Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Boredom was a cruel gift of life.

When Hermes was young - a boy of only eleven running barefoot through dirty streets, motherless and alone - there had never been a dull moment. A roof over his head was hard to come by, and food even less so, but Hermes relished in the fact that no day was the same as the last. There was excitement around every corner, a new adventure every day. Lack of food held no candle to the excitement of life.

Until it didn't.

Until life began to catch up with him. His body began to change, his need for food and stability growing alongside it. Eventually, Hermes had to face the fact that one can only be eleven and running the streets for so long. He had to grow up and find his way through life. And with time and age, poverty and excitement were traded for comfort and monotony. His farm thrived; there was food on his table, friends in taverns, and townsfolk more than willing to buy his wares - life was good. Life was secure.

Life was also dreadfully, mind-numbingly boring. The days blurred into one, each one like the next which was like the next and the next. Even the nights he spent drinking with friends - an activity that he had once waited in giddy anticipation for - had devolved into a simple, unchanging routine.

Which must be, then, why Hermes was so willing to go through with the first ridiculously ill-advised idea that popped into his head, all in an effort to combat his increasing boredom. He was laying in bed (where all good, perfectly rational ideas were made) when it came to him, staring blearily at the smoke of a just extinguished candle. He watched by light of Selene's moon as it wisped towards his ceiling, like the tendril of an ethereal being. And like a bolt of lightning from Zeus himself, the idea struck. There were temples built for the Gods, places of worship and praise, there was even one in his very town, dedicated to Lady Artemis. There had even been stories of the Goddess herself showing up, bringing blessing and gifts to her most devoted followers. So, perhaps, if Hermes were to build a temple of his own - surely a God would then show up. The thoughts sent a jolt of thrill through Hermes' body. A God in his very own backyard, he could barely even imagine. What God it would be, he didn't know, but that just made it all the more appealing to his current state of apathy.

His excitement kept him up late into the night. And the next day saw him bright and early at the market gathering building materials then wandering about to pick a spot in the large span of his wheat fields. It was good walk from his house, just as the stalks start to dwindle into a stretch of rolling hills.

Hermes was by no means an architect - he hadn't even build his own house - but with a couple weeks of work, and multiple different tries, he managed to put together a- temple-adjacent structure. It was held together by mud, stones, clay, and, ironically, faith, and was just big enough for a small stone altar and one Hermes-sized person to fit inside. It was the third of its kind, the first swept away by a massive downpour and the second knocked over by a small gust of wind, showing the cracks in Hermes' stabilizing abilities. With his ego sufficiently humbled, he learned from the losses and started again. And the final product became something to behold.

(In a good or bad way, he wasn't quite sure yet.)

The next matter at hand was this: what did Hermes put in his newly built temple? What objects of worship should be placed inside? His choices would decide who (or what) showed up, but Hermes found himself greatly lacking in knowledge of what would summon who. The question haunted him for many nights. Surely, he should try to summon Lady Demeter, who could bless his crops, or perhaps Aphrodite, to bless him with love. But where was the fun in that? Was Hermes not doing this for the excitement? The thrill of not knowing? Ultimately, there was no rhyme or reason to his picking and choosing. He gathered random objects from around his house and threw them in - a clay bowl filled with water, dried arils of pomegranate scattered messily about, a spare few dyed wax candles, and to finish it all off, two shiny pieces of gold.

When the last candle was lit Hermes took a step back, looking at his creation with his hands resting proudly on his hips. The temple was something a carpenter would be horrified to gaze upon, and the chances of a God actually showing up were slim to none at best - but he was nonetheless proud of himself.

And now, all there was left to do was wait.

Hermes sat himself on the soft grass in front of the temple, legs crossed and bouncing excitedly like the wings of a butterfly. He stared into the dim interior of the temple, any flicker of the candles inside snapping his back straight and eyes to attention. And yet, nothing happened. For hours, all was still. And as his excitement waned, Hermes grew restless and jittery. The sun started its decent beyond the horizon, the crickets start their nightly chirp, and still- nothing.

Disappointed but not at all surprised, Hermes decided he had waited enough for one day. Perhaps it would take time - or not happen at all, but he was unwilling to go down that line of thinking just yet - for a God to appear in his temple. They are busy beings, after all. Yes, he decided, that must be it. Hermes stood himself up and brushed off his clothes, sulking as he approached the temple to blow out the candles. He extinguished them one by one, distracted with thoughts of waning hope and plans for coming back the next day.

The moment the last flame dies, the air surrounding the temple chills, sending shivers down Hermes' body and giving him pause. He backed out quickly from the shade of the temple into the warmth of late spring, but even still, the cold remained, running its frost-bitten fingers down his spine. Hermes’ arms fold together, goose bumps dotting his skin as he looked around for an explanation of the sudden cold front. Nothing was there - not even a storm cloud in the sky. What was left of the sun was as bright an unyielding as it had been moments before. A quick circle around the temple also revealed nothing. Only the lingering cold and the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, no matter which way he faced, told him that something was off. And there was something else there as well - a smell. Like decaying leaves and secondhand smoke, something sweet and sour with an underlying smokiness.

Hermes swallowed nervously. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean that no one was there. He cleared his throat. “Hello?” He called out, softer and shakier than he expected. “Is someone here with me?” He tried again, bolstering his voice. The only answer was the wind rustling the blades of grass around him, caressing his feet with a gentle touch. With nothing to see and nor to hear, Hermes turned and started back toward his home, the feeling of being watched dwindling the farther he got from the temple. It unnerved him, lighting a fire beneath his feet and sending him scurrying home.

A few feet from the temple he spotted a patch of dead, withered grass. He stopped for a moment to look at it, sure wasn’t there beforehand, and entirely confused by its oddly symmetrical shape. Surely he just hadn’t paid much attention in his excitement, and it had been there all along. As weak of a reason as it may be, he was quick to accept it and hurry on his way.

As he laid in bed that night, he pondered the possibility of summoning something of an unkind nature. He thought of the chill, the smell, and the patch of dead grass, all of which were surely bad signs - but then again, if there was something truly nefarious there, an in fact, if there had been something there at all, surely it wouldn't have just- watched him?

Unsure, Hermes promptly rolled over and fell asleep.

When he returned to the temple the next day, Hermes was bone-tired from working in the fields, but ready to keep going on this odd little venture he had set himself on. He lit the candles in the temple slowly, exhaustion and uneasiness weighing on hm. There were lingering doubts that what he might summon - and yet, more than that, there was an uncertainty that came from trying to conjure a God. After all, Hermes had never been one for worship. The nuances of doing so were lost to him from a young age and became something he never bothered to relearn as he grew. When it came to devotion, he was in the dark.

So, then- how did one pray?

Hermes cleared his throat and folded his hands together. “Oh, dearest- Gods? Please journey to my- your temple, which I have made. Or- rather, built. For you.” Hermes tried, his words awkward and clipped. He paused, then snorted, dropping his hands. The Gods were likely fleeing after that horrid display of praying. He decided quite quickly that that was the wrong way to go about this, and exited the temple. As he had the day before, he sat before the temple, and began doing what he did best - talking.

"Good evening. I'm sure this is probably quite ridiculous for you, but trust me - it is for me as well." He started, plucking up grass from the ground and twiddling its in his fingers, feeling their blades caress and poke at his skin. "This temple was an absurd idea from the start. I am well aware of that. But- well, here it is. " He paused, throwing up his hands as if in surrender, grass flying everywhere. "And here I am! Waiting for you - whoever you are - to come and talk to me.” He said, then dropped his arms, laughing at his own absurdity.

“I wonder what kind of God you will be.” Hermes mumbled, more to himself than whatever deity he was supposedly talking to. “Hopefully, a nice one. I really don’t want to be blamed for the end of times because I summoned a vengeful God." Anxious hands rubbed up and down Hermes' thighs. "Everyone would be real mad at me then! Though- I suppose they can’t be mad if they’re all gone.” Hermes chuckled.

A bite of coolness raises the hair on his neck. Hermes sat up, suddenly on high alert. That smell from yesterday has him wrinkling his nose, and he feels those staring eyes burning at the back of his neck. He twitched nervously. It felt so unnatural, so abnormal, that Hermes couldn't help but believe that something was there with him - just as it likely had been the day before. And also just the same, when taking a glance around, there was nothing to be seen.

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you? I can tell someone is there. I can feel it.” He said out loud, hoping for whatever it is to reveal itself. Nothing - but the feeling remained. They were still there. Hermes smiled. “You don’t have to hide from me, you know. I swear the temple was not made for any nefariousness. I’m just- I'm just a bored man, hoping for some excitement." He laughed nervously, toying with the edge of his chiton. "Pretty sad this is where I’m getting it. I’m sure that’s what you’re thinking, which is- fair. Most people would probably go get drunk or something. Not me, though.”

Despite his pointless rambling, whatever was there wasn't leaving. And it hadn't struck him down yet either - so he counted that as a win and kept going.

“I guess I should have run this past my friends first. They always try to talk me out of my ideas. 'For my own protection' and whatnot - but where’s the fun in that? I’m not hurting anyone. I mean, unless you really are a God who wants to bring about the end of days. Do you want to do that?”

No response. Hermes chuckled, leaning back and trying to appear relaxed despite being exactly the opposite. It was hard not to feel on edge with those eyes on him. “I don’t know how it is for you Gods, but for us mortals, it's usually a little rude to not respond when someone talks to you. Manners and all that. But it’s alright, I suppose - most people say I talk too much, so I can fill in any gaps of silence.”

Said silence filled the air. Hermes was about to keep talking, but paused when it seemed like whatever being was there got closer. The smell of acrid burning strengthen, and cold sweeping over him like an unseen fog. If it alarmed him, he tried his best not to show it, smiling widely up to the sky in place of whatever invisible apparition was approaching.

“I wonder why I can’t see you." He pondered aloud, the cold bringing a slight shake to his voice. "Are you hiding yourself from me? Or maybe mortal eyes aren’t meant to see Godly beings.” Hermes’ smile turned into a pout. “That would be a shame. I think it's only fair that I get to see you, don't you think? You know what I look like. And this is my land, so it would be nice to know what my visitor looks like before I invite you in for bread and cheese.” He said, still staring at the brilliant evening sky, alighted with purples, pinks, and reds.

“But I don't think that is it.” The words are a near whisper. “I’ve heard too many stories of people encountering the Gods - some having even more than just an encounter.” He paused for a brief moment. “If you know what I mean.”

A light breeze ruffled his clothes and hair. It would have felt nice, if not for the constant cold - now, it made him shiver and tremble. Unconsciously, a small shuddered breath exited his lips.

All at once, Hermes was plunged back into the warmth of early spring, the abrupt return pulling a surprised gasp from his lungs. He sat up and looked wildly around, like he would see some evidence of the being’s disappearance. There was none - only the leftover chill blanketing his skin was a sign that he was ever in the company of something else.

Something divine.

The weight of it hit Hermes, feeling more shaken than when he had been encompassed in the cold. There had been something there. Something unknown and invisible, possibly beyond his simple mortal perception - and it listened to him. Paid attention to his rambling even though whatever it was certainly had more important things to be doing.

He sat there until the sun has long since set, sorting through his thoughts. This was what he wanted, yes - but there was a certain nervousness that comes from being in the presence of something not human. For all he knew, he had just summoned a being of destruction and chaos, and it was only biding its time before striking. Hermes was inclined to doubt that line of thinking, though. Whatever was there with him, it hadn’t felt malicious. And while there had been some nervousness and excitement, he hadn’t felt scared or frightened.

'Miffed' and 'confused' were also added to the list of emotions he was feeling when he entered the temple to find all the candles blown out, and the two gold pieces missing.

Hermes meandered his way home, his mind in a far-off place. He made a simple dinner with barely any thought, eating it while staring off into the distance. And when he was washed and settled into bed, he stared through the darkness of his room, as if he will find something in the night that will give him his answers. Limitless curiosity and growing hesitancy battled.

In the end, curiosity won.

Hermes got to the temple earlier than he had the previous day, willingly cutting his work day shorter to do so. His hands shook with anticipation as he placed two more gold pieces on the altar and lit the candles, burning his finger on the lit flame in the process. Cursing, he shoved the reddening skin into his mouth, the words muffled by the extremity. Annoyed, he shook it off and lit the rest of the candles with the haste of someone who hadn't learned their lesson before exiting the temple.

He waited. And waited. And waited. The warmth of spring waned around him as the sun grew closer to setting, but it wasn't the drop in temperature he was waiting for. There was no sudden chill that caressed his skin and burrowed into his bones with its icy grip. He wandered in impatient circles through the grass. He checked for any blemishes or spots on the temple that need to be fixed - of which there were surprisingly few. And then he laid on his back, watching as the evening sky changed to twilight. Still, nothing. The smaller candles in the altar began their final stretch to burning out, one wick becoming engulfed in liquid wax.

Maybe the God wasn't coming. Hermes likely scared - he? She? It? - away with his thoughtless rambling, going off to find someone who would worship it correctly. Someone who would celebrate them with song and praise, not just aimless, empty conversation.

Hermes sighed and sat up, feeling more than a little disappointed. It was only when he was a few steps towards starting his walk home when the air behind him cooled, nipping and prickling at his skin. The cold wasn't as chilly, and the smell not as strong - but it was what he had been waiting for.

Hermes, far more delighted than he rightly should be, spun around and gleefully spoke. “You're here again! I didn’t think you would come - it’s very rude to keep a man waiting, you know.” He said with a smile, glancing around the empty field for any sign of the being. Nothing. As he expected there would be. “I’ll just have to add it to your list of improprieties. Not speaking when spoken to, not showing me yourself, and now not arriving in a timely manner?” Hermes tsked. As anticipated, there was no response. Whoever the being was, they were very committed to their vow of silence, not even a rustle of wheat or grass to give away its position.

“Well, it’s alright. I forgive you. I’m sure you’re a busy person." Hermes' eyebrows scrunched. "God. Deity. Whatever you may be- I understand.” He said, walking back towards the temple. As he approached, he realized that the chill increased its bite as he seemed to get closer to the God. He paused, contemplating, then moved past the temple, taking step after hesitant step, getting closer and closer to the invisible being. The familiar smell and cold surrounded him until he was confident he was closer to the God than he had ever been.

Then, abruptly, the cold rushed away. One moment it was there, so incredibly close, the next it was back to being a few feet away - as if the being had moved swiftly away from Hermes. He frowned. There was a tense silence, the air itself frozen. All the sounds of nature ceased in anticipation before Hermes took a few steps closer. The cold retreated once more.

“Are you- running from me?” He asked, the words sound ridiculous even as they came from his mouth. What possible reason would a God need to run from him? If anything, it should be the other way around. And yet the closer he tried to get - or at least, the closer he thought he was getting - the farther the being backed away, like a game of tag Hermes couldn't quite win. Hermes' lips pressed his lips into to a tight line to keep himself from laughing at the absurdity of it all. What a ridiculous notion, a God running from a mortal. He parted his lips to speak his thoughts - until a low, deep groan spooked him into taking a few steps back. The rumble of it was startling, nearly shaking the ground an stunning him immobile.

And then- a voice.

Stop. It commanded. The timbre of it was breathtakingly deep and otherworldly. And there was something else about it, something Hermes couldn't quite put his finger on. It took him a moment to get past the shock of being spoken to before he realized why the word had sounded so peculiar to his ears - because it wasn’t his ears that heard it. The being was somewhere in front of him, he was sure of it, but that wasn't where the sound had come from. It had echoed through his mind as if one of his own thoughts.

Like the being had spoken to him from inside his mind.

It was one thing to feel the cold, to smell stale smoke with no visible source, to be aware that there were eyes on him - it was another to hear a voice. Direct confirmation that, yes, something divine in nature was there with him and had been for a few days. It grounded him in place. A mixture of terror and thrill made his heart thump so hard against his chest that he was sure it would shatter ribs and burst from skin.

Hermes cleared his throat, shuffling from one leg to the other as he tried to remember himself and find his words- any words. The being was still there, somewhere straight ahead, watching him, and all Hermes can think to say was, “So. You can talk.”

He was met with a reply of silence, a feeling of apprehension permeating the air - and Hermes was fairly certain it wasn't just on his side. Somehow, that made him feel more confident.

“No need to be shy. Tell me, who are you? What is your name?” Hermes asked, now opting to keep his space. No need to push the buttons of a God who gave him a command. “Do you like your temple? I’ll admit it’s not the most well-built, but I suppose if you’re here and you keep coming back, you must like something about it. Right?”

