minho’s too stunned to go after him.

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Minho hates to admit that Jisung resembles Han.

He knows they are two different people, with two different backgrounds, and from two different times. Jisung has a foul mouth that could never say what Han’s sweet words have said to Minho. Jisung is his own person. He’s sarcastic and blunt and careless. He’s more interested in Minho than in the forest. He speaks first and has no regard for the god’s entitlement. He speaks his mind, he’s unafraid and fearless and in an underlying way, the god considers him brave even. Courageous.

Jisung, to Minho, was pretentious at first; everything seemed to revolve around him, he set and changed the atmosphere as he pleased, with no regards for anything but himself. He was too proud, too entitled, somewhat vain and insensitive; thoughtlessly inconsiderate. But as he got to know him, after having the pleasure of his inescapable company, Minho saw the beauty in it; Jisung let him in enough to lay out his cracks and flaws and humanly imperfections in front of him and allow the deity to comprehend what being human is all about. It’s about feeling . It’s about breaking down and morphing into the experiences that shape humans. He got personal from time to time and, behind the cheeky grin, there was a deep, troubled man with views of the world far too complex and elaborate for anyone else around him to fathom, to grasp the meaning of.

And yet, despite Minho’s erroneous first impression, behind the depth of Jisung’s character, underneath it all, he’s Han. He knows it’s him, he can feel it. He can sense him in the way Jisung chooses his words, the way he questions aspects of life, the way he moves, his smile is an exact copy of his, his eyes shine the same way Han’s did; the sunlight is there, inside of him, as if it’s telling Minho to recognize him, that he’s come back to him and that he never wanted to leave his side. Jisung resembles Han, even if the god has wanted to deny that fact, to repress these feelings of acknowledgement and recognition and acceptance.

However, being with Jisung is, ultimately, torture. He sees in Jisung what Han never got the chance to become. He would’ve been an exceptional human, smart beyond his years for sure. So much potential. Jisung is a reminder that the god failed to protect Han.

One summer afternoon, months subsequent to their first meeting, Jisung’s presence has become constant in the forest. In spite of the initial hesitation, Minho has stopped considering him a bother. If anything, he’s gotten something out of him: getting to know Jisung has been an opportunity to assuage his desire for knowledge.

A calm breeze slides through the leaves overhead, causing the shadow shielding them to fluctuate before returning to stillness.

Minho stands up from the log he had been perched atop, stretching out his cramped legs as he turns towards Jisung and says, refuting, “You never treat me with respect. I am a God after all.”

Previously, they discussed Minho’s attire, Jisung’s one constant remark. The mortal insisted that the God update his wardrobe, but the deity would not relent.

Jisung remains unfazed, still lying on his back, hands behind his head, legs outstretched. “Doesn’t that make you feel inhuman? I thought you wanted me to treat you like my equal, and the title of God demands superiority -- I thought you didn’t like that.”

Humans are as perceptive as Gods; it takes Minho by surprise. Maybe he misjudged Jisung. Lost in thought, he unintentionally allows the silence to linger.

Minho clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet, unsure of what to say to break the silence he hates. “Do you know how to whistle?” he asks this mostly to break the awkward quietness spreading between them.

Jisung snickers. “Of course I do,” he whistles in return. Minho finds this a tad obnoxious. Jisung carries on, rambling as usual, “I know how to ride a bike, too -- dad taught me shortly before he cheated on my mom and left us. Don’t really wanna talk about that, sorry. Don’t ask. The bastard also taught me how to hunt, believe it or not. Don’t worry though, I never actually killed anything. I was always too scared, too damn stupid.”

“Fear isn’t a weakness,” Minho butts in shamelessly, interrupting his aimless digression. And I don’t think you’re stupid, he thinks but doesn’t say.

Jisung stands up suddenly, wired up with some odd determination. He dusts off the fallen leaves and, tucking a hand into his jeans, he removes them to reveal a weapon Minho hasn’t seen in forever. A barely perceptible smile tugs at Jisung’s lips; Minho recognises it as pride.

The god’s perplexed by the suddenness of his movements. “What’s that?” he asks out of pure bafflement.

“It’s a dagger, I always carry it with me.” He unsheathes and stares at it, flaunting it and shifting it between his hands and gripping it tightly, eyes glinting with a mishmash of evident pride and ecstasy.

“Why?”

“Protection, I guess-- I don’t really know. My mom urges me to always have something to fight with in case trouble finds me. And trouble will find me someday for sure,” he chuckles. The deity doesn’t understand what’s so funny about being in danger. He furrows his eyebrows in disapproval.

Minho hates the weapon. It’s a threat. It’s invasive and unwanted in the forest. It disturbs the peace and harmony. “Take that out of my sight,” he plans on saying, but it comes out demanding and vehement, like an immediate order.

Jisung puts it away, sheathing it out of sight. He doesn’t apologize, but his head remains down in some sort of apology or remorse. It’s good he has it though: if he ever finds himself in trouble, he’ll be able to defend himself and won’t need Minho to help him -- he doesn’t want to fail again.

“What’s up?” he asks, unbeknown to him, “Why the sudden harshness?”

Minho figures Jisung noticed his persisting frown. “I simply don’t like weapons, that’s all.”

“I need it, though,” he protests, as if justifying himself. His voice remains teaseful though, “Or should I rely on you to protect me in case something happens?”

“Never,” Minho blurts out, fast and curt.

Jisung’s no fool: the atmosphere has turned sour. Minho’s being too serious, even more so than usual. Jisung ceases his teases. The god’s piercing silence is deafening.

The wind picks up slightly, slipping through the leaves, dishevelling both Jisung and Minho’s hair in the process. The deity’s hanbok flaps gently, mirroring the movement of small waves reaching the shore.

“There’s this one rumor, this one old story, a legend,” Jisung starts, choosing his words carefully, afraid to step on a landmine, “that a demon killed a boy in this forest.”

“No,” he replies, stern, surprising Jisung who thought he wouldn’t reply as fast, or even at all. He’s solemn now, to avoid showing some hint of sadness. “They killed him.” He restrains from adding that he finds mortals terrifying, as Jisung is one of them. It isn’t good for gods to despise anything but Minho can’t help it. They killed his friend, and even though it’s been decades, he doesn’t have forgiveness in him anymore. He doesn’t hold the title of God with pride any longer, but instead contempt -- they made him a monster.

He is only a monster because they made him one.

Gods do not kill. That day, Minho had the urge to unleash his wrath and burn the world to ashes. But here they are, world intact, still spinning, still living. Still hell.

“Who’s they?”

“The village,” he says, tone considerably losing its edge. “They came for me, and Han tried to protect me. But they got him and I couldn’t save him.” He felt so powerless. So insignificant, useless. The devastation had been too great to bear. Why have a healing ability if it can’t bring people back from the dead? That day he learned both unforgiveness, regret and fury -- emotions unbefitting for a deity. He cursed his existence, his helplessness. A tragedy he couldn’t prevent that still has the power to haunt him.

It’s unbelievable that back in the days, Gods were respected and venerated as saviours. Now they’re feared and kept away.

“Humans are beasts and I despise them. I loathe them profusely.” There is nothing but hatred inside the God when it comes to people. They were inconceivably cruel to him and they don’t deserve Minho’s blessing or miracles or anything related to divinity. They deserve to rot in the pits of hell and suffer.

“I’m human too,” he informs, stating the obvious. “Do you hate me too? Is that your default, hating humans because a small portion of them threatened your life and accidentally murdered someone you cherished? How’s that fair?”

When did he learn how to psychoanalyze him? Astounding. “I never said Gods were fair. And, for the record, humans aren’t fair -- that’s one of the many things that makes them human in the first place.” But there lies truth in Jisung’s words; perhaps he has been unfair for no concretal reason. He has, essentially, been grouping them and seeing all mortals the same way, reluctant to change his mentality and thoughts regarding them -- the hurt and misery and agony and anguish have all played a part in his refusal to change his views on them.

Jisung pressures on, unwilling to let this conversation go. “But Gods are fair, aren’t they? I know they are,” he stifles a laugh. “I mean, you don’t lie, you don’t kill. You’re almighty and honorable and you heal and you make everything around you flourish. You know, you haven’t only been observing me, I’ve been observing you, too.”

“Okay, so? What have you learned?”

Jisung’s characteristic grin returns to its rightful place. “That you’re a kind god, maybe the kindest god there is.”

There aren’t any other Gods, mortal! It’s useless to refute such senseless and baseless statements. He has learned, after all these months, that it’s better to let him think whatever he wants to think than to rebuff any thoughts he has, no matter how wrongful or existential or banal they might be.

A picture of a small boy with scraped knees and crooked teeth comes to mind, but Minho remains in place, composed, noble. Unaffected.

He has mastered the art of repressing his emotions.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Summer’s reaching its end as Minho takes a seat under the shade of a roble, closing his eyes briefly and taking the season all in before it leaves for the last time. The silence around him has a soothing effect, like a calming breeze. It’s pleasant and peaceful. For once, he feels content. Despite the solitary, this loneliness is bearable; he knows someone will follow soon after.

“Tell me,” a voice behind him speaks, confident and vehement, “What’s your favorite color?” He locks eyes with Minho, a small grin tugging on the corners of his mouth as he continues talking, “Mine’s red. And don’t say blue, please, I’m tired of having to stare at your hanbok every single day.”