Still, silence. Disappointment slumped Hermes’ shoulders, a pout forming on his bottom lip. “Aw, don’t stop again. Ignoring me now that I know you can speak would be terribly insulting.” Hermes said, a tense, teasing smile pulling at his lips. He took a small step forward, barely a shuffle-

Gone. The God hadn't just backed away that time, but completely vanished without a trace. Heat returned in a rush, as did the sounds of nature. Hermes groaned in frustration, kicking a chunk of dirt and then plopping himself onto the ground with a huff. With his heart starting to slow, his mind returned to the singular word he heard the God speak. ‘Stop.’ His voice had been- mesmerizing. And yet also, uncomfortable. Dreadfully wonderful and wonderfully dreadful. Deep and raspy and straining, with a twinge of fearfulness hiding behind it all, like he was unnerved by Hermes getting closer to him.

If Hermes had been moderately curious before, he could only be described now as incessantly intrigued.

The word continued to echo through his mind as he laid there, watching as the stars took form in the dawning night sky. He found himself unwilling to move as he thought about what God could have such a presence, such a voice. What God sounded so powerful, commanding the very air around Hermes, yet acted like a skittish kitten when he got too close. Who was such a God? And what could such a God look like?

Oh, how he hoped he hasn’t scared the God off and that he would return. Hermes had questions for him, and he was determined to have them answered.

When he meandered his way to the temple the next day, Hermes was surprised to find the God already there. Despite the God being invisible, it had been quite obvious when, upon approach, he stepped through a barrier of cold, as if he had run face-first into an invisible wall of chill. It stunned him briefly before a large grin cracked his lips.

Not only had he come back, but he had been waiting for Hermes.

“Well, hello. Back so soon?”

Nothing. Still, even the lack of response couldn't wipe the gleeful smile off Hermes’ face. There was no sense to it. To any of it. The temple Hermes built was barely holding itself together, the candles inside already diminished, (he forgot to bring more), and all he has done was ramble and invade the God’s personal space. And yet - there he was. Waiting. As if none of that mattered.

Maybe, Hermes thought, he was a minor God. A God so insignificant that no one ever worshiped him. It made sense, the more he thought about it. When Hermes came along with his homemade temple full of random items, he likely leapt at the opportunity to be adored. Or- maybe that wasn't it, and the God was like him - bored and wanting something to do. Either way, Hermes wasn't one to turn away from favorable circumstances.

That didn't mean he wasn't curious - just that it was for another time.

“I guess if you aren’t going to talk - even though I know you can now, shall I remind you, my timid associate - then I will just have to keep the conversation going.” Said Hermes, glancing inside the temple (the gold was gone again)) before settling down with his back leaning against its southernmost wall, facing where he believed the God may be. He settled his weight back on it a little at a time until he was certain he wouldn't crumble the wall.

“I realized last night while falling asleep that I have also been incredibly rude. I’ve gone this whole time and haven’t even told you my name! Which- maybe you already know it. You are probably all-knowing and already know my name and age and how I'm going to die and everything in between. Regardless- my name is Hermes.”

Before continuing, he allowed time for a brief lull, to leave to time for the God to respond, if he so chose. He didn't. “I’m a farmer. It’s mostly wheat and grain I deal with, though I also have a vegetable garden. Which is usually just for myself, but I've been known to sell some of the crops from time to time. Usually to neighbors.” He said, stretching his arms up before crossing them behind his head, his body wiggling and shifting in an attempt to get comfortable on the hard ground.

“Is there anything you want to tell me about yourself? Your name, perhaps?” He asked as the cold drifts closer. There was silence, and Hermes was about to open his mouth and respond to his own question when he was silenced by a startling groan, followed by an even more startling voice.

Why must you know? The God asked with a throat full of rocks, gravelly and hoarse. Eyes the color of scorched wood darted back and forth, desperate for a body to connect to that voice. It scratched at Hermes’ mind, vibrating his brain and making his body squirm in discomfort at the odd feeling.

“I-" Hermes swallowed, sitting up straight and rubbing the back of his head. “It’s not something I must know. Just- something I would like to know, you know? You know my name now, what I look like, my work - It’s only fair I know at least something about you. And it would be comforting to know who I am talking to.” He said, searching desperately in front of him, hoping for a glimpse of something, even just a silhouette or shadow.

I see.

Where Hermes had expected more words, perhaps even a name, there was nothing. The God clearly had nothing else to say besides the confirmation of understanding. Hermes cleared his throat awkwardly. “So- are you going to tell me your name, then?” He asked slowly - as slowly as Hermes ever could speak.

It is unimportant.

Hermes let out a huff of frustration, bringing his knees to his chest and leaning his head on them. The cold was starting to make him shiver, the heat being slowly sapped from his body the closer the God got. “It still would be nice to know.” He replied with a grumble. The God had nothing to say to that.

“Well, it’s fine, I suppose,” Hermes said after a lengthy, dramatic sigh. “Even if I don’t know your name, you’re still welcome to come to my temple. Though truth be told, I don’t know why you would want to. My craftsmanship is less than standard, and all I do is sit here and talk.”

Unimportant.

Hermes snorted. “It seems everything is unimportant to you.” He said with a hint of teasing. “Well, your reasons are your own. And I appreciate the company. Despite it being mostly one-sided, having a conversation with you is the most riveting thing to happen to me in a good, long while.” He paused for a moment before rambling on.

“You probably don’t need to know this - in your books, it is probably “unimportant” - but the reason I built the temple was because life has just gotten so... monotonous." Hermes explained, picking some grass and tying the strands together. "I feel like every day, every week, every month, they're all the same. I work in the fields. I bring my wares to town. I sell them at the market and then door to door if need be. Durius complains about my prices for ten minutes before buying them anyways, and Old Eugenia talks my ear off about the latest feud with her neighbors. I go home. I sleep. I eat. Sometimes I go out with friends- when we all have the time. And that’s it. Nothing ever changes. No one wants anything to change.” Hermes sighed. There was no response, but he could feel the God’s eyes intently on him, listening with strict attention. That, at least, made Hermes smile.

“That probably isn’t a good reason to try and summon a God who could be potentially evil. But- well, you don’t seem bad. So I would say it worked out.” He said, the last few words quivering from the cold. His knees pressed flush against his chest, willing away the chill as the God seemed to drift closer.

“Tell me, my mysterious guest, are you some kind of winter God?”

He wasn't expecting a response; the God had been remarkably stubborn about giving anything about himself away, so Hermes was surprised when, after a brief pause, the God replied, No.

“Ha. Could have fooled me. Surely you must be the God of- of coldness, or chill, or something. Warmth seems to disappear when you are near.” Hermes said, laughing in good humor at the situation.

You are... cold.

The God’s words sounded like they should have been a question but came out more as a statement. Like the God wasn't asking him if he was cold but instead telling him he was. “It would be hard not to be; I’m not really dressed for cold weather.” Hermes replied, unfurling an arm for a brief moment to gesture to his light spring chiton before pulling it back around his legs. “Ah, but it's alright- this is fine, and I don’t particularly want to go searching for my winter clothes. And if I’m going to be having a God regularly showing up to my humble temple, I want to look my best.” Hermes said, shooting a smirk towards where he thought the being was.

With no warning, the God disappeared. Gone without even a goodbye. Heat returned with a sticky, sweltering rush, sending a shudder of both relief and discomfort through Hermes’ body. Bewildered and confused by the sudden departure, Hermes threw himself to his feet and circles the temple, his investigation only confirming what he already knows - the God left. Which was a lot less disheartening when he thought the God couldn’t (wouldn’t, shouldn’t) talk to him.

What happened, then, to scare the God away so fast? Was he... called elsewhere? Guilty for making Hermes cold? Or maybe, it was Hermes’ comment. That must be it. He had gotten too comfortable too quick and caused the God to flee, a common occurrence with Hermes. He had been told once that his mouth superseded his mind.

Still. Hermes couldn't find it in himself to be mad - if anything, he was elated. Ecstatic even. He closed down everything in the temple with a cheeky grin on his face, even as he placed two more pieces of gold that he had hidden in his pockets for the whole day. He had spoken with the God. Exchanged words with him. Very few words, but that was certainly an upgrade from the one singular word he had received the first time - if he kept up his current pace, he'd have him speaking complete sentences in no time.

Then, maybe, he could finally learn his mysterious visitor’s name.

What better way to get a secret from a God than to offer a tribute?

Technically, Hermes had already been giving tributes - he had lost more gold to the God over the last few days than he should rightly be okay with - but obviously, if he was to learn the God’s name (or even perhaps get to see him), he needed to do more. Show more appreciation. Give an incentive for the God to keep returning. And what better offering than a home-cooked meal and good wine?

It was well known that Hermes wasn’t the best cook, especially when it came to meats and fish. Never would he be allowed to forget the time he made a roast duck so inedible that he had to be banned from cooking in public spaces for the rest of time. In his defense, he was given no instruction, so the amount of pepper he put on (enough to kill a man’s lungs, someone had told him) hadn’t been his fault. Nor when he dropped it in the coals, though that had less to do with cooking ability and more with clumsiness. Fortunately, his saving grace was baking. His breads and cakes were always well-received, and he found great joy in pulling a glutenous treat from his wood-burning oven for everyone to enjoy.

And so, with a bottle of sweet wine tucked away, along with a pad of soft goat cheese and a warm loaf of freshly baked bread, both wrapped neatly in cloth, Hermes happily whistled his way through the fields. He was alone when he got to the temple, which gave him time to situate and light new candles and pick out a few pieces of grass that had found their way into the water bowl. Only once he lined up the gold pieces he had placed there the day before did the telltale signs that the God was near shift the air. Hermes' smile widened as he leapt from the temple door.

“Greetings, my unseen companion!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands out wide. He paused and waited for a response that wouldn’t come before continuing, unbothered. “I have quite the spread for you- quite the spread!” He sat on the ground with crossed legs, stabilizing the bottle of wine within the dirt to keep it upright before unwrapping all the enticing goods. The God drew closer, seemingly curious in what Hermes had to offer.

“This wine is made by one of my good friends! Got this one on the house after winning a bet with him. I did tell him never to gamble with me - I always win - but he didn’t listen. And you know what he challenged me to? A foot race!” Hermes cackled as he worked to uncork the bottle of wine. “Now, I may not be the running star of my youth, but I will hold onto my title of fastest runner in my village until my legs give out from old age. No one as fast as I! And now I have both a nice bottle of wine to share with you and bragging rights for the next few months, at least.” Hermes said, lifting the bottle and turning it around and around, so the God could inspect it from his spot. The cold in the air chilled the glass.

“And here I have some bread and cheese. I did not make the cheese - not too good with animals, unfortunately, especially goats - something about them unsettles me. But I did make the bread! Freshly baked, just this evening!” He exclaimed, holding his hands briefly by the bread to feel its warmth, of which there was none. It seemed even his bread was not safe from the God’s warmth-stealing presence.

“Baking has always been a passion of mine. Why I-”

I do not eat or drink.

Hermes paused in his rant, his shoulders sinking in disappointment. “Ah. You- don’t eat? Or can’t?”

Do the semantics matter?”

“They matter to me.” Hermes insisted, tearing off the rind from the bread. The crust crunched and crackled pleasingly in his hands, as all good bread should. “If you can’t eat- well, firstly, I would be very sad for you, my mysterious associate. Food is a great joy in life, as is a good cup of wine. But if you physically cannot eat, then I understand why you can’t wine and dine with me. Call it a simple bout of mortal impulsivity. Or naivety.” Hermes paused, tearing a small piece from the soft inside and popping it in his mouth. Delectable, even plain. “However, if you can eat but just won’t, well, I would be rather offended.”

Why?

Hermes' cheeks puffed out in exasperation. “Because I put all this together as an offering! Dealt with Hedistē and her goats for the cheese, baked the bread, won a race for the wine. I mean, I guess that doesn’t count because that was a few weeks ago- but the important bit is that I assembled it for you.”

...why?

“Why… what?”

These tributes - why do you offer them? The God asked. I do not grant any boons you would want. And perhaps Hermes imagined it, but there seemed to be some vulnerability hidden behind that statement. The grit in the God’s voice teetered in the verge of being intolerable, uncomfortably grinding against Hermes’ brain. And yet - it was an addictive pain. A captivating irritation that he just couldn't help but want more of.

Hermes hummed in contemplation as he spread a cut of goat cheese across his piece of bread, taking a large bite as he pondered the question.

“I told you that my life at the moment is incredibly dull and lacking excitement. I built this temple half expecting nothing to show up.” Hermes smiled. “But then, hey, you came! And I must say, friend, you have sparked my curiosity. With you being invisible and all that, it has made me want to know more about you. Like your name. Who you are. Where you hail from. Perhaps even maybe... seeing you one day.” Hermes said, the last few words dragging with hesitancy.

Seeing me.

Hermes nodded. “If permitted and wanted, of course. I get the feeling that if you wanted me to see you, you would have shown me yourself by now.” He replied, taking another bite of bread. As he chewed, he pulled out two kylikes and poured them both a glass of wine, cutting it with water and taking a deep draught. The other cup he picked up, standing and walking it a few feet away to set it down on a patch of even dirt so it won’t tip over. There was no response to his comments, so he decided it best to move on from the topic of the God’s visage for the moment.

“Well- regardless if you can drink or not, the offering is there.” He commented as he settled back on his spot. “As are the others. And they will continue to be there, just as I hope you will be.” Hermes raised his cup in a toast before taking another gulp. The sweetness lingered long after it went down his throat, crystals of sugar coating his mouth and drying his tongue. His lips smack as he savored the flavor. He went to take another sip, but froze halfway to his mouth, watching in awe as the kylix in front of him lifted into the air - high into the air. He watched as it went up, up, up, until finally stopping feet and feet above Hermes’ head. It rose even taller than the temple. The cup stood still, then slowly tipped back, the wine inside disappearing into oblivion. Hermes cleared his throat and took a small sip, barely enough to wet his mouth, too distracted even to realize he has taken it.

Surely, that couldn’t be right. Was that how tall the God was?

How - intriguing.

Hermes swallowed the tiny bit of wine in his mouth with a large gulp as the cup lowered back down to Earth, settling with careful precision back in the same spot Hermes had put it. A tense, drowning silence filled the air before he found his words.

“Did you... enjoy the wine?” He finally asked, wonder softening his voice. Every detail he learned about his new acquaintance only made him more curious. He was ravenous for any morsel of information he could learn about the God. Did he like the wine? Would he like some bread with it? Where was he from? Did he think the mortal world was beautiful? What did he have dominion over? What did he think of Hermes? The questions flooded his mind, just barely held back by the barrier of his lips.

The God had every right to ignore the question. To avoid Hermes’ desperate grasp for anything too personal, just as he had been since Hermes had first discovered he could speak. Hermes hoped for even a simple yes or no - but ultimately, expected nothing.

And yet, he got even more.

Too sweet. The God answered.

Hermes smiled.

As he laid in bed that night, trying to sleep despite the oppressive feeling of his house, the voice of the God bounced around Hermes' head. It was as grating and painful as hearing it in person. And yet. Something about it brought him comfort. He smiled - and as he remembered it, the uncomfortable, overwhelming atmosphere surrounding him fell away as he was lulled to sleep.

It was a week and some days later - two weeks since he met his Godly associate - when Hermes realized that the God was actually interested in his rambling.

On that day, he arrived later than usual at the temple - and yet, it only took placing one new coin on the altar for the God to appear. Like he had been waiting for Hermes to arrive. It made Hermes smile, greeting the God with his usual arms-thrown-wide exuberance, getting right into the talk about his day.

“Hello, hello, hello, my friend! A nice day we are having, isn’t it?” He asked - to no response, though that had yet to stop him. “A nice day for us mortals, at least. I’m not sure what the weather is like where you are from. But, anyways, speaking of weather - you will not believe the dream I had last night!” He exclaimed, settling into his usual spot on the ground, leaning (still somewhat hesitantly) against the temple, facing where he believed the God was standing. Though he knew he wouldn't be there long. Within minutes he was always up and walking around, the buzzing in his feet untamed. “I was standing in town, but it was completely empty. Not even a chicken roaming the street - which, I guess you wouldn't know, but those little bastards are everywhere. Always wandering in front of your feet when you're walking or pecking at your vegetables. Anyway. In the dream it was pouring rain-”

He went on and on, describing in detail which was likely not needed about the dream, down to the time of day and what he thought he might be wearing, even though he never saw himself. The God, as usual, sat in silence.

“And I was so confused! Here am I, minding my business in my dream, walking in the rain, and I get that dropped on me?" Hermes threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well, I asked this random woman, whom I swear I have never seen before in my waking life, what she was going on about, and you know what she said?”

It was quiet, and not even a word, but Hermes heard, plain as day, the God gave a small groan of affirmation. Saying without words that, yes, he would like to hear what she said. It briefly pulled Hermes from his story, surprised the God had been listening well enough to know how two respond, though he was quick to get back to it. Even if the God was agreeing for the sake of getting Hermes to hurry the story along, the small noise made him smile. Perhaps it meant that the God was becoming more willing to speak with Hermes - or maybe he was just hoping Hermes would shut up. Either way, a man could dream.

Regardless of whether the God was listening or not, Hermes finished telling his dream with all the story-telling he had developed over the years, leaving no loose ends or threads unfollowed. And then he was right into the daily happenings of the farm and village, excited to talk to someone about the gossip he had heard that day while selling his wares.

“And I don’t know for sure if it’s true, but what Charis told me, the reason the marriage was called off wasn’t because of the matchmaker stepping in, but apparently, because Pylas was possibly seen with another woman!” Hermes exclaimed, his arms gesturing wildly around the convey the exact way he felt about this tidbit of news. “I would have never suspected it! In fact, I would dare to say I don’t believe it. I spoke with Pylas about Ada, his fiancee - or, ah, I guess, ex-fiancee, now - a while back, and it seemed like he truly cares for her. Very much so. Oh, I’ll tell you about that conversation in a moment! So, Charis tells me this, and then I tell her what I know, and she says she got her information from a “good source.” But she won’t tell me who this person is who is apparently a well of liable news. Isn’t that just - absurd?”

He didn't expect a response, but he got one. Yes The God replied. Hermes smiled.

“Exactly! So glad you’re on my side for this one, my tight-lipped confidant.” He said, chuckling and leaning forward to pick some grass from the ground, giving his fingers something to do as he twiddled the blades between them. “That was it for that, though. Then Charis had to run off to help her mom with something. Though that’s a whole other story! You see, her mom-”

Surprisingly, Hermes got interrupted before he could go into his next bit of fast-paced, disjointed rambling.

What did Pylas say? The God asked, halting Hermes in his tracks. His mouth dropped open, stunned into silence. It took him a few moments of heavy confusion and contemplation to form a response.

“I- sorry? What do you mean?” He asked dumbly. There was another moment of stillness before he got yet another response.

“Pylas. You spoke with him about his betrothed.

“Oh.” Hermes said, his voice wavering with uncertainty. He hadn’t expected the God to actually- care. To give a damn enough about what Hermes was going on about to ask questions. Most people didn’t. They just let him go on and on and on, allowing his words to fade into the background until he finished whatever story he was regaling, and they certainly never asked for elaboration or for him to return to a point he had skipped past in his excited haste. And he had expected the same from the God - perhaps even mores. But the proof showed otherwise. A question was asked, a tone of interest and intrigue pushing its way through the gravel of the God’s voice. A large grin cracked Hermes’ lips, feeling all too giddy and flustered for his own good.

“Oh! Yes, I- forgot I had mentioned that!” He said, his hands rapidly picking more grass for lack of anything better to restrain their excitement. “Well, you see-”

Hermes continued as usual after that, like nothing had happened - but underneath it all, he felt a warm blossom of delight fluttering in his chest. And despite the God not speaking again the rest of the evening, he left that night feeling more socially satisfied than he had in years.

“You don’t know this game?”

Silence answered him, confirming the truth of his question. Or, well - maybe confirming it. Deciphering the silent God was quite a troublesome task, but Hermes liked to think he had started to master it in the time he had known his Godly companion. It wasn't anything he could describe in a physical sense other than a shift in the air rather than a visual or verbal cue. A feeling that the God was maybe, probably, potentially disagreeing.

Or, perhaps Hermes was maybe, probably, definitely deluding himself.

“Well, that just won’t do! Petteia is one of my favorites! It is a warrior’s game - a contest of wits and planning and battle strategy.”

And you play it?

Ah, and there was the other thing he was beginning to learn about the God - he had quite the wit and dry humor about him. The rough baritone of his voice were hard to hear past at times, but underneath it, there was an inflection of banter that took Hermes quite a while to parse out. Initially, he had been sure it was irritation. Or confusion. But no, despite first impressions, the God was perfectly capable - if not prone to - sarcasm. Surprising, but not at all unwelcome.

Interesting.

The words the God spoke were teasing, expressed with biting cheekiness that Hermes couldn't help but smile at, even as he gasped in mock indignation. “I don't know if like what you are insulating! I do indeed play it, thank you very much, In fact, I play very well!” He exclaimed, hand to chest. “I would even hazard to say I am one of the best around!”

It was a bit of a lie - Hermes was definitely not the best player; he wasn't even the best in his village. But his pride and the irresistible pull of banter made him unable to do anything but stand by the bold (and mostly untruthful) claim. And, really, if the God didn't know the game or even how to play, then how was he to know what Hermes said wasn't true?

Hermes felt the God draw closer until he was certain he was directly in front of him, standing on the opposite side of the eight-by-eight wooden game board. Cold nipped at the tips of his ears and nose, his breath coming out in fleeting wisps of fog.

The groan accompanying the God's next words were gentle and inquisitive yet laced with barely detectable hesitancy. How do you play? He asked, his voice no louder nor softer inside Hermes’ head despite moving physically closer. Hermes’ smile grew.

“I thought you would never ask.” He replied, pulling out two small cloth bags from behind him. He emptied them onto the board, revealing two groups of painted stones - one white and one black. “Which color?” Hermes asked, picking one of each color in his hands and holding them out.

Black. The God answered immediately. Hermes wasn't surprised by the color choice, nor that the God didn't simply take the color from his hands (though he was slightly disappointed). He nodded and pushed the black stones to the opposite side of the board, arranging them in a straight line on the row closest to the God. Hermes felt him retreat ever so slightly.

So jumpy, he thought with a smirk.

“It might seem simple at first, but it can become quite the complex game.” Hermes explained as he lined his own white stones up. “You move your pieces vertically or horizontally across the board to try and capture mine. They can only be captured if you surround one of mine on two sides with yours or you corner it so I can no longer move - once you captured or cornered all my stones, you win.”

The God grunted in acknowledgment.

“There are more rules, but I think they are best explained with a practice game. Care to play?” Hermes offered, trying to entice the God with ideas of more knowledge and information, doing his best so he couldn't possibly refuse. Well, no, he could - but to Hermes’ surprise, he didn't. A black stone from the opposite side of the board was picked up by an invisible force and moved one square forward. Giddiness couldn't even begin to describe how Hermes felt.

As they played, Hermes described the rest of the rules, usually at a time that gives him the best advantage. And each time he did (usually accompanied with a smug smirk or a lip pouted in mock sympathy), the God opposite him would growl in dissatisfaction, which- made a shiver of something Hermes wasn't sure of go down his spine.

He decided to ignore it.

“Looks like I win this round,” Hermes said, all too pleased with himself as he reseted the pieces. “But don’t worry, boss, I know that was just practice; I’m sure you’ll do much better next time.”

A sound came from the God, and Hermes wasn't at all sure what it was. It was one he had never heard before - a series of wheezing noises that sounded like they come from the chest, persisting for several seconds. It startled Hermes briefly into silence, contemplating somewhat nervously what it could mean.

He came up with nothing, so he moved on, babbling on about random subjects as they started another game. It seemed Hermes spoke his own demise into the universe, as the God did indeed do better. Much better. In fact - he won. Despite only playing once before and learning the rules on a play-by-play basis, mere minutes after they started the second round, Hermes’ stones were all successfully trapped.

He congratulated his friend, of course, but warned that he would no longer be taking it easy on him (even though he had been playing as usual - but the God doesn’t need to know that.) They started another round, and while Hermes lasted a little longer, even getting two of the God’s eight pieces off the board, soon enough, all his stones were gone, the last one hanging in the air like the God was taunting him. Hermes threw his hands up.

“I can’t believe- surely you’ve played this before! You lied to me!” He exclaimed, folding his arms and turning his head away from the board, pouting. And then- there was that sound again. The drawn-out guttural gasping that raised the hair on Hermes’ arms and stunned him silent. But this time, it sounded almost familiar. More like-

A laugh.

The God was laughing.

The sound suddenly made more sense. It came out like the asthmatic chuckle of someone who had never laughed before in their life, but was certainly giving it their best try. Hermes was relieved, firstly, that it wasn't the God getting angry - and then he was ecstatic. He made him laugh! He didn’t even think such a thing was possible, and yet, there was the proof. The laugh didn't last long, and when it ended immediately Hermes wanted more than anything to hear it again. How did he draw it out? He had done it twice, but each time he had just been acting- well, like himself. Foolish and childish. He needed to figure it out because he had to hear that laugh more.

Hermes huffed in exasperation, once more resetting the pieces back to their starting position. “I’m onto you, sir. I think you are secretly an expert and just wanted to make me look like a fool.” He said, gesturing for the God to make the first move. “But just you wait - I’ll beat you yet.”

He didn't, in fact, beat him - out of the ten games they play, Hermes only won two. But he didn't even care because the one time more he got the God to laugh on round six was more of a prize than winning could ever be.

Chapter Text

Four days passed with no sign of the God.

Four days and three evenings of Hermes journeying to the temple and waiting with hopeful optimism for hours - only to return home in disappointment and dismay. The bored loneliness that haunted his life before the God started visiting slowly started seeping its way back in, leaving Hermes desperate to know if the God would ever come back. He had to, surely. It would be incredibly rude to up and abandon Hermes when they had been building a repertoire. No, surely not. The God must be busy. Being a deity and all, he certainly had other things to attend to than spending long evenings with Hermes.

Yes - just busy.

On the fourth day, after once more discovering the same gold pieces from the past three days untouched, Hermes decided he couldn't take another evening waiting around. The very thought of it made his body buzz with pent-up energy, desperate to be released. Yet, the alternative option of returning to his house felt far worse. Spending a whole evening there with nothing to do, trapped inside with memories he didn't want to remember, sounded about the worst thing he could do with his time. The only thing left for Hermes was venturing into town to find something that would take up a large portion of his evening.

With a deep sigh, Hermes meandered away from the temple, hoping against all hope that, at the last second, he would feel a familiar rush of cold. He didn't, but one could dream.

Dejected, he wandered into town, heading for the nearest (legitimate, accredited, not-built-out-of-mud-and-clay) temple in search of answers. Because he was- curious. Just curious, nothing more. It was not at all because he needed a distraction from his loneliness or how he missed the God’s dry humor, no matter how grueling his voice was to hear. Of course not. He is simply interested. Inquisitive. Nosy, if he was truthful. He wanted answers that his Godly companion wouldn't give to him.

Hermes crept into the temple with some hesitancy, feeling somewhat like a degenerate entering a holy place after building his own temple for any wayward God to visit. Certainly, many would take issue with that - but it was the only place housing those who could help him gain the knowledge he sought.

Despite it being later in the evening, well after work and school, there was a surprising lack of people walking around the temple. Hermes’ steps on the shiny marble floor echo through the deserted halls. The temple's walls were decorated with vases, portraits, and busts of the Goddess Artemis, to whom the temple is dedicated, which Hermes stopped every so often to observe and admire. They were beautiful, depicting the Goddess’s most well-known stories, heroic acts, and her strength and resilience.

Hermes made his way respectfully through the temple to the farthest end, where a colossal statue of the Lady Artemis' likeness stood. He stopped briefly at the foot of the statue, gazing up in awe at the detailed fierceness depicted on it. She stood tall and proud, wielding her signature bow with powerful determination etched into her marble face. The arrow notched was pointed right down the middle of the temple, towards the entrance. A quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder; a small fawn stands nuzzled at her leg. Truly, a statue of enchanting scale. It was beautiful.

“Hermes?”

Hermes nearly leapt out of his skin when a hand rested on his shoulder, pulling him from his admiration. He craned his head to see Theresa, the hiereia of the temple, watching him with dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing here?” She asked. Even when taken aback, her voice was deep and soothing, like the water of a warm bath. It took Hermes another few moments to gather his thoughts before speaking.

“Ah, hello there, boss- or- ah, my lady. I'm here looking for you!” He exclaimed, turning to face her - though ‘face’ wasn't quite the best word, as she towered over him despite being years younger. “I do hope I am not intruding on anything, but I have a few questions for you- about the Gods. Specifically.” He said, nervous but trying not to appear so. The younger woman raised an eyebrow - surely, she hasn’t already picked apart his uneasiness? - then motioned for him to follow. The order was quickly heeded, Hermes trailing behind her like a duckling following its mother. He rambled about random nonsense as she lead him through the many sections of the temple, eventually descending a flight of stairs to a small room of worship. Thankfully, it was empty. Privacy, just as he had hoped for.

“-so that’s why I don’t get eggs from Olus anymore. There’s just a little warning for you- would hate for anyone else to go through that same experience I did, especially when you have all your temple duties to attend to.” Hermes finished, choosing to ignore the exhausted look Theresa shot him. It was one he received often.

“I see. I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Hermes.” She said, going around the room to light a few extra candles, giving the dark, windowless room more brightness. “So then, you said you had questions?”

Hermes twiddled his hands as Theresa settled in her chair, the swooped back of it engraved with cypress leaves and deer horns. “Ah, yes, that.” He said, opting to stay standing, despite the chair she offered him. “Well- I know you are a priestess of Artemis, but I’m sure that you have knowledge on more Gods than just her, right?” He asked, somewhat desperately. Theresa’s steel gray eyes stared him down until he was shuffling nervously side to side.

“That is correct.” She responded after a maddening bout of silence. “Though I am only just beginning my studies.”

Hermes nods solemnly, remembering well why she was there at a much younger age than most priestesses - just recently, her mother, the previous priestess, passed away.

“Ah, well, I am sure you will still be of ample help! I believe in your knowledge!” Hermes said, pulling a small smile from the young woman’s otherwise stoic face. She nodded at him to continue. He wasn't sure if he wanted to - he would sound like a madman, rambling about absolute nonsense - but he did anyways.

“Okay, so, there is a- God, or possibly just a being, I am not sure, and I don’t know their name or what they may look like, but I know... other things about them. Like- what offerings to give, and what their presence hypothetically feels like.” He sat as he spoke, leaning forward towards Theresa. She regarded him with profound confusion.

“Hermes, what are you talking about?” She asked, leaning back in her chair. Hermes' hands fluttered nervously in his lap.

“Ah- well- what I mean to ask is- could you identify a God? With those things?” He responded, purposely ignoring and pulling attention away from her question.

It took her a while to respond. Truthfully, with the look she was giving him, he was fairly certain she wasn't going to - until she finally did. “I... yes, I suppose I could.”

Hermes let out a shaky breath. Step one, done. “Okay. Listen to this list and see if anything sounds familiar.” Hermes said, standing once more, pacing back and forth. “So, the offerings are a bowl of water and dried pomegranate seeds - but the most important of all is gold. Gold pieces, specifically. And the God... feels cold. Like winter itself. Supposedly, of course. And he doesn’t reveal himself or his appearance, no matter what.”

The look Theresa gave him made his cheeks warm with color. “I know, I know- I sound crazy. And I am, probably. Likely, even!” He chuckled nervously. “But just- humor me. Please.”

For a good few minutes of silence, Hermes thought she would refuse and continue questioning what he was going on about. Her face was contemplative in a way he wasn't sure he liked.

“It is a conundrum, you pose.” She finally said, both to Hermes’ relief and chagrin. “What you describe sounds like many Gods and none at all.” She stood and retreated to a back wall, pulling a large, beautifully inscribed book from the shelves and flipping it open. “Water is the domain of Poseidon, but it is not normally given as an offering; there is more than enough for him to command. Gold is offered to many Gods for higher blessings, though usually in the form of objects like vases or jewelry. There have also been tales of a God named Chrysus - son of Zeus - who is said to be the prosopopeia of gold itself. And pomegranates...” Theresa paused, flipping through the book with some hesitancy.

“Pomegranates were given to us by Aphrodite herself, and are thought to represent fertility and virility. They are often given to her as an offering. They are also given to the Goddesses Athena, as well as Lady Demeter - who is often associated with cold and winter after her daughter was-”

Theresa paused, seemingly deep in thought. Her eyes slid up from the book to meet Hermes’. “This is all, of course, assuming that this God you describe is Ouranic.”