His groaning occassionates Minho’s quiet laugh, unwilling to show the human his amusement. The answer to his question is disappointing. “I don’t have one. Having preferences and likes is very human. To us gods, everything just is . I like my hanbok not because I like its color or how it looks on me, I like it because it just is and I like blue just because it is and I wouldn’t mind if my hanbok was red or green or any other color. I’d like it just the same.”

“So you do have likes,” he lets himself fall beside Minho, taking the empty spot to his right. “You just said you liked your hanbok.”

“I do, but not because of any reason in particular.”

Jisung pouts, pensive. The robins in the branches above them sing in his absence. “You might not have likes -- as you call them, -- but you do have things you hate.”

Minho steals him a glance. “Is this because I said I hated humans?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Sometimes I just speak to fill the empty spaces, and I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Empty spaces?”

Jisung sighs before starting. “When dad left, silence reigned in my house. Mom wouldn’t speak for weeks. It was really depressing.” He pauses, recalling. “With you it’s different. I talk because I want you to talk and tell me things about yourself.”

They sit next to each other, the human sweating buckets while the god remains undisturbed and unfazed by the blazing heat. Minho’s not sure what to say next.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just to have you listen to me is enough for me.”

A pause and then, “You said you wanted to get to know me.” Jisung nods subserviently. “Before summer’s completely over, could you do something for me?”

Jisung, nonplussed by such a request, nods. “Anything. Name it.”

“Come in the evening, just before the sun sets over the horizon. There’s something I want to show you.”

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

The sun’s radiant glow has dulled by the time Jisung makes his way into the forest. The evening’s chilly, despite the day having been scorchingly hot. The trees’ shadows seem to grow with the absence of sun, and Jisung steps on them as he walks, feet steady and hands on his jacket’s pockets. The premature autumn leaves crunch under his feet, disrupting the sacred silence.

Not really knowing what the god wants to show him, he doesn’t ponder on it too much; the surprise factor would be undoubtedly lost if he did. It does intrigue him, though, it intrigues him a great deal -- as if it’s eating him whole. He has never asked for anything, and Jisung’s not sure what makes this night -- the last summer night before fall comes around -- so special to the deity. Without dawdling, he picks up his pace, impatient.

Minho greets him upon his timely arrival, at their meeting point; the riverbank.

They lock eyes. Minho’s reflect the water, clear and calm. “You’re right on time,” is all he mentions when Jisung joins him at the edge of the stream. The god doesn’t seem fazed by the change in weather -- Jisung has never seen him at night, when the temperature significantly drops.

“Surely you haven’t called me to see the river at night, have you?” Sarcasm laces his tone.

Minho follows the joke. “Would you be disappointed if I said I did?”

“No, I love spending time with you no matter the time of the day,” his low mellifluous voice echoes softly.

“Good, because I quite like the river at night,” Minho says. “It’s not quite night yet but you can still see them,” he points at the flowing water. “It reflects the sky, the water mirrors the stars in the sky and I quite like that.”

Minho smiles as he turns away from the water, only to find that Jisung’s eyes are glued to it, jaw hanging a bit in awe and transparent stupefaction. “I think you like it, too,” he adds with emphasis. “But this is not what I wanted to show you. Come,” he stretches a hand and Jisung, still too perplexed to fully comprehend what’s actually going on, takes it and follows Minho deep into the forest again.

It’s darker than he’s used to, the light slowly fading from the sky; the last rays of sunshine have long passed and what remains is the early indices of the evening. The robins are replaced with owls that hoot as they trod. The insects chime in, and so do the croaking frogs. Minho guides the way and Jisung follows blindly, fully trusting him.

Jisung feels safe. He never really felt unsafe to begin with. However, holding Minho’s hand, he feels safer than ever. It’s a cold hand, fingers long and thin and intertwined with his. His hands, on the contrary, are small and somehow almost sweaty -- tonight is no exception.

“We’re here,” Minho speaks again, knocking him back to reality and out of his thoughts. Jisung blinks, startled and puzzled. They’ve stopped walking and despite Minho trying to take his hand away, Jisung clutches it tightly. He doesn’t want to let go.

Minho doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t complain, and simply stands while he waits for Jisung to react.

They’re standing in the center of the forest, where the trees make way to a greenery field, a place he knows well, therefore it isn’t the place that bewilders him.

It’s the fireflies. It’s the tiny lights they provide, like stars, like sparks. It’s the trail they leave and the way they fly, upwards into the sky and hiding behind the leaves of the trees high above. It’s like they’re giving a performance, and Jisung and Minho are the spectators. They light up the darkness with their amber light. There are thousands of them, maybe millions -- maybe just enough to light up the entire world.

Jisung doesn’t know how long he stares, transfixed, at the fireflies dancing in front of them. Time ceases to exist as he gazes at them, mesmerized, watching one after the other as they disappear into the early night.

Eventually, Jisung is able to find his words. He looks at Minho, who’s been looking at him the entire time, smiling. “This is amazing,” he whispers in wonderment. It’s beautiful, breath-taking.

Minho hums. “Yes, it is,” he agrees. “Haven’t seen them in over two hundred years. Still feels like magic.”

“Thank you,” Jisung says. It’s so genuine and true, so unlike his usual teasing and mockery. And then, in an abrupt turn, he leans forward and presses his heart-shaped lips onto Minho’s left cheek.

It’s like an eternal moment where the world slows down, just for Jisung, just for them and for this moment. But it’s ephemeral too, and time starts moving forward once more.

For a while, there is nothing but pure bliss. Jisung’s heart beats a thousand times per minute. Minho’s too embarrassed to say anything, to act, to react. There is nothing in his head, in the midst of his knowledge, that talks about gods falling in love, or being objects of romantic attraction. He’s on his own, absolutely lost on unknown ground he doesn’t know how to navigate; there is no information to turn to.

Jisung, in contrast, doesn’t think too much about it. It was kind of in the spur of the moment, and nothing beyond gratefulness. Or so he thinks. It’s not even that big of a deal, anyway.

What Minho has failed to realize is that he has let another human in. It’s something he thought impossible -- after what happened the last time he let someone in -- and it was not intentional; he did it unconsciously. When did Jisung’s presence become a huge part of everything? Would his absence turn everything into nothing?

Minho doesn’t want to know the answer. Besides, the world has changed. He has changed. That situation to repeat again is highly unlikely. He shouldn’t fear anymore.

“Minho.” Jisung’s voice, interrupting his trail of thought, startles him. “You okay?”

Mildly dazed, Minho’s quick to reply nonetheless. “It’s the first time you call me by my name.”

Jisung becomes oddly shy. Embarrassment maybe? He blushes bashfully. “I didn’t realize. Is it weird?”

“It’s not weird -- it was just unexpected. It caught me off guard.” He spares him half a smile.

Jisung grins cheekily, returning to the human Minho knows the most in this world. “Well that’s a first.” He gives him a nudge, and they both lie back, resting on the grass like they’ve done plenty of times, only this time it’s darker and colder.

The sky’s filled with a myriad of stars. Not a cloud in sight, they are at the center of the stage, twinkling endlessly and dazzlingly. But they’re the brightest in Jisung’s hazel eyes, like they’re drifting at a black sea. It’s like they are shooting stars, burning through the stratosphere.

Minho, for the first time in his almost seven hundred years alive, wishes time would stop.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

The arrival of fall means that Jisung’s birthday’s coming up.

Jisung’s not necessarily demanding nor avaricious, however he has clearly stated that he wants a gift from Minho. “Anything,” in his own words, “Anything that makes you think of me.”

Truth is, Minho hasn’t been thinking about it, regardless of always having something to think about. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been feeling uneasy, queasy and dismayed. Jisung’s persistent, thus increasing his desperation for his noncommitment in not thinking deeply about it and making it a top priority.

Flower crowns are out of the question for several blatantly obvious reasons; first and foremost, it’s autumn, which means that nothing but dead leaves surround him and even if he were to bloom some, they would immediately wilt upon coming in contact with these climatic conditions. Secondly, flower crowns are Han’s and Han’s only; it was special to him so he’d be breaking the sentimentality by giving Jisung the same gift. And lastly, Jisung plainly doesn’t give a damn about flowers.

His birthday falls upon them on a chilly and cloudy day, and the brownish leaves cover the grass entirely as Minho walks up to meet Jisung, who’s a tad earlier than requested. The air that afternoon is crisp and brisk. Jisung’s scarf violently flaps against his jacket as he shuffles on his feet.

Jisung half expected Minho to show up empty handed, but he knew better: even if he were to give him nothing material, at least he’d think about it, and so he’d think about him indirectly, which was as much a gift as anything else to Jisung.

He is half wrong: Minho shows up with nothing, but it is nothing material. It is way better than that.

Minho abruptly comes to a halt, turning to face him. “Remember when you said you wanted to know more about me?”

Jisung nods, expectant at what Minho will say next, hanging onto every word.

“Well, I’m about to show you my heart.”

His face is different today. There is hurt in his eyes, his usual supercilious and austere attitude replaced with what feels like shame to an outsider, to Jisung. His vulnerability is something Jisung’s not used to, and something Minho doesn’t show that easily. Or ever, for that matter. This emotion in itself is a gift to Jisung, too; it’s as if the deity is permitting this emotion to show and change his demeanor for today.

“Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you to do so.”

A sudden rush of adrenaline shoots through him, wiring him up with jubilation. Complying, Jisung doesn’t rebuff. His flushed cheeks give away his elation.

The forest silences the closer they approach their destination, taking all sounds away. They stride among the trees, hand in hand, Minho guiding the way. Jisung follows close behind, keeping step beside him as they traverse the woods, the leaves below his feet crunching and swaying with the whispers of the wind.

Eventually, after such lingering silence, Minho speaks first. “We are here.”

It’s what looks like a dome. It’s tall, but then again most of the trees are tall in this forest so this dome wouldn’t stand out in the distance. It’s made of thick thorns and mostly looks like tree trunks intertwined together. He can’t make out what’s inside though, as it has barely any gaps between them. It’s breathtaking and awe-striking.

“Has this always been here?” He’s never noticed it before, mainly because he’s never been to this part of the forest -- he wouldn’t find Minho here. It reminds him of something akin to a locket; tucked away from the rest of the world as if harboring a secret.

“No, I did it.” Pride should be lacing Minho’s tone, yet it isn’t. It sounds more like indignity.

“Impressive,” he gasps, half a chuckle escaping his lips. “I like it. It’s like Sleeping Beauty.” Minho doesn’t know what that is yet he considers it not important enough to inquire into it.

“Why make a dome? Why not something more-- I don’t know, something more aesthetic?”

“Because my feelings were not aesthetic, they were anything but that. I dissolved into a fit of rage and bursted. They were horrendous. They were intrusive. I let them out in the form of thorns.” The pang in his chest gets heavier and then disappears all at once.

“And this is the manifestation of-- anger? Frustration?”

“Injustice,” he replies, somewhat curt and through clenched teeth, emphasizing an emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time. “It’s the manifestation of regret and resentment and guilt.” Minho’s lithe figure falters in place. His arms begin to tense, his grimace evident on his face. “You’re probably wondering why this is your birthday present.”

The clouds above allow a single ray of sunshine to pass through, shining down directly on Jisung’s face. He doesn’t look the least confused. “I’m just waiting for you to explain,” he answers frankly.

The forest is silent. No wind rustles leaves or blows away any of the fallen ones; it’s like the world is waiting for Minho to speak to keep spinning, like time is stopping briefly. “The boy from the legend, he died here. I buried him here. I couldn’t staunch the blood from the wound and my power didn’t work -- this power does not heal mortal wounds, I’ve learned.”

“So this was, basically, the first time you showed emotion at all,” he concludes, after much internal deliberation. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Minho shakes his head, crossing his arms. “I think it’s ugly,” he disagrees. “And this is your birthday present because this is, ultimately, what I am. I am not sympathetic. I am not a kind god. They hurt me so I thought of hurting them. Now you know me better, I hope.” You know what I’m capable of.

Jisung lands a hand on the dome. It’s rough and dry and cold to the touch. The atmosphere feels like something akin to winter. “It’s a nice resting place,” he compliments. “And I am sorry for the kid. But don’t you think you’re being a bit too hard on yourself?” he asks. He admits the story is heart-rendering. “I get that the people thought you were a devil or a demon or whatever they thought you were but you did not throw an arrow into that child’s heart. It was them. You don’t have to feel so guilty about it. Not anymore, at least. You need to learn to let go.”

Minho recognises, within himself, that the human is right. He’s known that for quite a while, but was afraid of accepting it, as if it meant accepting that nothing could’ve been done to prevent that when that is, after all, a false statement. It’s been dragging him down for what feels like eternity. In acquiescence, he learns to accept his past once and for all.

The words get stuck in his throat, so Minho swallows them all. At first he thinks of regurgitating them and spitting them out, even so only a small cry would come out, forcing him to reconsider. Minho gestures to Jisung to step aside. Jisung waits, standing still and quiet; he listens closely to the sounds of Minho inhaling softly and exhaling slowly. He looks so concentrated, hands outstretched, barely touching the dome in front of him with his eyes shut.

From the grass surrounding the dome, thin, emerald floral stems seem to rise steadily, sticking closely to the thickly wooden thorns, until they’re substantially covered in them. From these stems, crimson roses bloom, its petals stretched extently, until the dome becomes a huge rose bush. To Jisung, it resembles a heart.

Heavy silence sinks in, but only for a short while. “Now this is beautiful.”

“Roses tolerate these conditions,” Minho explains, somehow finding the words inside of him. It is, indeed, beautiful -- he should’ve made this a long time ago. “I used to avoid coming here. It’s my first time coming back, second time I’ve seen it in over two hundred years.”

“So,” Jisung says, “Have you found the strength inside of you yet?”

A soft sigh slips through Minho’s lips. It takes him a while to fully answer. “I don’t know if strength is the correct word. More like fearlessness,” he acknowledges. His tone and face regain its composure.

Jisung places a hand on Minho’s shoulder. Despite the hanbok’s cloth separating them, Minho is able to feel his warmth. Jisung’s lopsided smile is calming and serene. It’s reassuring; everything, from now on, will be alright.

On the way back, the heavy feelings Minho had coming to the dome vanish without a trace, like he hasn’t been carrying them for centuries. He feels tremendously lightweight.

Midway through, Jisung asks one simple question, curiosity getting the best of him. “What’s inside though?” It’s the last time he will speak that day.

“Darkness, probably,” Minho answers. A subtle smile creeps on his face, “and a flower bed of white chrysanthemums.”

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Autumn is an overall nice season in the forest. Minho likes to observe the leaves as they sway, twirl and fall softly to the ground. He loves watching the wind catching them just so, suspending them in the air before allowing them to surrender. The season spreads before him, presenting itself. He breaths it in, the feeling of nature flowing back and forth.

It is often a season humans dislike, he’s learned. They consider it not cold enough to be winter nor warm enough to be summer; it’s a mishmash of wintry and summery clothes. At times, it’s sunny enough to enjoy the outside without freezing; at other times, it’s better to stay inside and warm up to a hot cup of coffee.

Jisung likes it though, not necessarily because of his birthday, but because he enjoys wearing scarfs and beanies. Childish of him, the deity thinks, but very befitting.

The sun is bright overhead that afternoon, the leaves on the trees mostly undisturbed. Jisung makes himself comfortable on a pile of leaves, inviting Minho to accompany him. He opts to indulge him a bit, so he lies next to him, arms and shoulders touching -- the deity is a bit taller. Due to the weight, the pile loses a few of its leaves, lowering them closer to the ground; it isn’t a tall pile, however they’re not exactly lying on the ground either. It should be uncomfortable, but oddly enough it isn’t. If anything, it’s awkward at first.

Jisung stands up suddenly, dusting off his pants before offering Minho a hand, who grasps on to it gratefully, his fingers brushing against small soft hands. Minho allows himself to be pulled up, watching him with curiosity but not confusion.

Jisung’s childish demeanor invites the deity to a leaf fight, officiating the game with a swift swing of his arm and releasing all the leaves from both his palms onto the taciturn Minho. In retaliation, Minho tactically grabs all the leaves on him and throws them all at him, mostly missing its target.

Jisung cackles, palpably amused. Minho smiles, half a laugh escaping against his will . For once, he doesn’t mind playing along, even if he would’ve normally refused. The god finds the ‘game’ (because that’s what humans call these types of interactions) rather entertaining, much to his surprise; he never really considered it could ever be this enjoyable. He also enjoys, as a bonus, seeing Jisung play around and the way his face lights up every time he manages to land an effective leaf-bomb over Minho’s head or clothes.

Jisung seems to like this, too; he makes fun of Minho for missing, always in a teasing, playful way. He’s not precisely practical and calculating like Minho, but rather relies on his instincts and impulses.

For fleeting lapses of time, Minho feels like he’s playing with a little kid.

Jisung’s not one to put up a front, nonetheless it makes Minho feel some of his innocence seeping in, which contrasts with Jisung’s way of carrying himself -- usually, he’d try to prove himself as a mature man, one with heavy ideals and practical thinking. Yet now, playing with him, Minho senses what lies beyond Jisung’s outward personality. It’s childlike innocence.

Eventually tired and panting, limbs numb and aching, they lie down again, satisfied but exhausted. He’s no expert, yet Jisung’s fully convinced he just won against a supernatural being. Minho’s too prideful to admit it though.

His lungs burn as he breathes heavily. Jisung takes the initiative and, together with Minho, they rake the leaves with their hands and make their original pile again, this time it’s taller and sturdier. It isn’t exactly comfortable though.

A smile tugs at the corner of Jisung’s mouth. They’re closer now, touching from shoulders to ankles, all the way. Their hands, of course, are no exception. 

Jisung’s fond of feeling Minho’s skin brushing against him. His skin feels real, it feels like a human’s. In this moment, he isn’t a God; they’re both equal.

“Can Gods reincarnate?” he asks, bursting an invisible bubble.

“No, we never die.” Minho replies neutrally; he’s uninterested in this topic of conversation.

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

Hands still touching, Jisung can’t help but wonder if “Wouldn’t you like to be human? To reincarnate as one?”

He thinks nothing of it. “I am unable to imagine something that is likely to never happen,” he admits. This is the God’s reality.

“Tragic,” Jisung chuckles, somewhat disappointed in his reply. “Gods have no imagination.”

“Gods don’t see in between, something’s either black or white,” he explains, both hands now lying flat on his stomach, fingers intertwined. “Things either align to what they’ve been taught or they’re incorrect. And what they don’t know, in an inhuman way, they’ll never understand -- like emotions. Those are entirely characteristic of mortals and Gods have no share in them.” It goes without saying that Minho is different from the rest of them; he is the first God to have ever felt emotional pain. His level of understanding human emotions is way beyond the gods that have come before him. “So yes, Gods have no imagination. They know what they know and what they don’t doesn’t exist or isn’t possible. They could be seen as close-minded and they probably are. But there’s tons of space to learn.”

Jisung nods. His immediate understanding of such brand new information is outstanding; he never asks for second explanations or the use of other – simpler – words. He absorbs it with such rapidity that it dumbfounds Minho when they’re interacting. Not only that, but Jisung’s view of the world is entirely different too, and his manifestation of his thoughts and feelings, to the god, is alluring and marvelous to witness. The way his brain works is fascinating to Minho, truly unparalleled.

“How do you feel about not being worshiped anymore?” he asks, “Are you relieved? Saddened? Do you feel forgotten?” He stares back at Minho, face impassive. “Does it bother you?”

“I don’t care about being forgotten.”

“Well, what about the worshiped part?”

Minho ponders the question. He has never actually been worshiped, unlike the previous gods. Not with genuine love and appreciation; he always felt it came out of fear and not gratitude. The notion of being ignored, on the other hand, is another matter.

“I do not think Gods will ever be worshiped again,” he confesses. “And my argument for it is simply this: times have changed. And they will continue to change.”

“You know, for once I agree with you,” Jisung notes with a smile.

Minho is momentarily taken aback, then amused. He allows their hands to touch again but Jisung does whatever he wants, according to the deity, and, taking his hand, he interlocks their fingers tightly. He brings them together to his chest and lays a cheek on top of their hands. Minho’s hand is icy, unlike Jisung’s small, warm hand. Now scooting closer, Jisung rests his head on Minho’s shoulder, to which he’s inclined to ask if he’s cold. Jisung shakes his head slightly.

He reaches out to touch the side of Jisung’s face and strokes his reddened cheek lightly; Jisung responds to the touch, closing his eyes and nuzzling the palm of Minho’s hand. He partially falls asleep.

Minho then sits back and faces the sky. The wind remains chilly yet pleasant. Leaves continue to fall around them. Birds chirp merrily from afar.

He never thought about reincarnation, that’s infallibly true. He can’t help but wonder about it now.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Unable to let go that easily and without indulging further, Jisung carries their last conversation into a new afternoon. He goes a bit deeper, right into its core, to extract some valuable information regarding not only Minho but Gods and deities in general, to grasp and have a better understanding of just how painful it is to be immortal. To Jisung, being a God is a tragedy at its finest.

To get to the bottom of it all, he needs to start from the beginning, which he unconsciously, regrettably skipped.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Jisung inquires, basking under the rays of a blinding sun. It’s warmer than the previous afternoon, no need for scarfs and beanies, and everything seems more lively regardless of the strip-bare naked trees and ever growing piles and piles of dead leaves.

“I do not.” After all, the gods don’t reincarnate; they transcend. It would be too complex to explain, so he doesn’t elaborate on his answer. Jisung’s smart enough to figure it out on his own.

“I do,” he replies, answering his own question. “I just can’t imagine not living. What’s there after death? I don’t know.”

Makes sense, the god thinks. I’ll never disappear from this earth. I’ll live among the clouds and the stars. That’s the place that has been assigned to him ever since he was brought to Earth.

“If I ever reincarnate, I wouldn’t wanna come back as a human. I’d want to be a God, like you.”

“Why?” Minho finds this riveting; he recalls Jisung saying that gods were ‘cursed beings’ and that their existence was ‘too tragic’.

“I wanna be with you,” he says, like he doesn’t mean anything grand by it. He throws the words away, lets them slip through his teeth. “Can you resign to godhood?”

“Why would I do that?” He doesn’t take it to heart, but he scoffs, partially annoyed.

He rephrases his question. “Can a god stop being a god?”

Minho frowns, pensive. He never really thought about it that hard. “I’m not sure. We never die.”

“How’s that?” Jisung asks. “Not dying, is that something gods look forward to?”

Minho wonders what he has learned about deities. He’s the first one to show such interest to begin with, seeing as none dared to approach him in the first place. “No, we don’t look forward to anything.”

Jisung sighs in disappointment. He probably thinks being a God is boring and that there’s nothing to do -- he wouldn't be entirely wrong. Minho does nothing but gather information and care for his realm, the forest. He breathes the same air as humans do, and walks around the paths he’s always known.

“I thought you looked forward to our conversations.” The sarcasm plays its role, to which Minho subtly rolls his eyes. “I do look forward to them, they’re the highlight of my day.”

Minho’s not one to compare much -- seeing as all beings are different and unique and comparing them is absurd -- yet he has, nevertheless, noticed the contrasting personalities between the humans he has had the chance to meet in this lifetime.

Han was bubbly, high-spirited, lively and buoyant. Jisung, on the other hand, tends to be more goofy, to change the mood as he seems fit and always ends on a humoristic tone with his teases, but is never pesterous nor overbearing. He’s exceptionally observant and perceptive, despite his carefree facade.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that.” He shakes his head slightly, smiling as he looks up into Minho’s eyes. Has he been staring at him the whole time?

“What?”

Jisung laughs lightly as he sits up straight, leaning against his arms placed behind his back. His fingers tap against the trunk of the tree he’s sitting beneath and he turns his attention to the god beside him, who has an unamused expression on his face. “You go quiet all of a sudden when you’re thinking,” he says. “Tell me what goes on in your mind.”

“I was just thinking that I prefer spring after all.” It’s a throwaway line, a conclusion, albeit random.

“Why?” Intermittent chuckles slip from Jisung’s lips. “I thought you said Gods weren’t supposed to have preferences.”

He tilts his head to the side, his brows raised high. “I thought you said you wanted to know more about me.”

Minho provokes Jisung’s laugh again, this time louder and boisterous. A short bark of laughter escapes from Minho too, but he still smiles, amused by Jisung's response.

“Okay, you got me,” he accepts defeat, leaning closer, eyes sparkling brightly. “I know plenty now though.”

That elicits a smile from Minho; it’s a bit weak, as if he’s suppressing it, or preventing it from turning into a grimace. “You sound too confident. Would you mind telling me what you have learned?”

Jisung’s smile is warm and sincere. “I will, but after you answer my question first,” he says. And proceeds, “Why spring? You look more like an invernal kind of pers-- deity.”

He interlaces his words carefully. “Spring to me represents a new beginning. A new cycle. The flowers bloom again and the color returns, everything slowly coming back to life. I am very fond of flowers.”

Jisung nods, not in agreement but in understanding. He gazes at him for a while, almost as if he is mesmerized by the god. “I love the way that you look when you talk about something that you like.”

Minho is briefly overcome with a siege of panic. “What do I look like?” he asks, trying desperately to play it cool.

Jisung pays it no mind whatsoever. He feels compelled to answer in a serious way, leaving his usual, characteristic teasing, playful tone aside. His register lowers noticeably. “It’s like you’re lost in reverie, like you’re describing a dream,” he says, but opts to finish with his usual tone, “and before you say anything, I know that gods don’t dream because you taught me that already.”

A gust of cool wind engulfs them, momentarily ending what’s left of that conversation. They end up staying in silence for a moment longer. 

And then Jisung laughs, but Minho’s ears are ringing from the words. “When I first met you I thought you were not serious.”

“Huh?” he rakes his hair with his hands, fixing it after the wind’s atrocity.

Minho carries on. “When you said you wanted to know about me I thought you did not mean it. I did not take you seriously. I feel like I owe you an apology.”

The human smiles incredulously, shrugging. He shakes his head and waves dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s good you take me seriously now. I think I’ve learned enough about you.” Jisung stares at Minho with a curious gleam in his eyes. “But I know I’ll keep learning new things about you. After all, we have plenty of time to learn more about each other, don’t we?”

Minho’s silence lingers: Gods do not lie.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Winter’s arrival is ruthless. It strips bare the trees and covers all the grass and the leaves with snow. The environment soon loses its color without a fight; the brown forest gets replaced with white, rendering everything colorless and cold. The cool breeze turns into a non-escaping, non-ceasing wintry wind. The falling of leaves changes to the falling of snowflakes. Winter is delicate but deadly.

The youngsters and the families in town build snowmen and play snow fights. Minho finds joy in seeing it all from afar, the palpable smiles on their faces reaching the deity with nothing but warmth among the cold.

Jisung’s enthusiasm and energy seems to spark when the whole world falls asleep, most of them hiding underneath thousands of blankets and waiting for the color and the warmth to return. Unconcerned, he carries on as usual despite the weather; he wouldn’t miss an afternoon spent with the God for the world.

He would never miss one moment of this winter either, especially since finding out that Minho hasn’t changed his attire yet, regardless of the dropping temperatures. He insists that it’s a thick fabric, and that Gods don’t really feel the cold anyway. Jisung simply thinks he’s stubborn.