Hermes’ eyes widened, his heart rate picking up speed. He hadn’t thought of that - how hadn’t he thought of that? From the beginning, even when he had considered the God he summoned could be spiteful in nature, he had just- assumed he was of the Earth and sky. Even before anything appeared at Hermes’ temple, he only considered the possibility that Earthly Gods and beings would come. Never once had he thought of the chance that his new companion, his Godly associate - was Chthonic. Of the Underworld and below.

“Ah. I am certain that they are. Ouranic, I mean. But if they were potentially, maybe, hypothetically Chthonic- do you have any information on them?” Hermes asked, approaching Theresa and her book.

“Not as much as Ouranic beings, I’m afraid. Chthonic beings are not worshipped as Earthly Gods are, if they are worshiped at all. I cannot imagine who would need to ask for blessings from those after death.” Theresa responded, snapping the book closed and returning it to his place when Hermes got too close. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Time to make his escape.

“Well, uh- y’see, I have a friend, and they have been having dreams about this God. And he was telling me about it, rather panicked about what it could mean - but he didn’t want to cause you or the temple any trouble. So I figured, hey, I would come in his stead and ask! See if we can figure out who this God is that he sees in his sleep.” Hermes lied. It wasn't the most flawless lie he had ever told, but perhaps if the visit to the temple had been more planned out, he could have given himself time to think about the encounter. As it was, Theresa didn't appear to believe him, even a little bit.

“Are you-”

“Lady Theresa? Are you down here? We are needing your assistance.” An older woman’s voice called from up the stairs, interrupting whatever lie-disproving question Theresa was about to ask. Hermes - internally - sighed in relief.

“Ah, well, thank you for your help; sounds like you are needed elsewhere, real sorry about taking up so much of your time on a dream.” Hermes said rapidly, smiling sweetly at the young woman who was trying her best not to seem annoyed by the interruption.

“I will be right there.” She called out, gesturing for Hermes to follow her back up the stairs. He did, and once at the top, the two parted ways - Hermes with a cheerful wave and Theresa with a dour nod. Only when he was a few steps toward his departure did she call out to him, pausing him in his tracks.

“And Hermes. Do tell your... “friend” to be careful.” She said, her back turned to him. “Chthonic beings are not to be taken lightly.”

Hermes nodded hesitantly, though Theresa had long since turned and walked away. He stood in the temple hall, pondering her words for a good few minutes before turning and starting the walk back to his home. The sun was already halfway set as he left the temple, and soon enough, his stroll was lit beautifully by stars and the full moon.

So. So. A Chthonic God. Hermes wasn't so sure how to feel about this new revelation that, honestly, he should have considered far earlier. On one hand - Chthonic Gods were “not to be taken lightly”; tales of an unforgiving afterlife for those who went against the Gods haunted his nightmares as a child. Being reaped by Death himself, rowed down the turbulent rivers by the ghastly ferryman Charon (something, an idea, maybe, tickles Hermes' mind), then standing for judgment before Hades. And if he was bad, falling nine days and nine nights to reach the lowest pits of Tartarus.

Horrifying.

But on the other hand, his mysterious visitor had been nothing but- well, not exactly kind, but - well-mannered. Attentive. Candid, to use a more thoughtful word than “blunt.” Funny in his own unique way. And he hadn’t tried to drag Hermes down to the depths of the Underworld (yet). But certainly, if that was what he desired to do, he wouldn’t have sat and listened attentively to Hermes talk for hours on end. Or drank the wine he offered, or asked questions about what Hermes was prattling on about, or played games and laughed with him - or really, done anything he had done up until that point that made Hermes trust him despite knowing next to nothing about him.

Hermes liked to think himself a good judge of character. Or at the very least, a good judge of when danger is near. And despite the chill surrounding the God and the threatening timbre of his voice, he had never felt evil intent from him. Or intent of any kind at all. When Hermes had pushed his boundaries and encroached on his space, the God hadn’t done anything but flee and tell him to stop in a way that Hermes would have compared more to concern and apprehension than ire and indignation.

Truthfully, the more he thought about it, the more confident he was that his visitor was Chthonic. Too many things made sense for it not to be true - but then again, did he want it to be true?

Gods - he didn't know what to think.

And by the time Hermes made it home, he still hadn't decided. It was moments like the one he found himself in where he wished he had more books, more experience with worshipping the Gods, more general knowledge about life and what came after, so he could better reach a conclusion.

As it stood, all he could do was lay in bed, desperately trying to sleep despite dreams of intimidating Gods, boats floating through red rivers, and dark dungeons.

Apologies.

The word took Hermes by surprise, spoken before he even had a chance to excitedly greet his companion after his days of being absent (in which Hermes definitely was not in constant worry that he had scared his new friend off).

And yet, here he was - apologizing, for some reason.

“What are you apologizing for?” Hermes asked, head tilted in confusion. There was no response, though he could feel hesitancy permeating the air as plainly as the fetid smell and bitter cold. A groan rumbled the Earth beneath Hermes’ feet, as always when the God spoke, but no words accompanied it this time. He let his wordless moan carry his uncertainty.

“Is it about being gone for a few days?” Hermes took a guess - though was it really much of a guess when it was the only conceivable thing the God could be referring to? Yet, he was unwilling to believe that a God would apologize for being absent for a few days. Or be willing to apologize for anything ever. Another groan shuddered the air, soft and uncertain, unattached from words but most definitely a ‘yes', giving him all the evidence he needed. Hermes nearly laughed. Bu that would have been rude, so he stopped himself before he could and disguised it with a cough.

“Ah- really, there is no need to apologize, my friend! A God like yourself, I’m sure you’re plenty busy! Why, I’m surprised it took until this point for you to need a break from little old me.” Hermes said, chuckling in good humor. “And, if it makes you feel any better, I have been pretty busy - didn’t even have time to make it around here yesterday-” Because he had been in town trying to find information about the God, but he didn’t need to know that. “-with how hectic it has been! And I’m sure as a God you have very important things to be getting done in- uh- whatever your domain is.”

The last sentence was stuttered with hesitancy, touched far too close on what Hermes had actually been doing the day before. He had yet to decide whether he wanted to bring up what he went searching for - and what he might have discovered - about the God. It would be rude not to, but the main concerned lied in how the God would react. Would he be mad? Upset that Hermes had gone against his (obvious, even if not clearly stated) wishes to stay anonymous? Certainly, he would be.

On the other hand, Hermes felt somewhat guilty about invading his (possibly) Chthonic companion’s privacy and was in need of clearing his conscience. Which was- odd. Hermes’ inquisitive nature had often gotten the better of him, leading him to seek out certain bits of information that may or may not have been for him to know. And yet, this time, apart from all the others, he felt the heavy press of shame against his chest, a weight he feared would only be relieved with admission.

Perhaps if he simply framed it a certain way, skirting around the how, and went directly into the why, he could confess his wrongdoings and come out unscathed on the other side.

Whoever his friend may be, he just hoped he was merciful.

“Though I must say, friend of mine, the days you have been gone have given me a lot of time to think.” He started off, his foot jiggling and tapping nervously on the ground, a buzz of nervous energy almost like fire ants crawling under his skin.

About?

Hermes laughed, too loud and forceful to sound natural. “What about indeed! Well, I will tell you just what about. Y’see, you have left me so many intriguing mysteries to unravel; while you were gone, I just couldn’t help but have a think about just who you might be.”

Silence. For the first time since the God started speaking regularly to him, the quiet felt claustrophobic, pressing a terrible weight on Hermes’ chest. He could feel the God’s invisible eyes burning tunnels through his skull. “Which, of course, I was rather unsuccessful.” He quickly clarified. “But I had a good think about it and have some ideas. Though, it was difficult - I just couldn’t think of any Gods quite like you. Like how the cold follows you even though you aren’t the God of it. Or how you never show yourself. I can’t say I know of many Gods who would hide their identity as strictly as you do.”

More silence, no response. Well, if he was going to die, he might as well just finish it off. “Or, at the very least, no Earthly Gods.” He said, eyes glued to the ground, suddenly very interested in a patch of dirt beneath his feet. “Now, Chthonic Gods? They are probably a more private bunch. I mean- well- I assume so. Not that I would know. But they just seem that way, right? Don’t see most of them parading around on the surface.” Hermes really should stop. “I mean, Hades, the ruler himself, is called the ‘Unseen One,’ If I remember correctly. Which- if you are Hades, this is a little on the nose, the always being invisible thing. It would be silly - so I don’t think you are him.” He needed to stop. “That would be- weird. And the King of the Underworld is definitely too busy to continuously visit a temple and man barely holding themselves together. Although- you were gone for a few days there. But never mind that, you-”

Words continued to tumble from his mouth, each one definitely worse than the last. And all he had for a response was a stiff, unbearable tension in the air. The suffocation of it tapered his speech, dwindling it slower and slower, quieter and quieter, until it snuffed out like a candle at the end of its life. They were left in silence.

Hermes swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. Even though the words had been flowing endlessly moments ago, he suddenly couldn't find any of them. What was there to say? ‘I really, really, really, really want to know who you are and also maybe see you because you are the first person - I guess not really a person, but you know what I mean - in a long time to listen to what I say, and enjoy spending time with me even though I talk too much and probably ramble your ears off. If you have ears. Maybe you don’t. I won’t judge. I just want to know you as you know me, my friend.’

What he said instead was, “I apologize. If any of that made you uncomfortable. I just- you interest me. And I appreciate you keeping up with visiting me because you don’t have to, but I want to know more about you.”

You wish to see me.

The God finally spoke. It was slow and methodical, a strain on each word like he was loathe to speak out loud. Hermes nodded, shuffling nervously. “I- yes, that would be a part of wanting to know more about you.”

You would be frightened.

That- was not the response he was expecting. It was spoken with the same nervous twinge the God always had when talking about himself or when Hermes got too close to him. Even though the very thought of a God being uneasy was laughable, there was no denying it in his voice. And with that thought comes a realization - that the God, for some inexplicable reason, was scared of Hermes seeing his true appearance.

Was that why he had hidden his face all this time? Not out of some show of power or a want to hide his identity, but because he didn't want Hermes frightened?

Hermes couldn't possibly get his hopes far enough up to believe that - but it was a nice thought.

“Boss, you should know I don’t scare easy. Have I not regaled enough of my harrowing, daring escapades to clue you in?” He said it jokingly, though he tried to choose his words wisely. The situation was tense, balanced on a knife’s edge, and the last thing he wanted to do was offend the God. “Besides, even if you may look a little scary to my mere mortal eyes - I’d like to think I know you well enough not to be afraid. Or at least to not scream as loud.”

As the God deliberated this conclusion, there was silence. Hermes let it stand, allowing the God to take his time. Even as he could sense the God retreating - both physically and metaphorically - he stood his ground, keeping his lips sealed shut.

Who am I? The God finally asked. Hermes blinked dumbly in the general direction of the God, his lungs releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He took in a few gasping breaths before attempting to speak.

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, my nameless acquaintance.” He replied, eyes narrowing.

“Ideas,” you said you had - tell me them. Tell me who you believe I am.

Hermes nervously chewed on his bottom lip, uncertain and unsure. What was this? Was it a test? If he got it wrong, would the God disappear from his life forever? Certainly not - and yet, the way it was presented had an air of finality. As if Hermes was toeing at a line that, when crossed, would change things forever. The thought scared him. But not enough for him to back out.

So, who was this God? It was now plainly obvious that he was Chthonic. If he were a God of the Earth, certainly he would have refuted the very idea of being from the Underworld (at least, that was what Hermes was willing to assume, as he was left with little other choices of narrowing his options down). And it just makes sense. Too many pieces of the puzzle fit together for him to be anything but Chthonic.

“Well- you’re definitely not Hades. He is ruled out. Though- hm. Does Hades have a son? Maybe you’re his son.”

The God laughed conspiratorially, confirming he was not, in fact, Hades’s son - as well as sending a flutter through Hermes’s chest, which he ignored. There was apparently something funny in his statement he didn't quite understand - like an inside joke he wasn't in on - but he let it go, just happy to hear the God laugh. It relaxed him. Somewhat.

“Ah, not Hades’s son, then. Got it. Who else, who else?”

Who else, indeed? There were so many deities to choose from, and likely even more that he didn't know. Would the God be offended by his lack of knowledge, if he was someone Hermes wasn't aware exists? Hermes had mentioned his lack of worship to the God, so he hoped no offense would be taken if he guessed wrong.

“You’re not the God of sleep. I can’t say I feel tired when you’re around. Hm. It could make sense for you to be Death itself, with the way you bring a chill into the air. I imagine Death is a cold, grim thing.” There was also that smell of burn and blight that surrounded him, but Hermes decided it best not to mention that part. “But I can’t imagine Death has time to linger on one living being. Humans die at alarming rates, and I would like to think I’m not that close to my dying day.”

Hermes rambled on and on as he narrowed his way down, being playful with his spoken observations while running the more serious ones through his mind. The bowl of water - maybe the rivers of the Underworld was the connection there. What else? The God said that Hermes would be frightened of him, hinting at a God depicted horrifically, possibly even as a monster. And then there was the gold, plucked from the altar whilst everything else was left in its place. A lover of gold, a connection with the rivers, a being cold as death, rumored as something monstrous-

There was only one being he could think of that fit every detail, one he had only briefly considered before shoving the ridiculous idea to the back of his mind. Then again, all Hermes knew were ridiculous ideas. How else would he have come to know the God, to get to this moment, if not for one of his absurd ideas? Surely, it must be who he was thinking.

And if it wasn't - dear Gods, was he about to embarrass himself. “-though wouldn’t that be peculiar if Cerberus could take a human form - right... Charon?”

Tension returned in full force, sucking the oxygen from the air and disquieting Hermes’ stomach. Had he guessed wrong? The pieces fit together so nicely - a ferryman for the rivers of the Underworld, who required payment for the dead to board his boat, often depicted as a repulsive creature of the depths - but he very well could have. The lengthy silence had him questioning not only his pick but all his life’s choices up until that point. Perhaps he should have thought for a little longer. Considered a few more alternatives. Learned more about the Gods. Told someone about his ridiculous plan to build a temple so they could have talked him out of it. Maybe if he spoke up now and made a joke out of it, the God wouldn't-

Ah.

There he was.

Just- standing there. Like he was the most obvious thing in the whole world, and Hermes was ridiculous for never having seen him before. Because he was gigantic - even taller than Hermes had guessed before. His eyes slid slowly up the God’s lengthy frame, taking what felt like hours before finally reaching the face of the invisible being who had kept Hermes company and who Hermes considered a friend.

And he was-

Okay, yes - terrifying. A jolt of fear shook Hermes’ hands as he stared, wide-eyed, up at the God. Charon. Ferryman of the Underworld. Standing there before him with dark robes, gold embellishments, and a hat large enough to block the sun's light from reaching his face. A single, glowing eye stared back at him from under the brim of the hat, the other an empty socket - a dark void of nothingness. Violet smoke poured from the gaping maw of a gaunt, emaciated face. Hermes’ eyes followed the fog as it swirled down to the ground before dissipating into nothing.

There were so many emotions assaulting Hermes - he couldn't even think straight.

If he thought that hearing the God speak was a shock, seeing him was something else entirely. He was ghastly. Towering. Eldritch in nature. A being Hermes should fear.

And yet. Not unlike the God’s voice - painful to endure yet beautiful to hear - there was something so mesmerizing about him. And the more Hermes looked, the more detail he took in, the greedier he became. His mind bounced chaotically from one thought to the next. There was a sack of something - probably coins if Hermes were to take a guess - attached at Charon’s hip. Were the gold pieces Hermes offered to him in it, he wondered? The God held an oar with (surprisingly) human hands, the size of them and the color of his skin being the only thing setting them apart from Hermes’ own. Nearly all his ash-colored fingers were adorned with a ring or two, all gold, all shining in the spring sun. The oar was decorative but nothing special - and yet, it was probably older than Hermes by several thousand years. And, oddly, Charon floated about an inch above the ground, pale bare feet just peeking out from layers and layers of robe, never touching the Earth.

A soft, barely audible groan reminded Hermes that he had yet to say anything.

“Oh- wow.” He said, voice lowered in awe. “You’re- I mean- there you are. Hi. Hello. Hi.” Hermes managed to stutter out, anxiously smoothing the wrinkles out of his cream-colored chiton. At the risk of making the God nervous - a laughable thought but also a high possibility, Hermes was coming to learn - he just couldn't help but keep taking in every feature of him that he could. Like the large, toned arms that he could just barely see inside Charon’s robes. It seemed ridiculous because he had nearly a skeleton for a face, and yet he had powerful, muscular arms, arms that Hermes couldn't stop glancing back at-

“It's nice to finally see you, my friend.” He forced himself to look away from those arms, observing what he could of Charon’s face that wasn't hidden by the ridiculous hat he sported. Getting a closer look, he noticed bone-white locks that framed Charon’s gaunt face, tumbling down into the void of his robes. How long was Charon's hair, he wondered? “I must say, I think you were being a little dramatic with the whole “You will be afraid” thing,” Hermes said in his best impression of Charon’s raspy voice. It didn't sound the same at all. “You are certainly- surprising to behold, but nothing that could send me running.”