The winter wind howls that afternoon as Jisung trudges his way through the heavy snow. It’s a scream in his ear, shrieking and piercing. His footprints stain the white layer with a brown, muddy scar. The sun hides behind puffy gray clouds, afraid of interrupting the neverending looming darkness of the forest. He shivers, small visible puffs of air coming out of his mouth as he approaches Minho through the tall trees. Jisung fixes his hair and his beanie, covering his ears.

As always, Minho greets him, still wearing that worn off blue hanbok. With the seasons -- and the years, Jisung supposes -- the hanbok has dulled, yet still remains in pristine condition.

“It’s freezing,” he says, intermittently trembling, stretching the f with his stuttering. He holds himself, arms hugging his torso, his face now deep in his scarf. The autumn chilly breeze has become wintry and lethal.

There are no signs of light, of movement, of life. The forest looks peaceful, unbothered and untouched by any sign of warmth, as if it is allowing the winter to intrude and invade the space within. There aren’t even birds or insects making themselves heard amidst the growling wind; only the sound of the snow crunching underfoot. It all feels empty.

Everything is lifeless and still. The world is quiet as the dead.

Minho looks over at Jisung with an amused expression; his face still hibernating inside his scarf. “I told you before, you do not have to come here this often.”

The dark hazel strands of his hair stick to his forehead, pressured tightly by the beanie like its life depends on it. Now peeking, his eyebrows lift slightly; a smile tugging at his lips. “As I told you many times before, I’m gonna keep coming as often as I can until you get rid of me or until I die.” The redness of his nose and cheeks enchants the deity.

Minho despises talking about death and, so far, Jisung hasn’t joked about it. He’s not holding himself back per se, as he understands the weight of it and joking about it would be disrespectful and insensitively vile.

Jisung carries on, like he often does when the God broods. “You haven’t gotten rid of me yet so I think we’re good.” A grin. “Besides, it’s so cold today. There’s nothing worse than being cold and alone.”

Silence follows and the two remain standing still on the snowy ground. Jisung stares down at it, missing now more than ever the greenery field he’s gotten used to. His head hangs low as the cold nips at the skin and bone of his cheeks, numbing the feeling down his spine and stealing the strength away from him.

His weakened state alarms Minho, who has never seen him like this. Driven by instinct, Minho cups both sides of Jisung’s face, welcoming the warmth that pools between the pair’s gazes like liquid fire that melts everything around them. A soft, overwhelming feeling resurfaces inside Jisung.

Minho doesn’t require words, and Jisung doesn’t ask for any as he lets himself be guided by the deity’s hand in his. The heat radiating from the touch soothes him, thawing the cold within.

As Minho leads him through the icy forest, Jisung begins to wonder that he truly doesn’t know every inch of it in spite of very well knowing some parts of it like the palm of his hand. It’s too grand, too wide, and he has left spots uncharted. He only knows and recognises the places Minho usually habits.

“Another part of me you have yet to know,” Minho says suddenly. A hint of seriousness and sorrow laces his voice, evoking Jisung to look up; he identifies melancholy in his bleary eyes. “We are here.”

It’s a cave, well hidden behind some trees and round bushes, towards one of the edges of the forest. It’s not exceptionally wide, but it fits two people and Jisung can’t see the end of it. It has a roof so it’s good enough, he figures. In all honesty, the cave is a sanctuary in the snow.

Minho speaks again, providing some missing information. “I stayed here for almost two hundred years,” he explains, sitting down and welcoming Jisung to do the same. He complies. The floor is akin to an ice cube, still Jisung doesn’t complain. “I hid from the world because I considered it cruel. I could not bear it any longer.”

In close proximity, the heat that radiates off of Minho envelops Jisung, warming every inch of his being. Shoulders almost touching, Jisung closes the distance and rests his head on Minho’s shoulder. It comforts the deity and, in unison, they close their eyes and allow their bodies to relax and sink into the sensation. Puffs of air come out of Jisung’s lips, and they gradually increase as his heart beats faster.

Eternity exists in this moment. They exist here, together. They exist in a bubble, encapsulating them in warmth, and they stay in it for what seems forever and forever, basking in each other’s presence and their warm body heat. Here, they are safe and sheltered, excluded from the rest of the unending winter outside.

Minho is with him. Jisung takes his hand and holds it in his. It isn’t cold like it should be.

Minho tightens the grip. He has never felt this warmth in his whole life. It’s unfamiliar but oddly tranquilizing.

They watch as snow begins to fall from the sky like little cotton balls; it’s majestic. Beneath the snow-covered trees, amid the incessant howling wind, they stay like this; holding each other. Jisung observes the falling flakes as they drift from above and land right on the sleek snow.

“It’s like the end of the world.”

A smile creeps on Minho’s face; there is only them. There is only now.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Unknown to the paleness of this new season, the following afternoon the sun comes out to greet them, waking up from its deep slumber. It expels the darkness and paints the trees a warm orange color, turning everything it touches gold. The air is crisp and bearable, not too cold for uncomfort. The grass is blanketed in thick and heavy snow.

The cave is not necessary today. In fact, Jisung teaches Minho how to have fun with the snow and take advantage of it, as it is not going anywhere anytime soon. Despite the initial hesitation and reluctance, Minho takes Jisung’s lead as he encourages a snow fight, which goes down pretty much like their leaf fight did back in autumn. The two are laughing and throwing snowballs at each other as if they haven’t seen the light of day before, and Minho sees Jisung’s inner child seeping through.

Minho wins this time, much to Jisung’s dismay. A bitter loser, he protests and doesn’t accept defeat, (falsely) stating that ‘Gods have superhuman strength and strategy’ and that no such thing as winning ‘fair and square’ is possible when competing against mortal beings. Implying foul play, they laugh and the snow fight continues until, eventually, Jisung is crowned the winner.

Minho doesn’t mind; he understands that Jisung wasn’t serious and only wanted to carry on playing with him. He’s easy to read sometimes. He gets him even without words, now more than ever; their bond is strong. It’s a mutual understanding they have; they know the other’s boundaries -- where to inquire and where to let go, where to push and pressure and where to recede.

Jisung is Minho’s first friend in centuries. Minho’s thankful, even if he won’t admit that. The loneliness he once got used to seems so far, unable to reach him now.

Jisung has helped change Minho’s perception about humans.

Limbs numb and reddened face, Jisung lies on the snow, observing the air puffs coming out of him. The snow is cold beneath his hands, however it’s pleasant; his body is still hot and burning. He stares upwards into the sky, watching the pale blue spread over them, listening to the chirping of the birds in nature. The sun feels warm on his face but it’s alright.

Minho accompanies him, allowing his hanbok to spread over the ground. It’s rather quiet around here and it feels nice. He observes too, watching how Jisung’s chest moves up and down rhythmically. It will start to get really cold again soon, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it; his powers don’t allow him to tamper the weather. He has explained this to him before: Gods do not, should not and can not manipulate temperature. Growing flowers is a different matter altogether.

“You know, I do not want to be a God anymore. I do not think I have ever wanted to be one.” He isn’t confessing it to Jisung, he’s admitting it to himself.

Jisung hums. His face is pale, hair messy, lips redder and redder by the minute, as the warmth of the sun sinks deeper into him.

Minho further breaks the silence between them, appreciating the space Jisung is providing for him to vent out his thoughts. “I do not even think I had a choice to begin with. I do not remember a time when I was not a God.”

“You must’ve been human once, I’m sure,” Jisung says, and it eases something -- what exactly? -- inside the god, “many years ago. And in your death, hypothetically, you must’ve spoken to the god of all gods and he made you a God. And here you are now. And here we are having this conversation.”

He scoffs, appraising him with some kind of admiration; Jisung’s bluffing, Minho’s certain, however, despite it all, despite not knowing what he’s talking about, Minho knows Jisung’s purpose: he’s making him feel better somehow.

“I want to go to Heaven, if there is one. I do not want to live eternally.”

“So even Gods don’t know what’s there after death,” Jisung says, stifling a chuckle, “Then, when you see the god of all gods again, tell him to release you of your suffering.”

“I am not suffering though.”

Jisung stares at him now, lips stretching in a thin line. He has this look on his face, like he’s analyzing him, a look Minho has seen before. “But you are, aren’t you? You’ve seen so many people die, you’ve seen wars and famine and lost people precious to you.”

“How do you know that?” He has, indeed, told him about Han but never about wars and famine and diseases and poverty and such. Just how perceptive, how observant is this man? “What makes you say that?”

Jisung shakes his head. “I just guessed,” he says. “You’re more human than you know.”

That strikes him deeply, a slash across the face. He has never grasped the concept of his own humanity -- or lack of thereof. “That is not possible,” he denies, unaffected by such confident remark. “Humans are creatures of feeling. They can hurt and kill and bleed; they do not live seven hundred years.” That thought brings up something unpleasant, nevertheless he suppresses it. “They cannot create anything. They cannot make flowers bloom and thorns spring from grass. They do not heal with intrinsic power.”

“Yet here you are,” he grins, turning his head slowly to face Minho, who stares back at him expectantly. He’s about to prove me wrong, the deity thinks, and he’s ready for it. Bring it on. “Yet here you are, breathing. You understand us better than we understand ourselves, I think. You’ve watched over us for several hundred years. You’ve cried for us, or someone,” he says, “and you’ve hurt. You have, I’m sure you have. Heartbreak hurts just as much as anything physical, maybe even more so.”

There is still snow surrounding them, untouched by human hand or foot, and all is calm. It’s blissful and beautiful. Jisung, in this moment, with these thoughts and truth, is beautiful too.

Minho fights a smile. “Actually, the only thing that differentiates humans from anything else is their capacity to reason.”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, both of them returning to their usual selves, away from such a heavy topic of conversation. Minho turns his gaze back towards the sun. The wind blows through them lazily, stirring their clothes.

Jisung sighs, unusually accepting defeat -- this once -- and giving in to Minho. He takes his arm and wraps himself around it, both arms hugging the deity’s limb. “Hey,” he begins, and Minho is partially glad he’s decided to interrupt the silence hanging in the air above them, “Gods are capable of reasoning like humans, so you’re capable of loving too, and being loved in return. Love transcends realms,” he says. “I’m sure you know what love is, don’t you?”

“Love is a quiet emotion at first,” Minho starts, “but with time, it becomes unavoidable. You might not feel it is there, but soon enough you will find yourself unable to live without it. It is needed as much as breathing.” It is an innate instinct, the same as hunger and hatred and it can be felt in any way, anywhere and anytime. It’s an intrusive, destructive feeling. “I do know what love is.”

Jisung is gazing at him, almost with a challenging glee. His eyes reflect the light from the sun. Minho’s eyes are riveted on him, letting himself be enveloped by Jisung, the warmth spreading over his skin, the gentle touch of the breeze on his cheeks. He watches him breathe, watches the rise of his chest and the air puffs coming out of him.

And there is only one thought in Minho’s brain, unrelated to love or humans or anything discussed. I’ll miss this.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

The last day of winter isn’t as cold as they could’ve predicted. The temperature is still cold, but not freezing. The frost, that has previously covered the forest, is now melting away, saying its goodbyes and getting ready to hide behind another season, taking with it everything it brought.

Winter is a beautiful season, and Minho feels apologetic about leaving it behind without appreciating it more, like he should have. He could’ve enjoyed more moments, played more with the snow, built more snowmen and more snow angels -- like Jisung taught him, like they did together some afternoons -- and watch the falling of snow without wondering when it would all be over. He was looking at its end without cherishing it in its presence.

“Excited for spring?” Jisung asks, “I didn’t think spring would come this soon.” His smile is wide, and his eyes sparkle, his hair bright with the sunshine. He thinks about how much warmer it is now that spring is coming.

“I am dreading it.”

The sun shines through the trees as they stride towards the river. With spring closing in, the river should be flowing, after being frozen for months.

“For real?” Jisung questions, eyes half closed from the warmth of the sun seeping into him, from the wind blowing the hair off his forehead. “It will soon be a year since we met. Also, isn’t spring your favorite season?”

“It is my last season.” Minho replies truthfully. If he mentions it with enough time, perhaps it won’t feel as depressing. Maybe everything will be alright. The seasons have been moving on without him, the years have flown him by. This world will carry on for everyone, except him.

Jisung shrugs. “What does that even mean?” His eyes are glinting.

It’s hard for Minho to look at him when he’s so oblivious. It’s hard for Minho to stop thinking about how he will take the news. He just knows he has no intention of letting Jisung go without some sort of explanation. It wouldn’t be fair.

“The truth is, Jisung, that I am reaching old age. I will not get to live longer than this.”

Jisung abruptly stops on his feet, prompting Minho to stop too. They’re close enough to the river, the flowing of water ringing in his ears from afar.

His shock reverts him. He turns back to his usual self, in spite of staring into nothingness. “No,” he says, chuckling, like he’s been told a joke and not a death sentence. The god doesn’t react. “No,” he repeats, this time in denial, “that’s not possible. No.”

The denial is self defense, the god thinks. For now, he looks completely nonplussed. It hasn’t sunk in yet. And this isn’t quite a fight per se, it doesn’t develop like one. It’s a disagreement, a discussion, an argument.

“It is and I am.” It’s simple: his time is coming. “I was not planning on telling you in the beginning. I apologize.”

A gentle breeze flows by and Jisung remains rooted in place, not an inch of him moving or showing any signs of acceptance.

“Didn’t you say your birthday’s in spring?” somehow he has the strength to speak, his vocal cords the only muscle in full function.

“Yes.”

“But you’re a god!” he gasps in disbelief, eyes wide open, still staring into nothingness. His voice begins to spike higher and higher, and it occasionally cracks. “You cannot die. You still have plenty of time. You’re immortal, you haven’t reached seven hundred years yet, no, you still have centuries and centuries ahead and you’re supposed to wait until I’m dead and then we--”

“Jisung,” he interrupts, voice soft and sweet, cuping his cheeks. He brings him back from the void, the hazel eyes now staring straight at him. He looks miserable. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“But--” Jisung stutters, words failing him, mouth opening and closing. There’s panic in his eyes, Minho can sense it, and it hurts him; he needs Jisung to accept the inevitable. “What do you mean ‘never meant for this to happen’?” Minho’s sweetness and gentleness act as anesthesia against a fatal wound; Jisung needs morphine, not softness, and definitely not pity.

Minho wants Jisung to understand his true intentions: he never meant to hurt him like this. “No one was supposed to come after Han.” He takes a deep breath, the cold air entering his lungs. It makes a pleasant chill that slowly creeps up his chest, to settle around his shoulders. “If I could give up immortality, I would. For you, I would.” I promise.

He chants a magic spell with his words, with his whispers; Jisung begins to cry.

It’s cathartic: Jisung’s lamentably human, intrinsically sentimental. His tears soak Minho’s hands, still tenderly on his cherubic cheeks. They stream down his face as Minho attempts to wipe them away to no avail; they won’t stop. They continue to fall, to drip from his lashes onto the ground, to pool in little pools together with the melting snow. One after the other, they all fall. Minho, once again, feels incompetent and powerless.

The sight of Jisung crying, the sound of his sobs filling the atmosphere between them is so tangible and raw. It’s painful for the two of them. Despite the saying, there is no beauty in sadness. He looks hopeless and it’s crushing. His usual grin is nowhere to be found.

Minho just shattered him. He just broke everything that he is. He stole his heart, squeezed it and wringed in his hands and watched it gouge out putrid blood. His hands are stained with Jisung’s innocence.

The river continues running in the distance. Time waits for no one; not now, not ever.

Minho wants to say he’s sorry again, but restrains himself; it would only hurt Jisung further. He’s said enough, and he’s kept it for too long. So he doesn’t say anything else and instead hugs him, no matter how hard Jisung tries to push him away with all of his might. “Tell me it’s a lie,” he insists, over and over between helpless sobs, and Minho’s silence reigns.

This is Minho’s second heartbreak.

⚘⚘⚘⚘

And then it’s spring again, the last of the seasons. It comes in gently, bringing with it warmth and color to the somber forest. The flowers wake up from their slumber and perk up, once again ready to embrace the rays of the sun. The trees bright up vibrantly, all signs of snow erased and forgotten.

Minho refuses to share the date of his birthday, regardless of Jisung’s relentless pleas. It is futile; the god does not give in. Jisung tries reasoning it out with him, he begs, yet Minho is stubborn and his resolve grows stronger, as if Jisung, for once, doesn't matter.

Minho’s uncertain why Jisung has decided to continue his visits even after everything that happened last time they were together. However, he does not ask. He doesn’t want to drive him away, seeing as Minho no longer knows how to be calm in solitude. He does not know how to be alone anymore.

Minho would stay silent forever if it meant keeping Jisung by his side until his time comes, but that is not what the human wants.

“It is okay,” he tells Jisung, trying to reassure him. “We should enjoy spring while it is upon us.”

Jisung finds it within himself to forgive the deity. He doesn’t forget, but to remain bitter and depressed for the remaining time would be a waste -- a waste that’d cost him regret later on.

By the riverbend, the waves lash out onto the rocks. Jisung’s smile returns, nonetheless it’s weaker and less genuine. The light in his eyes has dimmed significantly.

The god beams, pleased to be graced in his presence, a soft smile gracing his features. The air is so clean, Jisung feels purified. He takes a deep breath, basking in the scent of nature under the rays of the sun.

They sit by the water for hours, simply relishing each other’s company, neither of them speaking a word; they’re both quiet, both aware, and yet they’re both content. It’s a peaceful kind of silence. There are still lingering traces of melancholy clinging to the air though; it’s not uncomfortable but instead a reminder. They are perpetually moving towards the untimely end.

With the sun already setting over the horizon, Jisung stands up to leave. He returns to face Minho, “Promise me we’ll enjoy our last days together, that you won’t hide things from me anymore.” The irremovable pain is still visible, reflecting in his hazel eyes. They pierce Minho’s weakened heart. “Promise me you’ll tell me when the time comes.”

Gods do not promise, Minho has been taught before, and they surely do not make promises they cannot keep.

“I promise.”