You are braver than most. Charon said with a wisp of bewilderment, his way of speaking even more interesting to see than Hermes expected. His skeletal jaw didn't move along with the words - only the groan that preceded them.

“I’m sure maybe those who see you are just... upset. About dying.”

The silence from Charon told him he was wrong, but Hermes was nothing if not an eternal optimist. “Regardless, you could have five arms and three heads and fifty eyes and- uh- I don’t know, ten noses? - and I would be as equally frightened as I am now. Which is none.” A lie. He was frightened - there was a God standing in front of him. A God of the Underworld who was captivatingly monstrous and so unreasonably tall, who could probably remove Hermes from his life with one swipe of that oar. And he had a feeling his companion knew all this as well. But comradery had thus far overwhelmed fear. “How could I possibly fear someone so willing to listen to my rambling? Someone so good at Petteia that I’m still not completely sure they didn’t cheat?”

Only you would find deceit a redeemable trait.

“But of course! I wasn’t appointed “village trickster” for nothing. I worked hard for that title, you know!”

Charon laughed. There wasn't much movement when he did - barely a rise and fall from the heavy-looking chain of ornate obols settled on his shoulders - but it was a spectacle that Hermes was nonetheless in awe to behold. How Charon’s jaw contorted in an imitation of a smile, paper-thin skin stretching unnaturally, bared teeth grinding and clicking together. Or how the purple smoke changed from one long, interrupted stream to small puffs, exhaled with each ragged breath. And even how - while it may very well have been a trick of the light - Hermes swore he saw Charon’s glowing eye brighten, as if glittering with mirth.

Hermes wanted to see it again. Take in every last morsel of detail until they were all safely tucked away into a corner of his mind where he could never forget them.

An odd feeling pinched behind his ribs.

Was this normal? Were these the normal feelings one had when encountering a God? And Charon was indeed a God - a being of the highest supreme power, a deity who has existed long before and would continue to exist long after Hermes’ short life. Yet, something about how Hermes felt was less like awe of the divine and more like personal affinity. Certainly, that was unusual?

Questions to consider another time. Or, rather, questions to be shoved to the back of his mind where they could collect dust and not bother him until they inevitably reared their ugly heads at the most inconvenient of times - and at that point, future Hermes could curse past Hermes for his lack of personal accountability.

“So. What’s it like, then? Being the deliverer of souls? I can’t imagine it being the most riveting of jobs, especially working in the Underworld. Well, actually, I guess I don’t really know what the Underworld is like, so I couldn’t say. Is it dark? What is it like there? Do other Gods there look like you?” The questions came out of Hermes’s mouth faster than even his own brain could process, which seemed to both disquiet and amuse Charon. He didn't answer any of them, only staring intently at Hermes, as he had since the beginning. It was no wonder Hermes could always feel eyes on him - Charon’s gaze burned through cloth and hair, skin and bone, to Hermes’ very soul.

“Ah, sorry, sorry. Just a little- very excited. I suppose revealing yourself doesn’t necessarily mean you are going to tell me your whole life’s story.” Hermes said, ruffling the curls of his hair sheepishly. “That would probably take a really long time anyway.”

Charon moved closer, startling Hermes into taking a step back. Charon immediately reared back, sending Hermes into a panic. “Sorry! Sorry, I was just startled; I- wasn’t expecting you to... float. Towards me.” Hermes said - which was more or less the truth. With no movement of the legs whatsoever, he hadn’t had any warning that God was going to move closer to him.

How else would I move? Charon asked, head tilting like a curious puppy. Hermes’ heart did a little jump, knocking against his ribs. It was a good point he made - Hermes should have suspected that a God whose feet never touched the ground would float instead of walk.

“When you’re right, you’re right, my Chthonic companion. Perhaps my excitement is just getting the best of me - I’m a little jumpy.” Hermes laughed nervously, taking a step back towards Charon. Now they were no more than a few feet apart, really accentuating the distance in height between them. Charon’s head was tilted so far down to look at Hermes that he half expected his hat to fall off.

For a good few seconds, the two just - stared at each other. Hermes scanned Charon’s face with the intent of memorizing every divet of flesh and bit of attenuated skin. This close, he could see more of the God’s hair, which seemed surprisingly well-kept - white as fallen snow and just as soft looking.

One question. Charon said, still staring with intent down at Hermes. Said man was so engrossed in tracing the strands of Charon’s hair that he barely comprehended the statement.

“I- sorry, one question? You want to ask me something?” He asked. Charon was still for a moment, then slowly shook his head, gliding ever marginally closer to Hermes.

No. You can ask one question.

Hermes was quick to pout at that. “One question? That’s it? I knew you were a scoundrel, perhaps maybe a cheater, but I never took you as cruel.” He said. Charon’s face contorted into something of a devious smile, slowly switching his oar from one hand to the other. It was another thing Hermes was beginning to notice about his associate in the short time he had been allowed to view him - every move he made was deliberate. All actions and non-actions thoroughly thought out before he made them. In contrast to Hermes, who went with the first thought that came to mind, and sometimes acting even before it.

“And how do I know you will tell me the truth when I ask my question?” Hermes questioned, hands on hips. Charon didn't respond, but his stare said enough. Hermes threw his hands up. “Fine, fine!” He heaved a fake, heavy sigh - then spent the next few minutes in silence, contemplating his question. Only having one was painful. He had so many, a never-ending abundance of curiosities that could swarm Charon like a colony of angry bees should he choose to unleash it.

Should he ask the questions that most people would want to hear? Was the Underworld as horrid as we mortals say it is? What is Hades like? Has a human ever escaped Death?

Or should he take the boon he had been proffered and ask something more personal? What is Charon’s job as a ferryman like? Does he enjoy it? Is he close with any of his siblings? Though- siblings seemed like the wrong word to use when they included beings like Death, and Sleep, and Strife, and-

No. He wants to know those questions eventually, but there was one burning question that had been at the back of his mind since Charon’s very first visit.

“What made you keep coming back?” He asked, his voice quieted by his desire to know. Charon continued to stare at him in silence, seemingly deliberating his answer. Hermes waited and waited and waited until he was almost certain the God had tuned out his question and was intent on not answering. Only then did he finally reply.

Boredom.

The answer rendered Hermes stunned and silent, staring at Charon with wide eyes. Boredom? Boredom. Huh. A smile split Hermes’ lips, growing into a grin, then a chuckle, and then a full-body laugh. That- Hermes hadn’t expected that. He had tossed around the idea that the God he had come to (sort of) know was like him - bored with life and wanting more - but it hadn’t been a serious notion by any means. A God? Bored? It sounded ridiculous.

Almost as ridiculous as a God being nervous around a mortal, which Charon had proved time and time again to be something that could happen. So perhaps boredom shouldn’t be so surprising.

Hermes tried to respond, but he could only do so once his laughter slowed to a giggle. “Boredom? We- Ha! We are more alike than I thought! Who could have known?” He said, smiling up at Charon, who looked, Hermes thought, slightly stunned. Maybe. His associate's newly revealed face was not the easiest to decipher emotions from - though soon enough, he had that gleeful twinkle back in his glowing eye. “What kind of life you have lived to find me entertaining enough to satisfy your boredom, I’ll never know. But I am glad you did, and that you decided to stay.”

Charon didn't respond with anything but a simple once up-and-down nod, firm and absolute. Saying without words that he was also glad he decided to stay. It warmed Hermes’ chest.

“Hm, well - is there any way I could further improve in my efforts of providing your entertainment?” Hermes said, taking another step closer to Charon. The God seemed wary, like Hermes was getting too close for comfort - though he stayed where he was, continuing to stare at Hermes as he pondered the question.

Improve your Petteia skills.

“Improve my- hey!”

After that, the conversation flowed smoothly into how it had been since the inception of their oddly strange friendship. Their banter settle quickly back into place, with Hermes leading the charge while Charon snuck in his dry quips every so often. Only now, Hermes found himself often distracted by the God’s reactions, now clear for him to see. Or as clear as Charon’s hat and pauldron would allow him to see.

And when Hermes went to bed that night, torn between thoughts of a grim complexion, flowing alabaster locks, and powerful arms - he decided, even if it somewhat terrifies him, that Charon’s appearance was just so damn intriguing.

He wanted to see more.

It became a pattern every day, one that Hermes embraced with arms open wide.

He arrives at the temple in the evening, just as he had since the beginning. Sometimes Charon is already there, but more often he had not yet arrived, leaving Hermes to take in his last bit of bodily warmth for the next few hours. He freshens up the temple - and without fail, the moment a gold piece so much as brushes the altar, Charon is there, watching from his unseen perch. He always starts off invisible, only revealing himself once he is sure Hermes is aware of his presence. Then the God would pop into existence with little fanfare, usually standing a good few feet away.

If Hermes didn’t know any better, it almost seemed like Charon was trying his hardest not to startle Hermes with his appearance. It warmed his chest thinking that Charon could care enough about Hermes to not want to frighten him - but it was also unneeded. It only took a few days for the last vestiges of fear to dissipate and only a few more after that to become completely accustomed to seeing his Godly companion's face as they spoke.

After all, it was hard to fear someone, no matter what they looked like, when they were so very concerned about coming off as frightening.

And then, after all the fanfare, they talk. Hermes tells him about his day, sometimes Charon will use a one-word sentence to tell Hermes about his (boring, long, tedious, he even got excessively frustrating once, though he never got out of him what had happened. He was still determined to find out). And then, for hours, they talk about everything and nothing. Hermes tells him the most recent gossip, and Charon listens intently to every word, sometimes asking questions, sometimes shooting back a witty retort. Sometimes Hermes tells him stories from his childhood - which Charon doesn’t respond as often to, though he seems no less interested. And while Hermes sits, or paces, or weaves crowns out of grass as they banter, Charon stands like a statue, sometimes moving, but more often than not galvanized in a single spot. At first, it felt awkward, but Hermes got used to it fast. Just another one of his associate's charms.

They talk and talk and talk. And then, when the sun is setting, taking away the heat of summer and bringing a gentle close to their time together, Charon always gives him the same dreaded command.

One question.

And by the time it is asked of him, Hermes has still yet to come up with a singular question he wants to ask more than any of the others. Yet the anxiety of leaving without any question answered eventually pushes him to blurt out the first one that comes to mind.

Sometimes, they are answers he knows he is going to get. When he asks something too personal or tries to sneak another question within the question, he’s lucky if he gets even a stern look, let alone a gritted-out yes, or no, or maybe.

But sometimes, he gets responses he doesn’t expect. “Is the Underworld as dark and dreary and awful as people say?” He asked one night when their talk went on longer than usual, and the stars were peaking through the darkening sky. The incoming of night made him think of the Underworld, as he stared up at the light of heroes great enough to earn a place among the heavens. Did they have stars in the Underworld, he wondered?

A question for another time - he was more focused on the answer he was receiving.

Yes. And, no.b Was what he got - but surprisingly, Charon kept going before Hermes could mope and whine about what a half-answer that was. Much of it is dark. But there are portions that are bright and colorful. A mortal might even call them beautiful.”

And, well- something about that description resonated with Hermes, though he wasn't sure why. It lingered in his mind even as he had moved on to tease Charon about his very unnecessarily large hat.

“If so much of Underworld is so dark, I have a hard time seeing what you need such a hat for. Are you compensating for something, Charon, my friend?” Hermes commented, cackling at the scandalized look Charon gave him in return. At least, that was the only emotion he could describe it as - widened eye sockets, jaw clenching and teeth grinding together, the way he recoiled back and brought his oar closer to his body, like a shield.

Charon, while being as sharp as a whetted blade with banter, became rather prudish when confronted with lasciviousness. It was quite amusing to Hermes.

And then, after the question has been answered, Hermes reluctantly retires to his home. He tries to ignore the loneliness when he does, but it sinks in his skin and seeps into his bones. Everything is just so... quiet. There is no one to greet him when he returns to his house, or to eat with on the nights he doesn’t bring food for himself and Charon to enjoy, or to wish him goodnight as he prepares for bed.

Hermes likes to think he has an abundance of friends. He makes them easily - too easily, perhaps, when it comes down to it. He chats with people, banters with them when he sells his wares, invites others to spend the night drinking and gossiping because they certainly won’t invite him out. And yet, he often leaves feeling lonelier than if he had just spent the night alone.

But with Charon, he ends each night feeling... heard. Like he isn’t rambling to himself, his words the last faded echoes of a shout - audible but indiscernible. Charon doesn’t ever smirk and shake his head, giving a look of oh, that Hermes and his long, nonsensical rambling, get a load of this guy and his silliness as if Hermes isn’t sitting right there, his words slowly fading to nothing as he realizes no one is really paying attention.

And so, as he lays in bed after each visit, he looks back on every conversation with Charon with rapt fondness, trying to recall each word, every emotion he could discern from Charon’s face, every reaction to Hermes’ words.

And with the warmth of friendship and camaraderie warming his chest, he falls asleep, ready to do it all again the next day, and the next, for as long as Charon allows it.

Chapter Text

There had been a question burning at Hermes’ lips since - the beginning, really.

Because, yes, he knew that Charon - as the boatman of the Underworld - collected obols from the dead. It was why even the most impoverished mortals scrounged and scrimped to ensure their dead were sent off with a coin, so they were not left stranded by the boatman. It made sense, then, why said boatman was drawn to gold. It was his job.

And yet, there was something deeper there. Something beyond the work. Hermes saw it whenever Charon inspected the gold he left for him on the altar. It was the same routine every time; the boatman stared at it, held it between two fingers, twisted it back and forth in the light, weighed it in his palm, stared some more, then dropped it in his sack and observed the next one in the same manner. It was a tedious, careful, meticulous process, yet he never skipped a step. Not once. There was never a moment wasted staring at the gold, right up until it was in his bag, out of sight.

Hermes could be slow on the uptake sometimes, but Charon’s fascination with gold was clear as day, going way beyond his role in the Underworld. And Hermes- well, he finds it so damn charming. If it wouldn’t bring him to the brink of poverty, he would gladly supply Charon with all the gold he could possibly admire.

But he couldn't help but wonder about it all. Charon likely got more gold and coin than he could ever need, so why the obsession?

Hermes thought about that question often. And from it came an alternate but no less interesting query - who in the Underworld decided that mortal souls should give the boatman a coin for a ride down the river? Did Charon discover this adoration along the way? A happy accident, as it were? Or - was it Charon himself who made the decision? Did his love for gold shape the very structure of their society? How they send off their dead? If that was the case- then- well, Hermes should certainly feel some kind of way about that, being as he lived in society - but all he could think was how sweet it was. The thought of loving something so much that one was willing to bend the rules of an entire world to cater to that love was strangely delightful, perhaps even charming.

But was that the case?

So many questions.

Questions he contemplated as he watched Charon doing his usual routine. It was a moment of rare silence between them - normally, Hermes rambled about random nonsense while Charon admired his gold. But today, his eyes were glued to the God’s large hands, unable to peel them away for anything. The hand not holding his oar ran the piece of gold fluidly through his fingers, his glowing eye watching it with unyielding attention. Charon thumbed over each ridge and groove, sliding and smoothing and stroking until Hermes couldn't take it anymore.

“Why do you like gold so much?” He asked, finally pulling the God from whatever dream-like trance the gold put him in. Charon’s eye darted down to look at him, seemingly startled by how close Hermes had gotten to him amid his distraction. Truthfully, Hermes was surprised, too - he wasn't even aware he had been moving toward Charon, and now they were inches apart. So close that Hermes could feel the wisps of the smoke falling from Charon’s mouth on his skin, curling gently around his wrists before falling to the Earth. It smelled of burning wood and fermenting sweetness.

Charon’s hand reached down to the sack at his hip, opening it and dropping the piece of gold in. Is that your question for the day? Charon asked, the rasp of his voice lilted with impishness. The God was suddenly further away from Hermes than he had been before he blinked a moment ago, though that didn't surprise him - only disappoints. Hermes’ bottom lip stuck out, which only seemed to further Charon's amusement.