⚘⚘⚘

“You once said,” Jisung says one afternoon, under the rays of the sun, “that inside the dome there are white chrysanthemums.” He’s almost imperceptibly transpiring, small beads of sweat on his forehead. They settle under the shade of a tree, grass soft and long beneath their heated bodies. The wind feels nice and refreshing against their skins.

“That is correct.”

“What does it mean?” The question is simple at first, yet has underlying meaning.

Minho looks at Jisung, taking in all the details. The wind carelessly dishevels his hair but he pays it no mind whatsoever. His face shows disinterest, however his tone gives away his curiosity. “I did not picture you as someone who would be interested in flowers.”

“I’m not.” He doesn’t elaborate.

Brown-eared bulbuls sing their daily anthems on the branches above. They set flight and they whistle cheerfully. “White chrysanthemums symbolize adversity, lamentation, and grief.”

“Oh.” He exhales, sounding apologetic.

“Here,” he caresses the grass lightly, and a white chrysanthemum blooms from his touch. He plucks it off, handing it over to Jisung, who just stares at it expressionless. “This is the flower. There are an abundance of flower beds around this forest.”

“It’s pretty,” he acknowledges monotonously, “but I prefer roses.”

“Why?” Minho questions, tilting his head slightly, “Any reason in particular?”

Jisung shrugs. “Just because,” he replies, “don’t red roses mean love and affection?”

“They do.”

Jisung beams, his fingers trailing along the stem of the white flower, petals slightly wrinkled as he pulls. Grief, huh, he thinks to himself, makes sense. “This is a request,” his voice is gentle, soothing, “but could you teach me about flowers? Their meanings, I mean.”

Minho gazes over at him with hopeful eyes. “Have I told you that I am especially fond of flowers?”

“You have. That’s why I want to know what’s so fascinating about them,” he says. “Teach me.”

Minho exudes elation, baffled at first but loving Jisung’s request. He would never turn it down. “Shall we begin right away?” he offers, euphoric.

“Now?” He grimaces upon being disturbed. He was enjoying the tranquility. They both stand up in unison.

Minho stretches out his hand and Jisung takes it without hesitation. The sun beats down on them as they walk deeper into the forest. He holds Jisung’s hand, caressing the back of his palm as they stride.

“So where shall we start?” he wonders, pensive. There’s much to learn, if Jisung’s willing to be taught.

A monarch butterfly flits by his face, its wings brushing against Jisung’s cheek. A small laugh escapes his lips, something Minho hasn’t heard in a while and the happiness he’s missed from Jisung.

Jisung follows him subserviently as Minho leads, and they soon find themselves among a few of the most beautiful blooms Jisung has ever seen. The flowers blossom vibrantly and strong against the leaves of the trees, the bushes and the grass.

A large rosebush catches the sunlight, casting a vibrant red glow upon Minho’s profile and Jisung watches him as they continue walking, his features calm and peaceful.

Upon localizing where it’s coming from, Jisung’s eyes light up. Roses, Minho notes. He can see Jisung eyeing one particularly bright red bloom with interest. They approach it, Jisung dragging the deity with him. He kneels down and he gently takes one bloom between his fingers, examining it intently. 

Minho kneels down with him, observing the flower in between Jisung’s fingers. “A beautiful shade of red,” he comments. “I would say it is scarlet.”

Unaware of the obvious, Jisung forgets that roses have thorns. “Ouch,” he winces, a drop of blood dripping down his skin, “it pricked me.”

Minho stifles a chuckle, amused by his childishness, and takes his index finger, wrapping it with one hand. Minho instructs him to close his eyes and, within seconds, the wound heals, looking unblemished. “I have not used my powers in a while.”

“That’s impressive,” Jisung remarks, bending his finger a few times, smiling faintly before glancing up to look at Minho. He catches a glimpse of the small smile still lingering on Minho’s lips.

“Shall we continue?” he proposes enthusiastically, “There is still much to learn.”

“Before that,” Jisung says, cautiously avoiding all thorns as he plucks the rose that has previously pierced him, “For you.”

Minho gapes at it. “For me,” he repeats sheepishly, taking it in his hands. It’s his first ever gift. “Thank you.”

Jisung blushes, bashful. He places it in his hanbok’s belt, attaching it firmly against the royal blue fabric. Minho turns to Jisung, holding his hand again now, palms against each other.

They proceed to walk around the forest in full bloom, flowers swaying slightly under the breeze. They admire the flora around them, and the butterflies dance above their heads, the sun still warm against their bodies.

“This is a hibiscus,” he explains, pointing to a cluster of pink-mauve flowers with dark magenta eyes, “formally called hibiscus syriacus. It means ‘eternal blossom that never fades’ and we say it simply means ‘eternity’ or ‘inexhaustible abundance’. It is fragile and short-lived, yet it also means ‘everlasting life’ or immortality, for example, it can represent the immortality of love.”

Each flower stands tall and proud, bearing a different meaning, looking lavishly. “What if it’s bright pink, does the color change its symbolism?”

“Pink hibiscuses stand for friendship,” he states, “and all different kinds of love. It is a beauty, is it not?”

Jisung nods, and they walk a bit more, shifting from one flower bed to another one. He gasps at each sight, captivated by the beauty before him. His heart swells as he squeezes Minho’s hand.

“And here,” Minho points to a vividly-colored cluster of striking flowers, “is a gerbera, which I personally believe it represents you just fine.” He giggles, consequent to Jisung’s frown. “They are thought to be playful and represent innocence, purity, cheerfulness and loyal love. And finally,” he continues, done for the day, “is the alstroemeria, which signifies kindness, gratitude and humility.”

He watches Jisung closely and carefully as he processes these words, this knowledge, absorbing the information and storing it in his memory. He studies the shape of the leaves, the way they’re arranged, the patterns and colors of the petals.

“Take one.” He suggests, and Jisung does as told, just as a bee buzzes near them, its wings fluttering erratically before it flies off. “It’s a token of companionship.”

“I like it,” he says, observing it once more before adding his gratitude. “I never knew flowers were this pretty.”

And they aren’t the only thing that’s pretty, Minho thinks to himself.

⚘⚘

The next time they meet it’s just Minho telling stories, both related to flowers and unrelated to them. He tells him about the small village where the town now stands, and speaks about the first time he was brought to Earth. He fondly recalls his earliest memories; how lost he felt, how it took him a while to get accustomed to the forest and the knowledge, which was overwhelming at first.

Minho tells him his tales and Jisung takes them as adventures. These stories that he shares, Jisung can tell, are what made him who he is today. He unfurls and unfolds and expels everything, opening every single room inside filled with everything he’s never told anyone. What he doesn’t tell, and will never confess, are the stories regarding death -- for those are too painful and too personal to give away.

They go through the forest as he talks, Jisung uncharacteristically quiet and permitting Minho to speak uninterruptedly. The stories are marvelous and wondrous, enchanting Jisung as he speaks. He tells him about the first time he used his power, how frightening it was, how powerful he felt. He tells him about the town’s first drought, and how he helped them through it. Times were great back then, in spite of everything else.

They take turns speaking upon Minho’s suggestion, and Jisung shares something the god does not know about him: his childhood. He’s an only child, and used to be a very sickly boy confined to his bed. He’s an open book: he talks about everything, from growing up without a parent and siblings to his last year of high school. He confesses his wrongdoings and the pranks he used to pull around school. On the surface he seems positive, mirthfully so, although he speaks about his doubts, the uncertainty, the vastness of the world and the disgust he feels from time to time when he remembers, infuriatingly, that the world is vicious, and that he felt that when he was younger and felt alone, abandoned, and that he still continues to feel it nowadays. He avows that his rebellious mentality and difficult personality (as the people around him consider him to be, in contrast to the god who thinks he’s anything but difficult -- troubled perhaps would be the correct word) is his father’s fault, or his absence actually, and he doesn’t complain, not really, he mostly vents. He is sorrow and contradiction and complexity and Minho loves that.

It is beautiful watching Jisung reveal parts of himself he normally hides behind laughter or jokes or sarcasm. His whimsical sense of humor is hidden behind his brilliance and intelligence.

Through it all, the god does not judge him; Minho listens raptly, smiling broadly and encouragingly at every story, every experience Jisung tells. He would not have guessed this much; how stressful it might’ve been for him, how tough, to grow up feeling utterly alone. Yet Minho understands loneliness better than anyone.

The sun sets, and Jisung wants to ask more, to know more, but he knows better than to try and pry too far into Minho’s memories. They talk until the early evening comes, sun setting behind their backs as the world grows darker.

Minho has never talked so much for so long in his whole life. It has a liberating effect on him, as if he’s setting (almost) everything inside free.

Jisung excuses himself, afraid to worry his mother or get scolded. And when he leaves, Minho feels a little lonely. If only the days were longer, the hours interminable.

Tomorrow is never promised.

⚘

Nobody could’ve predicted how it would all end. Or that it would end with the beginning.

Or that it would end in the forest, lying on their beloved spot, a place they’ve known forever.

Minho knows, of course, the date of his demise. Seven hundred years and he’s known that date since day one.

Birthdays should be joyful, but today’s anything but that. Today marks the day he leaves his ‘human’ body behind and his soul ascends to a greater realm among the sky. It’s almost funny, he thinks, how much he yearned for this day in the past but now fears it. Only when he’s about to perish does he feel an incandescent love for life. It’s so ironic he can’t help but feel utterly empty.

Jisung, certainly, knows nothing of this. He arrives as usual, just another day under the sun, among the trees, talking with someone he cherishes. Minho wonders how long it’ll take him to notice something’s amiss; perhaps he knows but doesn’t allow it to affect their last day together. He wouldn’t risk it.

The sky burns red that afternoon, streaks of orange and pink and yellow brush across the sky, looking like some sort of painting. The sun is hanging low, slowly receding into hiding for the day. That afternoon the wind feels colder, rougher, the trees distant and stalking. Seven hundred years become insignificant that afternoon.

Minho thinks, in the end, that the world is irrational and holds many contradictions. At times it’s childish, like a little boy throwing a tantrum. At other times it’s mature and understanding and holds you close so that you don’t feel so alone.

“This world is beautiful,” Minho mentions conclusively as the sun keeps sinking in the distance, gracing them with the last sun rays and light for the day. His last sunset; it hardly feels like the last day. “I spent years convincing myself it was not. But it is.” He’s committing it all to memory before he forgets, before his knowledge gets transferred to the following God.

He wasted so much time inside the cave, hiding from the world, that he regrets it. But regret, today, now more than ever, is a useless emotion. Regretful wishes are uncalled for and unwelcomed.

“I never knew the sun was so bright,” he continues, “I did not notice that until I met you.” It was blinding all day, and is now dimming.

Jisung spares him a smile, unusually quiet.

The time has come. The inevitable looms closer, threateningly. “Jisung,” he clears his throat; his name still tastes funny in his mouth, unfamiliar. He should’ve said his name a thousand times, again and again until it became his favorite word, his favorite sound. “Today is my birthday.”

Jisung doesn’t look surprised in the least, merely smiles back at him. His hazel eyes are dark with an unfathomable expression; sadness is too small a word to compare. Minho’s death is unavoidable, instead Jisung’s sadness stems from knowing that soon he will no longer exist, that these moments they share together, today, will one day be a fond memory.

Minho lies back, gets himself comfortable among the tall grass and breathes it all in before he becomes unable to. Jisung lies with him, shoulders pressed together, holding his hand and making his presence known and somehow, with his touch and warmth, letting Minho know that he’ll stay, that he will never abandon him.

But this, Minho knows, is a facade. Jisung’s shaking, terrified. Anyone can see that he’s not prepared to let go, that it’s not an easy task carrying on.

Strangely so, Minho feels resurrected. He’s come back to life in all senses. He feels everything with much intensity, thinks at a hundred miles per hour, it all washes over him in a wave. It’s a tsunami of sensations. He feels alight, incredibly soft and bland and small like a cotton ball that will drift away at any moment. The wind could flutter him if it wanted, and take him far away.

And it dawns on him that he’ll never feel this alive again.

“I always wanted to lay in a field of white chrysanthemums,” Minho confesses, eyes partially closed. He has an awful sense of resignation, knowing that clinging to life is hopeless.

Minho grows chrysanthemums from the grass beneath and all around them, together with a plethora of other flowers he didn’t get the chance to teach Jisung. He turns their beloved greenery field into a field full of flowers. A pungent smell of lavender wafts briefly below their noses before it gets lost in a sea of other floral fragrances.

“Happy birthday,” Jisung’s voice cracks unintendedly. In truth, he’s at a loss for words.

Despite it all, Minho is placid and solemn. This is how it was supposed to be all along. And then it hits him like a hurricane, all at once: he feels the most insane crippling sense of sadness in his chest that he doesn’t think will ever go away.

“It’s been a year since we met,” Jisung’s voice is unstable, shaky. He doesn’t turn to look at Minho, instead his gaze is fixed on the sky. “It’s been an honor getting to know you.”

The wind picks up slightly. “The honor has been all mine.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. “Thank you for everything.”

Silence falls over them, heavy and palpable like a shroud of despair. Their hands intertwine between themselves and they squeeze hard, tightly, reassuringly.

The flowers sway in the wind, like they’re waving goodbye.

The sun’s too bright for him now. Slowly, Minho begins to lose it all; first, his body becomes stiff, like he’s already a corpse. He loses sensation all over, paralyzingly, numbing him indefinitely. He unintentionally loosens the grip of Jisung’s hand. Soon, his senses will dull and the sounds won’t reach his ears anymore and his sight will fade away entirely.

Life is stripping him bare, ripping apart everything he’s become like he’s nothing. And he will never be anything again. Life is unmaking him, undoing who he is.

Minho’s heart races and his breath hitches. His mind drifts back to an image of himself, alone with a boy who’s around eight years old. The little boy is gazing at white chrysanthemums, smiling to himself. The world is solely his that afternoon.

“Jisung,” he grunts, talking now requiring strength he has lost. “I’m starting to hallucinate.” He drifts from consciousness to unconsciousness, back and forth, in the lapse of fast seconds, losing his grip on reality. He’s becoming delirious and incoherent.

He’s falling apart. Oddly, he’s not worried; a wave of relief washes over him. He isn’t scared; there is nothing to fear anyway. Shortly, it’ll all be over. Seven hundred years have come to an end and eternity awaits.

He remembers the first time he opened his eyes. He recalls the feeling of numbness, at first, and how loud the world was, how full. The first time he awoke he was lying on the grass, like he’s doing now, but he was lost then, and now he feels found.

Jisung shakes him relentlessly, now kneeling by his side in a futile attempt to keep him alive a tad longer. Pain is written across Jisung’s face, it’s in his eyes, it’s in his words, in his desperation. It’s panic and agony and anguish. It becomes intrinsic and permanent.

Tears gather in the corners of his eyes; it’s the second time Minho has seen him cry. Those eyes are not meant for crying, they are meant for radiating warmth and happiness and light.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow,” Jisung whimpers, tone sorrowful and pained. “Don’t leave me again.” More tears are prickling his eyelids. He speaks, again and again, over and over, incessantly, and Minho can barely catch fragments of it. He pauses from time to time, trying not to choke on the tears stinging in his eyes.

Minho doesn’t feel sad nor sorry for him because all emotions have eroded away and what remains of his heart is an empty shell. His body stops being shaken abrasively; either he can’t feel Jisung (or his body) anymore, or he’s given up -- he does not know which one and never will.

All Jisung’s left with is a sense of emptiness in his chest and his heart that beats erratically. To Minho, his words begin to disappear, replaced with garble; Jisung’s speaking to himself. The god sees a blade of steel coming out of nowhere, gleaming brightly, short and sharp and deadly, and Jisung holds the hilt with determination. It slices something out of Minho’s view, out of his peripheral reach, and causes Jisung to wince and grunt and moan. He collapses on top of Minho’s chest, and shudders spasmodically, whimpering low and hurtful.

Something gouges out from Jisung’s body onto his chest, a liquid thick and heavy and dark. It soaks his hanbok and it spills everywhere, rhythmically flowing out of him in alarmingly massive quantities. A sob escapes Jisung’s lips, followed by a phrase, repeatedly, but Minho can’t listen to him anymore, can’t make out what he’s muttering. And it’s a pity, really, because he knows it’s something important, something Jisung wants him to know before passing on.

Subsequently, his body convulses for a few minutes, prior to going utterly still. Jisung’s warm, hazel eyes are now dry and stare eternally at nothing, its light lost forever.

A tear slides down Minho’s cheek, followed swiftly by another. Minho tries to open his mouth and speak -- say anything at all -- but nothing comes out, not even a cry.

Everything is muted and distant. He lies there, motionless. The trees above his head waver slowly, everything in slow motion.

He loses his sight last, and the trees and the peach sky become infinitely white. It covers the world around him and expands endlessly. His hanbok returns to its pristine, unblemished state, and Jisung’s gone. It’s so white and bright that it’s blinding.

The world has vanished entirely. It’s deafening and suffocating, but serene.

His body recovers its senses and it’s the most intense and horrid sensation Minho has ever felt. It makes his skin crawl with revulsion and fright. He stands up, aghast, his body heavy and weak. He struggles to breathe, and struggles to move and see, but it only lasts a moment. Minho looks at the vast expanse of it, how empty this place is, yet how full it feels.

He hears a voice. Someone’s crying from afar, but it sounds muffled and distant, and Minho can’t tell who’s the weeping person. It’s familiar but unidentifiable.

Then he hears a whistle; someone’s whistling badly in the distance, as if they’re still learning how to do it properly. It’s lulling and hypnotizing and he knows that voice all too well.

And then it’s quiet again. The world has shushed itself. There is nothing more than silence, except for Minho’s own uneven breathing and then suddenly he sees a light -- at least he believes it’s a light. It shines through the air, incandescently, and it moves, blurries, and grows bigger and brighter and clearer. He’s entranced but it’s overwhelming, and it hurts to look at it directly. He squints, its brightness unbearable.

Amid the whiteness and the blindness, he sees a hand, small and welcoming, outstretched for him to take it. The hazel haired boy with scraped knees and crooked teeth smiles, like the sun, and Minho follows him, his eyes adjusting to the blinding light before them. The boy walks in front of him, dragging him towards it, unafraid and joyful. Minho feels safe and light, like a tremendous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Around them the whiteness continues to extend unlimitedly, like they’re walking on nothing.

And then they run.