“Ugh- really? C’mon, can’t it just be a freebie or something? A simple question between friends?” Hermes asked, folding his arms with a huff. Really, how did Charon expect Hermes to stay restrained to these rules? His questions ran endless, and having to pick just one every day was driving him to an early grave. And from there, when Charon collected Hermes’ soul from the banks of the river Styx, he could sob and lament about how Charon’s rude behavior in the face of his inquisitiveness was what brought him there.

No. Charon said, closing up the bag of gold and refocusing his mirthful gaze on Hermes, who whined in displeasure.

“You are so callous! A cruel God! I cannot believe I continue to come here and endure this- this- torture that you put me through!” Hermes exclaimed, leaning dramatically on the temple. He wilted like a maiden in a tragedy, complete with pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. After a moment of nothing but silence, Hermes peaked through his hands at Charon. The God looked indifferent. Though Hermes knew better. He found joy in causing Hermes torment.

Hermes threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine! Fine, yes, it’s my question.” He relented, causing a grin to split the papery skin of Charon’s face. “Just know I am not happy about it.”

Charon nodded, grinning slyly before his mouth pulled back into neutrality. He shifted his oar from one hand to the other, slowly and deliberately. It was a habit the God tended to when he was unsure how to word what was in his mind. The perpetual movement seemed to stir his thoughts, bringing them to the surface like silt disturbed in water. And while he went through his motions, they sat in silence, Hermes allowing him all the time he needed. Patience had never been his strongest suit - but he would gladly wait (and had waited) as long as Charon required for his thoughts to form into words.

Gold is... Charon said after a long few minutes of deliberation - then stopped as soon as he began. He looked uncertain. Hesitant. The oar shifted hand to hand three more times before he restarted. Most of the Underworld is bleak. Walls of obsidian, floors of lava and blood, shadows cast by candlelight. Despite the beauty, it can also be... Charon’s eye wavered back and forth, looking directly at Hermes but staring right through him. As if caught in a memory. ...dull.b He concluded - though his oar switched hands once more, indicating he still had more to say. And even though Hermes had long since connected Charon’s line of thinking, he would never dream of interrupting him. Though he was tempted to say something about how a floor made of lava and blood did not sound in the least bit dull. But really, how could he know? He hadn't seen it.

There was more silence, more waiting. Hermes let it be.

But gold is not. It gleams even in the dimmest light; even in the dark, it glows. He continued, eyes locked on Hermes. His expression was unreadable as he stared. Charon raised his free arm to twist his hand back and forth, the golden rings adorning his fingers, glinting beautifully in the radiance of the setting sun. Anything that brings luster to the Underworld is welcome.

It made sense. Perhaps it should be surprising to Hermes that a being like Charon longed for something more than the Underworld could offer. And if he had learned this tidbit of information any sooner - before he had asked question after painful singular question about the boatman - maybe he would have been. But knowing Charon as he knew him now - he understood.

“I see.” He said, his smile gentle. The God still looked apprehensive - and that just wouldn't do. He spoke beautifully. Poetically. Even when his voice clawed at the inside of Hermes’ head, he was only ever drawn in for more. “Thank you for telling me. And I- well, I don’t know if I could say I understand exactly. I probably won’t be able to do that until I die and see the Underworld for myself, which is hopefully a long, long way away.” Hermes said, pulling a tight grin from Charon. “But I understand what you mean, emotionally. Longing for something beyond what you have is hard to endure.”

Charon’s head tilted as it did when he was confused or processing Hermes’ words. You empathize?

“I do. Very much so.” Hermes replied, uncertain how much he was willing to share on that particular subject should the God choose to press further. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about. Luckily, Charon seemed satisfied with the answer, giving a slow but firm nod. They sat in peaceful silence for a good while until Hermes spoke up once more.

“Well. Thank you for telling me, Charon, my friend. Even if you are cruel about it.” Hermes teased, pulling a chuckle from Charon. “And if I could bring you mountains of gold so that the Underworld would be a little brighter for you - I would.” He said with a bright smile. Charon observed him, staring at him in a way that bloomed an unknown warmth in Hermes’ chest. He squirmed under that unwavering gaze.

After a, frankly, uncomfortably long silence that brought Hermes to the brink of insanity, Charon finally tore his gaze away. Thank you. Was all he said - but it seemed genuine. The glow of his eye softened, his teeth clenching together into something of a smile. The warmth in Hermes’ chest grew.

Soon after, Hermes had to leave. But something about what Charon said stuck with him as he tossed and turned that night. -anything that brings luster to the Underworld is welcome, he said. Anything, being the word of interest. That begged the question, then - if Hermes couldn't bring Charon all the gold he wished he could, were there other items he could get him? Items of incandescent quality that a denizen of the Underworld would appreciate, even if they were not equal in value to gold?

it seemed plausible.

If Charon didn't like the gifts - well, Hermes was sure he would be quick to tell him. But if he did- Maybe Hermes could bring some light to Charon’s gloomy world, all without putting himself into debt. There was no harm in trying, he decided.

He was up and about only a couple of hours later, barely having slept a wink. A candle lit his way through the still-dark house as he rummaged through cupboards and drawers, trying to find a particular wooden box gifted to him for his birthday many years in the past. If he could find it, he was sure that its contents would be much to Charon’s enjoyment.

He hoped, at least.

He found it after nearly tearing his whole house apart, crammed in a storage chest that was older than him by many years, full of clothes and blankets that were not his. Hermes all but skipped to his kitchen, setting the candle down on the table and picking at the rusted latch of the box until it was freed. Inside was exactly what he remembered putting in there - a variety of brightly-colored seashells he had collected from a trip to the seaside a few years prior. One by one, he laid them out on the table, sorting them into piles of ‘good enough to give to Charon’ and ‘not good enough to even be in the presence of Charon.’

In the end, he deemed only five good enough.

The rest of the day Hermes spent vibrating in excitement, tending to his crops with a flourish that the people who passed by his fields took notice of. They smiled and waved, asking what put the pep in his step and the skip in his walk - and Hermes would grin mischievously, giving vague answers each time.

Late in the afternoon, he decided to finish early, rushing home to clean and polish the seashells until their luster could be seen in even the darkest of nights. And then, with them carefully tucked away in his bag, he hurried to the temple.

Surprisingly, Charon was already there when he arrived - though, as always, he didn't see him. All Hermes felt was the touch of winter when he got close enough, and he knew the God was there. Waiting for him. It brought a smile to his face.

“Charon, my friend! My mysterious associate! Please reveal yourself, for I have a gift just for you!” He called out giddily. Not even a moment later, Charon obeyed, appearing far closer to Hermes than he usually allowed himself to be. He looked down at the shorter man with his head tilted, as he did when he is curious. Hermes' heart thumped against his chest.

Do you not already give me the gift of gold? He asked, trying to hide his interest behind banter. It didn't work - Hermes could hear the quiet eagerness in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.

“I do indeed!" Hermes exclaimed, pulling the bag slung around his shoulder off. "But you may recall a statement I made yesterday about bringing you mountains of gold if only I could and all that.” He continued, bouncing up and down on his toes. Charon looked perplexed but nodded anyhow. “Well, unfortunately, I still can’t do that. I have a farm to take care of, after all, and I do so enjoy having food to eat. But! You said that “anything” that brings light to the Underworld is appreciated, right?” Another nod. “Well, I have something that might do the trick - even if it isn’t gold.” Hermes knelt on the ground, rummaging through his bag. A thrum of warmth radiated from the dirt, despite (or perhaps, in spite of) the boatman’s presence. The ever-present life of the Earth.

One by one, Hermes pulled out the seashells, placing them in a line on the soft grass. They were generous in size, covering Hermes’ palm easily - though they would likely look much smaller in the large hands of Charon. They shone beautifully in the light of day, even more so than Hermes ever hoped they would. The dark blues, soft pinks, vibrant greens, and muted creams of the shells were enchanting in the light of the sun.

Hermes glanced up excitedly at Charon, who stared down at the shells with - wonder? Confusion? Indifference? Hermes couldn't tell. The God’s face had been taken over by a startling blankness that Hermes couldn't discern, quickly turning his excitement to nervousness. He was about to say something - likely to start rambling - when the blue and pink striped scallop shell disappeared from its spot in a blink of an eye. Hermes reeled back, looking around wildly until he noticed it resting in Charon’s hand. The boatman caressed the seashell with the same admiration he had for the gold, gently turning it over and over in his palm, pale fingers sliding up and down each ridge and dip. Even if Hermes wanted to say something, he couldn’t possibly, Charon's wonder holding him captive.

They sat in silence as he observed the shells, one by one. He held them with a reverence that shook Hermes to his core, a lump of emotion stuck in his throat as Charon placed each shell gingerly in his sack. Even with the gold Hermes gave him, he was never so gentle. He treated the shells like they were the most precious of jewels.

Something foreign burned within Hermes’ body. It built like a forest fire with each shell that passed through Charon’s hands, and for the life of him, he could figure out what it was. By the time the last shell appeared in Charon’s palm, it was all consuming - like the warmth of companionship but not. Like the gentle burn of amity and understanding, and yet, so very different. It left him breathless.

Thank you, Charon said as he finished his appreciation of the final shell. He held it to his chest for a brief moment, close to his heart - if he had a heart, maybe he didn't, Hermes wasn't sure - before continuing. His voice was softer than Hermes had ever heard before, and shaken with gratitude. I have never seen shells like these. He admitted. Hermes decided to focus on that tidbit of information instead of the burning still raging through him, claiming his body like a wildfire.

“Ah. So- you have seashells in the Underworld? Sea animals?” Hermes asked. He had been reasonably confident that Charon wouldn’t have any clue what the seashells even were, so to hear otherwise was mildly surprising. Charon took a moment to carefully deposit the last shell into his bag, nodding after a few moments of deep thought.

We do. Nothing like the ones here, I now realize. He said. Hermes smirked - a devious smile that immediately caused Charon to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“Why Charon, my friend, my dear associate-" Hermes said, standing with the sly grace of a snake,"You aren't going to threaten me with only one question today? You’re going to answer my query just like that? My, how entirely generous and unlike you.” Hermes replied, breaking the delicate moment between them. Charon let out an awful wheezing sound, something between a scoff and a chuckle. He waved a hand, like swatting away a particularly irritating fly buzzing around his head.

Just this once. In return for the gift. He said, pretending to be irritated. There was no fooling Hermes, who could see his odd version of a smile poking out from underneath his hat and pauldron.

“I see, I see. So- is this a one-time deal? Or am I afforded this oh-so-generous boon for our whole visit? Because I have a whole lot of questions, and I could do with getting all the answers I want in one sitting. In fact-”

One time. Only one more question today. Charon interrupted, unbothered by the disappointed whining and groaning that such a statement pulled from Hermes.

“Have I mentioned that you are cruel, boatman?” Hermes said, bottom lip sticking out like a child. His arms folded tightly against his chest as he turned away from the smirking God. “Because you are - very much so!”

I would say I have been generous, giving you two questions. I could-

Hermes could already guess what he is going to say - that he could take his tantalizing offer of another question off the table, leaving Hermes with only the answer to a simple, practically useless question about animal life in the Underworld. He turned back to the God, waving his hands frantically. “No, no! No need for that! I will take the second question!” He exclaimed, much to the apparent pleasure of Charon. The God gestured a teasing hand out to Hermes, asking him without words what his next question would be - and that just wouldn't do.

“Patience, you stingy God. It must be a worthy question, and I will be taking my time thinking about it. So you just put that hand away.” Hermes said. He went to bat the God’s hand away, but before he could get anywhere close to touching him, Charon pulled away at a speed that was, honestly, impressive. There was a few seconds of awkward silence.

Okay, so the God didn't want to be touched - noted. He considered making a teasing comment about it but decided against it when he saw the discomfort setting onto Charon’s face. Instead, he shifted the conversation to the day’s events and the bit of gossip he heard from a passing neighbor that Charon just had to hear.

The rest of the day passed far too fast for Hermes’ liking. Throughout it, he would occasionally see the glow of Charon’s eye falling to the bag at his hips, his free hand resting on it before quickly pulling away and refocusing on Hermes. And- perhaps Hermes was looking too far into it, but he could only think that the odd behavior was Charon wanting to see the seashells again. To touch and caress them as he had before. To make sure they were still there, still just as beautiful, and was only just refraining himself.

The thought brought back that same burning in Hermes’ chest. Those same jumble of feelings that turned his stomach that he couldn't quite pinpoint. And instead of fading into the background as it usually it, instead, it lasted long after he left for the night.

In the end, he was so distracted that he couldn't even think of a good question, despite his insistence on doing so. He asked another question about the sea life in the Underworld, and Charon chuckled as he answered, enjoying Hermes’ defeat far too much for his own good.

He would think of a better question when the damn flame licking his chest died down.

Giving Charon gifts quickly became a habit Hermes was all too happy to indulge in. Every day he woke excited to provide Charon with his newest offering or to come up with an idea for the next one. Some might call it obsession, but if it was for a God, certainly it was worship? (Never mind that Hermes didn't ever ask for anything in return.)

After the seashells, Hermes brought a collection of polished stones from a nearby creek. It meant spending a good hour or two of precious work time wading through the cool waters to fish them out, searching for the perfect ones to present - but he knew it would be worth it to see Charon’s reaction. And so he hummed cheerfully as he piled them on the bank, bare feet sinking into pleasantly soft mud as tiny fish and frogs swam by and tickled his skin. Occasionally children stopped by to help him find the stones, even if they didn't know why he was searching for them. They were just happy to have his attention - hanging off his arms and giggling when he teased and splashed them.

By the time he was done, his hands and feet were pruned, and he had amassed a collection of thirteen rocks he deemed beautiful enough for Charon - as well as a few shards of sea glass, which he knew would astound Charon. He split the rocks into two separate piles, neatly packing the smaller stones into a dyed knapsack tied with a ribbon. The larger ones and the sea glass he would save for another visit. When the time came, he greeted an already waiting Charon, handing over the bag proudly and waited with barely contained excitement as the God rifled through it, the stones clinking pleasantly against his rings.

“I'll tell you what, Charon - my favorite boatman of the Underworld - you would be amazed at the treasures you can find in the waters around here! If you take a bit to look, you can find all sorts of little prizes!” Hermes rambled as Charon rolled a perfectly rounded pink-colored stone on his palm. It was the one he was most excited for Charon to see, knowing he would appreciate the symmetry and bright coloration. And indeed he did, marveling at it far longer than any of the other stones.

If that made Hermes far happier than it rightly should, he would never say.

There was just something so fascinating about watching Charon in his peaceful moments. He could be so witty and snide, teasing Hermes with comments quick as a whip and with just as much bite - and Hermes loved that aspect of his personality. Truly. But he couldn't deny that he admired Charon’s moments of quiet contemplation just as much, if not more. There was something about him that was so- peaceful. But wasn't that the point, he wondered? He was the ferryman of the Underworld - the gentle deliverer of souls to their final resting place. It made sense, then, that he was like the whisper of dead leaves as they fell in autumn or the final breath of a tranquil passing.

If only others could know him as Hermes had come to.

That night, Hermes used his one question to ask if the rivers of the Underworld had stones like the ones he gifted. Charon gave him a definitive no, expanding further to say he would never dare reach into their waters to find out - not when something so easily could reach back. Hermes wasn't sure what that last part meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know - but he appreciated the lengthy answer nonetheless. Then they parted ways with promises from Hermes of another gift soon, but not too soon - he couldn't be giving the boatman a complex.

It was only when he was half asleep that night that he jolted up in surprise, realizing what he had failed to whilst in the midst of his excitement about the stones. He wasn't sure how he hadn’t noticed right at the very beginning, and now he was kicking himself for it. By the Gods, was he dense sometimes! So in his own head, if he could only just get out of it! But then again - what could he have done if he had taken notice in that moment? Commented on it? Surely not.

That didn’t stop him from feeling so foolish as to not notice that Charon, for the very first time, didn’t bother hiding himself when Hermes first arrived.

Thus far in his gift-giving quest, Hermes had avoided giving anything of real personal value to Charon. There was the gold, of course, though wealth was not something Hermes truly aspired to have. Not as Charon did. He used what he needed for necessity and not much else - and really, he was far too busy with the farm (and the temple) for material possessions. And so, he had been fine with giving it up. The seashells had also technically been his, but he had plenty left over from his ransack of them, and they had sat in a box for years without him once looking at them. They weren't anything he would miss. And so, he had given them to Charon with little hesitation.

But now, there was something he wanted to gift to Charon that had far more personal value. An item he looked at far more often than the seashells and was far more hesitant to give away than the gold, and yet, an item he knew would find far greater love and appreciation with Charon than with himself.

And yet, even as he pocketed the offending item when he leaves his house, apprehension weighs in his stomach. He whistles his way out through his fields, trying to pretend he like he wasn't bothered by it, as if his awareness of it doesn’t make it burn a spot into his hip. It was fine, though. Hermes was an expert at ignoring pressing issues.

He was alone when he got to the temple, no cold barrier or burning smell or long-haired God to greet him. No matter. As always, Hermes was sure he would be there soon. He tidied the temple of the grass that had blown in, lit candles and refreshed the water. Things he didn't need to do any longer, as Charon himself had told him that the temple didn't need it (which was probably a tease regarding Hermes’ lackluster building skills, now that he thought back on it) but he liked doing it. It gave his hands something to do - and whether they were friends or not, Charon was still a God and deserved a clean temple.

When he was done, Hermes laid his new offering on the altar and stepped out of the temple, sitting on the ground and waiting. He weaved nearby flowers into something that was supposed to be a crown but resembled that probably about as much as Hermes resembled Zeus.

He wondered if Charon had ever met Zeus.

Almost as if his godly associate read his mind, he appeared, already standing in front of the temple and leaning in to grab the object Hermes offered him. The sight made Hermes break into a fit of giggles, watching the towering God trying to squeeze into the temple’s tiny entrance. Charon pulled back carefully, holding tightly onto his hat to keep it from being knocked off. He glared at Hermes, which only served to make him laugh harder.

“I do apologize, friend, but that was quite the sight to see.” Hermes cackled, holding his stomach as Charon got only more and more miffed.

You would be so bold to laugh at a God? Charon asked, the painful rasp in his voice sinister as anything - and maybe if he had said that when Hermes heard him speak for the first time, he would have been terrified. Before he knew the nuances of Charon’s hard-to-read... everything, that phrase spoken in such a menacing tone would have sent him running, never to return to the temple again. But now, he only laughed harder. The sarcasm peaking through the irritation was so easy to hear.

“Oh, how I do so apologize, my charitable, most generous God." Hermes lamented, trying his hardest to stifle his laughter. "I humbly beg for forgiveness; please have mercy and spare me of your divine punishment.” He lifted himself from his spot on the ground, shuffling and crawling clumsily toward Charon. He stopped when he was kneeling before him, close enough that he could reach out and grasp his robes if he so desired (he did), hands clasped in an imitation of pleading.

And Charon-

A foreign emotion flashes across the God’s face, one Hermes hadn't seen before and couldn't identify. The purple light of Charon’s eye shrinks to a pinpoint, the smoke pouring from his mouth concentrating into a thick smog that lingered on Hermes’ skin as it fell. The humor in Charon's gaze was gone, replaced by something unknown that only grew the longer he stared at Hermes. A shiver ran down Hermes’ back. He was beginning to wonder if he took the joke too far, his face reddening with embarrassment. His hands fell to his lap, fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of his garment.

“I-” He started to speak, to back peddle, apologize for the joke, something, but Charon interrupted him.

What is this? He asked, changing the subject and holding up Hermes’ offering. Hermes' eyes shift over to it - a slightly rusted silver arrowhead engraved with an outline of the nearby Temple of Artemis. Hermes looked between it and Charon's face, confused and conflicted. Just as fast as it had come, the unknown emotion was gone. Disappeared like a wisp of Charon’s smoke as it tumbled to the ground.

Hermes cleared his throat and slowly stood. “It’s an arrowhead. Another gift. For you.” He said, his words stilted and awkward. Hermes momentarily debated bringing up what had just happened, but the idea was quickly thrown away. Charon obviously didn't want to talk about it - so Hermes let it be. “It’s an- heirloom, of sorts. But I think you would be better suited to have it. Probably will take better care of it than I have.” Hermes said, scratching the back of his hair nervously.

An heirloom. Charon repeated, holding the arrowhead carefully in his palm. Then this is something of importance to you? He asked, tearing his gaze from the offering to look at Hermes, who was still struggling to think about anything but the God’s gaze from moments before. He was so focused and intense and- Hermes swallowed down a painfully dry throat.

“Well- kind of. Yes. But also, no, not really.” He replied. Charon regarded him with a confused tilt of the head. “It’s complicated.” He finished, unsure how else to describe his relationship with the arrowhead and the man who gave it to him.

How unlike you to be unwilling to share a story. Charon said. A teasing lilt made its way back into his voice, bringing back a light air that relaxed Hermes. He chuckled, taking a few small, hopefully, inconspicuous steps away from Charon, hoping he hadn't made the God uncomfortable.

“Yes, well, I might be a blabbermouth, but a narcissistic I am not. Much prefer talking about other people’s issues rather than my own, to be honest.” Hermes said, settling back into their regular banter.

A snide smirk widened Charon’s mouth, pulling at what could have been called lips on a mortal being. You called yourself a master of Petteia. As I recall, ‘the best around’. He retorted. And, well - Charon had him there. He did claim that. But only because he had really wanted to impress the God. He hadn’t expected Charon to pick up on the rules so quickly that he would beat him in his first official game.

“I stand by my statement.” Hermes sniffed, folding his arms and turning his head away from Charon. “It’s much easier to win when you have godly powers, and also when you definitely cheat.”

Charon laughed at that, and Hermes’ heart rattled against his ribs.

He hoped the God would change the subject, but no such luck. I will allow your egotism this time. He said, holding up the arrowhead for Hermes to see. Sunlight bounced off the shiny parts, faintly illuminating the dark, rusted bits. Evidence of Hermes’ lack of care for it over the years. Indulge me. He continued, rubbing a thumb over the divots of the engraving, avoiding the rusted parts.

Hermes heaved a great sigh. “Fine, okay, okay. I’ll tell you.” He relented, settling himself back to the ground, making himself comfortable for the tale to come.

“I’m sure you've often thought, "I wonder, how did Hermes, the handsome, free-spirited man that he is, manage to get into farming of all things?” He began, interrupted by something that could probably be called a snort from Charon - a choked-off hissing sound accompanied with a tight smile. Hermes grinned. “Well, truthfully, it wouldn’t have been my first choice of work. Probably not even my second or third.” He said, the humor fading from his face. He cleared his throat of it.

“My mother passed on when I was a young boy." He said, watching as Charon's face falls serious as well. "And I’ve never met my father. So I was on my own for a while.” He tried to say it casually, inserting as much aloofness in those statements as he could muster. And it was nearly enough - but on the last word, his voice betrayed him and warbled. His lips tightened into a thin line, looking away from Charon and clearing his throat again. “Apologies, my friend. It appears I have a slight tickle in the throat.” He said, pressing a fist against his mouth to disguise the trembling of his lower lip. He feared looking back to the God and seeing pity - but was relieved to find nothing of the sort when he did. Only the same focused, unbreakable stare Charon always had when Hermes was telling a story.

“I was on my own for a while, but eventually, I had to start figuring out certain things. I needed work. But it seemed like no matter where I went, no one would take me on. Usually because they already had all the help they needed, though some didn't want some random kid living in their house. Understandable, of course - but after so many rejections, I got desperate.” Hermes recounted, staring off into the space behind Charon as he remembered those days. “I trekked out into the countryside, searching for anyone who needed help and would lend me a place to stay. That's when I was taken in by a farmer named Geleon. That is who the arrowhead belonged to, originally.” Hermes pointed to the offending item currently held by Charon, who quickly halted his gentle probing of it. Hermes could feel his inquisitive gaze without needing to look at him.

“Geleon had it long before I was born and always kept it out on display, even though he rarely had guests.”

Hermes wasn't sure why he was going so deep into the details of this story. Most of it wasn't necessary for the point he was trying to convey - but something about Charon’s curiosity made him say more before even realizing he was saying anything at all. And now it was definitely far too late to turn back. So - onwards he pushed.

“Geleon wasn't the nicest person. Not that I needed him to be kind to me - I was just his farm hand - but-" Hermes paused, chewing on his lip. "He confused me. Most days he would barely give me the time of day, then others he would be going around telling everyone that I was like a son to him, bragging to them about how hard I worked and how proud he was of me. There would be days when he would treat me like family, giving me little gifts and patting my head like I meant something to him. I really loved those days.” Hermes said wistfully, stuck in his memories. A low sound from Charon - wordless and meaningless but comforting all the same - brought him back to the present.

“But soon after he would always go back to looking at me like I was the mud stuck on the bottom of his sandal. And being a young kid with no parents and no real guidance in life - it was so damn confusing and upsetting.” Hermes lamented, twirling the grass under his hands around his fingers until they turned white and the grass ripped from the ground. He tossed it away and began the process once more. “He never married or had any kids, though I think it was by choice. His work was too important to him for that. But I guess he still wanted to keep a good image to the public, which is why he took me in.”

Hermes laughed dryly. “That's all just speculation, though. I’ve had a good many years to think about this. Doesn’t even really have anything to do with the story or the arrowhead.” He clarified, though Charon hadn’t said anything to stop him. “Back to the story - one day, Geleon pulled me in early from work and got to telling me about how he got the arrowhead. His father gifted to him the ‘day he became a man,’ was what he said. He never clarified what he meant by that, but he was so proud that his father had deemed him worthy enough to give it to him. It had been in their family for generations. And then-”

Shit. Hermes paused, chewing at his lip and rubbing his hands together nervously. He really should have kept this to himself. His mind screamed at him to stop talking for the love of the Gods.

“I reached out and touched it. He was holding it out for me to see, and so I assumed I could touch it. I even thought that maybe- maybe he was giving it to me? He had pulled me in early and was telling me all these things- I thought it was a sign that I meant more to him than just being his help. But Geleon- I had never seen him so angry. He smacked my hand away, slapped my face, and told me I was never, ever allowed to touch the arrowhead. Then he stormed away, taking it with him.”

All the while muttering about Hermes and his “orphan hands” - though that part was too difficult for him to say aloud. Over the recent years I the become clear to Hermes that Geleon didn’t want him to touch the arrowhead because it was a familial heirloom, passed from father to son, father to son, something Hermes would never have the opportunity to experience. And that, for some reason, bothered Geleon. Maybe he didn’t like orphans. Or maybe Hermes reminded him that he, too, would never have the opportunity to pass the heirloom onto his own flesh-and-blood son.

Or maybe, Geleon was just a bitter old man with nothing better to do than remind Hermes of his nonexistent heritage.

“I didn’t see the arrowhead again after all that happened - but I was okay with that. And afterwards, life went on. I did my best to stay out of Geleon's way, whether he was happy with me that day or not.” Hermes finally risked a glance up at Charon, but there was little change to his face. All he had done was sit and listen - Hermes was grateful for that.

“I did as I was told, when I was told, and I tried my best not to anger him. But he still always found something to yell at me about. I was always a screw-up.” Hermes sighed. “But I had a job and a place to live, so I stuck it out. I only expected to be here until I made enough to go wherever I wanted, anyway. It was temporary.”

Hermes laughed humorlessly. “The fates had other plans.” He said, brushing the palm of his right hand with the fingertips of his left.

“As said, Geleon had no family. At least, none he ever spoke about - so when he got sick, and his life started to dwindle, he had no one but me to take over his farm. But even then, even when it was only me beside him on his death bed, helping to make his final days comfortable, he bestowed it onto me with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Which was ridiculous, because I told him I didn’t want it. But no matter how much I refused, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Hermes was ranting more than he was telling a story, but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. His time with Geleon was not something he had ever spoken about with others, so it felt nice to let it out finally. “In the end, he pressed the arrowhead into my hand and commanded me to keep his farm going.”

Hermes could still remember the weight of it, crying as Geleon squeezed the arrowhead so hard into his palm that the engravings left indentations in his skin. They had long since faded - but sometimes, from the corner of his eye, he swore he could still see them there. Hermes sniffled, inconspicuously blinking tears from his eyes. “Even as was dying, he had to remind me one last time that I had nothing else going for me, so I might as well take the offer he was so graciously handing me.”

In all honesty, Hermes could have easily taken the farm and sold it. There would be no shortage of buyers. But deep down, some part of him had always taken Geleon’s words to heart, pushing his desire for travel and freedom out to make room for them. And there they had stayed.

“In the end, I accepted. And that’s why I have a farm I don’t want, a house full of things that aren’t mine, and an arrowhead I can now touch whenever I want.”

Hermes took in a deep breath he hadn't realize he had been holding in. His lungs filled rapidly, relieving the faint burn of breathlessness. It was a relief, as was the feeling of finally letting loose the words he had held in for so many years.

Hermes smiled awkwardly up at Charon, who had drifted closer without Hermes ever noticing. The God stared down at him as he usually did - like he was staring straight at Hermes’ soul through his body - though there was something deep within his expression that Hermes couldn't make heads or tails of. It wasn't pity, sadness, or anger - if there was anything that it could be, Hermes would dare to say that it was understanding.

You are gifting me the arrowhead because it causes you grief. Charon stated. Hermes didn't reject the notion - he could make excuse after excuse, but in the end, the God was correct. He left the arrowhead to rot for years because it made him sad, angry, upset, confused - and now he selfishly believed that giving it to Charon would lessen those feelings.

“That is what it comes down to,” Hermes responded, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. “My “grief,” as you said, made me neglect the character and appearance of the arrowhead. And it is an object of age and beauty - more beauty than I rightly know what to do with. It deserves someone who will value and take care of it.”

I accept it, then. Charon said. Hermes looked up just in time to see Charon open his bag and place the arrowhead inside with such gentle care that it brought a swell of emotion to Hermes’ chest. For that brief moment, he almost called out to stop Charon, guilt building in his chest and weighing down his heart - but once the arrowhead disappeared from his view, the taunting engravings never to be seen again, he felt relief. A smile pulled at his lips.

“Thank you, my friend. I hope it brings you joy.”

And you? Charon asked, his head tilted as he looked down at Hermes. He was close enough that Hermes could smell the vapor pouring from his mouth and feel it gently stroking his face. The smoke obscured the God’s face from Hermes’ spot on the ground - which, to Hermes’s surprise, disappointed him. He found himself wanting to see Charon’s skeletal face and take in those small movements that correlate to whole emotions.

He got so distracted he barely remembered Charon asked him something. “I- um. Me, what?”

Does me possessing the arrowhead bring you joy? Peace? He clarified. Hermes pondered the question. The guilt of giving away Geleon’s prized possession threatened to suffocate him, and that certainly wouldn't go away any time soon - but the thought of returning to his house that night, knowing that the arrowhead was no longer there- it felt like a weight off his chest. Maybe it wouldn't help as much as he hoped it will - there was still an abundance of items, clothes, memories, emotions stuck in that house that Hermes would likely never be rid of. But with that one item gone, it felt like a start.

“I- yes, I believe it does.” He responded finally after a good few minutes of thinking. Charon smiled a large, blinding smile that made Hermes’ heart quake in his chest. The God’s eye glowed with a radiance to rival the sun, his skin stretching and pulling to form the expression of joy that didn't seem to be a natural occurrence for him - and it was a breathtaking sight.

He thought about that smile for the rest of the evening. When he made his way back to his house, he entered the door with a confidence he had never had before. The air felt lighter, the loneliness less oppressive. Memories still lingered around every corner, reminders of harsher times - but with the arrowhead gone and Charon’s smile lingering in his mind, they no longer feel like looming shadows haunting every step he took.

He felt at ease.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, feathers were an odd choice of gift for Charon, at least compared to the others he had given thus far.

In Hermes’ defense, he had told his neighbors time and time again that he was tired of their chickens wandering into his land and picking at his vegetable garden. Yet, despite the long, arduous trek the chickens had to make, he still kept finding them there, pecking at his crops. The amount of times he had gone out to pick some lettuce only to find his stalks littered with holes was, frankly, infuriating.

So when he went out to do some weeding and found those damn chickens again, their brilliant white feathers looking like glistening, freshly fallen snow, Hermes decided he might as well get something out of this.

Which was how he wound up chasing chickens around his garden, the vegetable thieves a lot faster and far more willy than they rightly should be. If they got the best of Hermes for a good long while, that was something he would take to his grave. As would the high-pitched screech he let out when he first was able to grab a bird, the small thing squawking and flapping its wings like it was fighting for its life. In the end, he came out of his battle with five ivory feathers and a litany of scratches up and down his arms.

Charon was already standing by the temple when Hermes finally arrived. The God’s face lit up upon his arrival, then turned to concern when his glowing eye lowered to somewhere around Hermes’ waist. What happened? He asked right away, pointing to the skin of Hermes’ arms, covered in wounds from the chickens and goosebumps from the ever-looming chill. Hermes was quick to wave his concern away.

“Oh, never mind those - just a little incident, nothing at all to worry about." He said, trying not to show any hint of embarrassment. From the way the sockets of Charon's eyes narrow, he wasn't sure he succeeded. "What you should be more concerned about is the gift I have very generously brought for you, my associate!” Hermes watched Charon’s face closely for that look of thinly veiled excitement that crossed it when Hermes had something for him. The God always tried to seem indifferent, or at most, mildly curious - but Hermes could see the cut-off glimpse of elation that lightened his companion's face. It was his favorite part of giving the God his gifts.

“Close your- wait, uh, can you close your eyes? You don’t really have the eyelids to do that, now that I think about it. Um- I guess, cover your eyes? I just wanted to surprise you with the gift, so-” Hermes rambled on, only stopping when Charon chuckled in amusement. Hermes silenced immediately. He always did when he managed to make Charon laugh, intent on hearing every moment.

With little warning, the glow of Charon’s left eye diminished to nothing, matching the dark void of the right. Hermes shifted in vague discomfort. With how still Charon held himself, the only sign of life left was the vapor eeking out from behind clenched teeth. It was, frankly, a little disturbing. Hermes was so used to seeing that warm glow of magenta, watching it waver back and forth as the God stared at him in exasperation, or contentment, or excitement. Without it, it felt like Charon wasn't there.

“Oh, wait- is this- are your eyes closed, then? You can’t see?” Hermes asked, stepping closer to the God to see more of his face without the glowing eye - which was rather tricky. Usually, his eye was all that lit up the dark shadows from under his hat. Charon nodded. Hermes stared for a moment more, then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wasn't familiar with Godly physiology, but something about Charon- shutting off his eyes was way beyond his mortal comprehension. It was probably true - Charon had no reason to lie to him, and he seemingly never had before that point - but still, Hermes conducted a few tests. He waved his hand around. Flailed his arms. Wiggled his body. Hopped awkwardly side to side. Nothing, no reaction. Which- still wasn't much of an indicator. Charon didn't react to much.

With a huff of resignation, Hermes reached into his sewn-on pocket and pulled out the feathers, tied together by the shafts with a bit of dyed string. He hoped that they are well received. It wasn't like his usual gifts - though, that wasn't to say they were any less beautiful. Even if he hated those chickens, he couldn't deny that their lily-white feathers were stunning. Hermes ran his fingers over the soft barbs, imagining Charon doing the same, the God marveling at their luminous color and smooth texture.

Shaking his head, Hermes approached Charon. He stepped close enough that the God’s body tensed, his fingers gripping his oar tight enough it would undoubtedly snapped in half if it were any regular wooden oar. But otherwise, he didn't move an inch. Hermes was struck, suddenly, by the significance of the moment. Charon, who wouldn’t even reveal himself to Hermes for weeks and weeks after their first meeting, willingly closed his eyes because Hemes asked him to. He put his trust in Hermes, and trusted him not to break it. Hermes found himself frozen, staring at the God as a smoldering warmth flared behind his breast and spread through his body like the first trees of a forest catching fire.

Rather than acknowledge the fire, he decided to ignore it.

Hermes leaned forward and tickled the back of Charon’s hand with the feathers, causing the God to immediately jerk back. Charon’s eye lit up within an instant, glowering at Hermes - and all the shorter man could do was laugh.

“Sorry, sorry - I couldn’t resist.” Hermes said, his voice tight with an unknown emotion. He held the feathers up to Charon. The God's agitated look faded into confusion, reaching out to gently, carefully, pluck them from Hermes’ fingers. Their skin never brushed - and Hermes found himself oddly disappointed by that.

He wondered if Charon’s skin was cold to the touch.

Feathers? Charon asked, whether out of confusion or asking for clarification for that they were, Hermes wasn't sure. For all he knew, there were no birds in the Underworld. Charon held the feathers with one hand while the other gently stroked the soft white barbs, just as Hermes had imagined. The fragile quills shuddered under his touch, ruffling then settling back into place.

“Yeah. Just feathers. There’s nothing of real significance to them if that is what you’re wondering.” Hermes explained as he ducked his head into the temple to check on everything. “I saw the chickens in my garden and figured - hey, those are pretty feathers; Charon might appreciate them. No grand story or long search or anything else.”

Of course, he left out the struggle to get them, or the fact that they weren't technically his chickens, but Charon seemed to parse that little detail without Hermes needing to say anything. Am I to assume these were not your birds? He asked. Hermes pulled back from the temple to gasp dramatically, holding a hand to his chest.

“Charon, are you accusing me of de-feathering chickens that are not mine? How incredibly rude!" He exclaimed, making Charon chuckle. "How could you even suggest that I would ever do such a heinous, abhorrent- okay, yes, fine, fine, you’re right. Guilty as charged, they aren’t mine.” Hermes couldn't continue that farce for very long, not with Charon looking at him with that delightful hint of amusement, exasperation, and - dare he hope - fondness.

Hermes hoped the God didn't ever learn how much power he had over Hermes just by being himself. With a single look, an intense stare, a quiet scoff, he could have Hermes doing anything he desired, no Godly powers required.

“In my defense, they were picking at my garden and ruining my vegetables. Do you know how annoying it is to go out and find little holes in all my produce? And I sell a lot of it, too - so it’s just wasted potential product! I’ve told Hagon over and over to keep his chickens on his own property, but they always find their way back to mine.” Hermes gestured to the feathers that Charon is still ruffling. “So, I figured I would get you a little present.”

Charon laughed, though it came out more as a wet cough, his chest lurching from the force of it. Hermes laughed along with him, grinning until his cheeks hurt.

So you went to war for this gift. Charon stated, looking with amusement at the wounds on Hermes’ arms once more.

“Tease all you want; those chickens are slippery little things." Hermes pouted, rubbing the raised scratches on his arms, the poor fleshed red and abused by their tiny, sharp feet. "And violent too. I mean, they were the ones stealing my vegetables; I figured it was only fair trade to take a feather or two in return.”

I am sure the chickens see it that way as well. Charon retorted, still running his long fingers distractingly up and down the length of the four feathers.

“Um-" Hermes stuttered, unable to focus himself away. "Yes, of course-” Hermes tops when Charon’s expression turns from amusement to dismay and sadness. A small, wounded sound came from him - one Hermes had never heard before, and one that caused his stomach to drop to his feet.

“What-” He started to ask, though the problem soon became apparent. In the God’s hand, the feather he had been toying with was ruined, a fair few of the barbs ripped from the rachis, creating a large, unsightly gap in the pristine white. That same sullen whine came again from somewhere deep inside Charon’s chest, the sound griping Hermes’ heart and squeezing.

Hermes smiled gently, that damn burning filling up his stomach until it had nowhere else to go but up to sear at his heart. “No need to panic, Charon, my dearest friend. They are fragile things - I’m not offended or anything like that.” He reassured, pulling out an extra that he had plucked, having intended on making it into a quill. He held it stem-side out so that Charon could take it. “And, hey, I would gladly pluck all the feathers off my neighbor's chickens just for you. So, no need to fret. Feathers aplenty around here.”

Charon scoffed, then reached out and plucked the new feather from Hermes, who then offered his own hand out for the damaged one. Charon placed it gently in his outreached hand, the paleness of Charon’s hand and the white feather both striking against the tan of Hermes’ skin. Their hands still didn't touch, and Charon was quick to pull his back once the feather was safely in Hermes’ possession.

There was that disappointment again.

“It’s not too bad, really,” Hermes said, twisting the mangled feather around and around between his fingers. “It can still be used. It has a kind of- charm to it.”

Charon smiled at that, holding the feathers close to his chest, handling them with much more care and tenderness. The sight warmed Hermes' heart, having the hardest time peeling his eyes away so he could tuck the mangled feather into his pocket.

The rest of the evening, Charon gently toyed with the feathers, occasionally brushing the skin of his palm's with them, careful not to grasp them by the barbs anymore. Hermes watched each movement closely, wishing more and more it was his own fingers brushing against Charon’s hand, feeling the delicate, almost transparent skin beneath his fingertips.

No, Hermes was most definitely not jealous of a bundle of feathers.

(Maybe he was, but that was for Hermes to ignore and for Charon to never ever ever know.)

When he got home that night, he had almost forgotten about the broken feather, only reminded of it when he shed his clothes, and it fell from his pocket. He gently picked it up, feeling the disproportionate weight of it from the missing barbs. It made him smile, his face warming as he remembered Charon’s concern after tearing the feather and the happiness when Hermes told him it could still be used.

Hermes glanced around his bedroom, eventually deciding on a good place to put it - on a shelf right in front of his bed, placed there with the utmost care. It would be there for him to see first thing in the morning.

He would decide what to do with it then.

“You seem happier than usual.”

Hermes glanced up from the bundles of dried fruit he was intently sorting through, laid out before him in decoratively woven baskets. He eyed the woman behind the stall - Ione - with mild surprise. Usually, the woman was shy, reserved, and far more content to let Hermes lead their conversations. So it came as a bit of a shock when she suddenly spoke up as Hermes was perusing her selection of fruit, so much so that even she looked surprised with herself. Her face reddened as she was quick to continue.

“I mean- oh dear, I apologize, that was out of turn. I simply meant you seem more... content than you have in the past.” She clarified, looking away and playing nervously with a strand of her copper-colored hair - a trait shared among all her siblings, along with stunning blue eyes and a face covered with freckles. Hermes had known her family since he was a young boy, seeing as their fruit orchards bordered Geleon’s fields. Ione’s father was as close to friends as one could become with Geleon, though the cheerful man was nothing like Hermes’ late mentor. Often, he would give a young Hermes both fruits and advice to snack on whenever he passed by, always with a kind smile on his face.

“And more in the clouds too!” A snide voice called out, far harsher than the sweet softness of Ione’s. Hermes glanced to the side at Ione’s twin brother Iasos, who was also sitting behind the stall, though not being of much help - which wasn't anything new. Hermes had never gotten along with Iasos. The taller man had been a constant antagonizer in his life since their first interaction, leaving him none too keen on interacting with him. Hermes often wondered how a single family could breed the kindest, most gentle soul in Ione and also bring one like Iasos into existence - at the same time, no less.

“I don’t know what you both mean, unfortunately.” Hermes commented, digging at his coins to collect the correct amount. Ione was quick to jump in, interrupting whatever snarky comment her brother was going to retort with.

“All my brother was trying to say is that you have seemed off in the distance lately. Like you are deep in thought about something. That’s all.” Ione said, not-so-subtly elbowing her brother in the chest as she spoke. Hermes pretended not to notice - the man could use a good elbowing. “It’s not a bad thing, just an observation. Whatever you are thinking about seems to make you... happy.” She explained.

Hermes paused in his coin collecting. Interesting. He hadn't thought he had been acting any different than usual, but he supposed there had been more happiness in his life than in the past - all thanks to Charon. Because of the towering boatman’s presence in his life, he no longer felt so lonely or as trapped in his life as he had before. Which may or may not have led to the God taking up a large amount of Hermes’ mind space. Now that he thought about it, he had spent a lot of his recent days thinking about things to talk about with Charon, or gifts to get him, or playing Petteia with him again, or-

“Like that!” Iasos yelled, pointing at Hermes with a gleeful expression. Ione hissed her brother’s name as Hermes’ face started to burn, embarrassed at being caught in the act. Though if there was one thing he would never give Iasos, it was the satisfaction of seeing him embarrassed - especially by his childish bullying. Hermes quickly finished pulling out the correct amount of coins for his unnecessarily large amount of dried fruit, dropping it in Ione’s waiting palm.

“I have just been really busy with work." Hermes explained, keeping his voice as neutral as he was able. "Expanding my wheat fields and all that, lots of laboring to be done with it. You would be surprised how consuming work can become.” Hermes shot a large, disarming smile to Iasos. “Though I suppose you might not know a whole lot about that, Iasos.”

The large man’s smile turned into a deep frown. The people around them manning different stalls snickered inconspicuously, and Ione coughed to hide her grinning mouth behind her hand. With an unintelligible grumble, Iasos leaned back on his chair; arms folded like a petulant child. Hermes grinned and bid farewell to Ione and a few others standing around, promising a night soon at the tavern for drinks and fun. For a brief moment he turned back to wave at Ione - only to find her and her brother in deep conversation. He shrugged and turned away, trying not to get caught up on the dismayed expression he saw on Iasos' face.

Hermes munched on his dried fruits as he walked back to his house, caught in deep, inescapable thought about what both Ione and Iasos had said. It hadn't escaped his notice how a few others had nodded their heads in agreement, as well. Had he really been so in his own head lately to allowed that many people to take noice? He knew he had felt happier, but he didn’t think his behavior had changed that much - at least not enough for others to notice. But the proof was there, right in front of him.

Though, why did it bother him so much that they noticed? All Ione had said was that he looked happy - and yet it irked him in a way he wasn't sure he could explain. Maybe it was the knowing looks they were shooting him, like they recognized something he didn't. He didn't mind being the talk of the town - so long as he knew why he was. But he didn't. All he knew now was that he, apparently, seems cheerier than usual - which surely wasn't gossip-worthy. At least, not in Hermes’ books. What, then, could they be thinking? Perhaps he should have asked more questions of Ione - but then, wouldn’t that have just confirmed whatever it was they were thinking?

Hermes shook his head of those thoughts. Their small town hadn't had any good drama since everything that happened with Pylas; surely everyone was just latching onto first hint of something being different. So, there was no use dwelling on it.

For the moment.

Hermes hadn't brought a gift for Charon for almost two weeks, and it was slowly killing him (ha). Sure, he could get more stones, maybe bring the rest of the seashells that weren’t as pretty, or any other repeat of his previous gifts. But he wanted something new. Something that would bring that bright, pulsating sparkle to Charon’s eye as he looked on in wonder at his gift.

There was always more in his house he could give. More items that would bring the God far more joy than they ever had for Hermes. But the thought of it felt- hollow. Like he was only giving the gifts to Charon to rid himself of garbage and bad memories rather than because he wanted to give them to Charon. And that wouldn't do.

He spent the better part of his day pondering what his next gift could be. He could go to town and barter for another bracelet, similar to the one he had given two weeks ago. But the golden one he had already given sparkled so beautifully against Charon's pale skin, it would be hard to top. Just as much, he really didn't want to repeat the thorough grilling from the ladies' gossiping group he received. He could find another gold-engraved book to give to Charon, (even if the God insisted he would just be “borrowing” the book and would return it when he was done reading it - Hermes had a feeling he wouldn't see the book again, but he was far more than okay with that), bu that, too, felt lackluster.

By the end of the day, Hermes was still stumped. He sat on the front step of his home, staring off into the distance as the sun slipped closer and closer to the horizon. He should be at the temple already (not that he needed to be there, that time was just when he was usually there, and he didn't want Charon to think he wasn't coming), but he couldn't help but keep thinking of something to bring.

As the sun set lower and lower, the sky becoming a smattering of reds and oranges and yellows, his wheat fields in the distance transformed. The wind created ripples through the stalks, creating waves in a sea of gold. Before Charon came along, watching the sun light up his fields had always been his favorite part of the day. Oddly, it nearly made his long days of work worth it, to see his efforts shuddering and curling beautifully with the wind.

Ah. Of course!

What better gift to give than the fruits of his labor?

Hermes made his way toward the temple much later than usual, wanting to rush but holding back, so his beautifully arranged stalks of wheat didn't crumble. They were weaved together in the shape of the crown, something Hermes had noticed Charon took an interest in whenever Hermes made one from flowers. The gift wasn't one that would last long - soon enough, the wheat would dry and wither, and the crown would be no more - but Hermes liked to think it was a gift close to his heart, much more than the others.

When he arrived at the temple, it was dark. Only the light from his candle brightened the way.

“Charon? I’m sorry I’m late.” Hermes whispered, quieted by the oppressive feeling of darkness. He waited for a moment, then two, then three. Nothing. No cold or smoke or glowing to be found. Disheartened, Hermes made his way into the temple. He went to place the crown down, hoping to lure Charon there, when he saw it - a piece of parchment folded neatly and resting beside the water bowl on the altar. Hermes’ brows scrunched together, placing the crown down and plucking the note from its spot. He lit the extra candles around the temple to see better what was written.

‘Hermes,’ It started, and Hermes’ stomach swooped. Without even looking at the signature, he could tell it was from Charon. The handwriting - so curved and close together it was barely legible - was exactly what he pictured the God’s would be. And yet, that wasn't what caused Hermes' heart to beat a rapid drum against his chest. It is the realization, staring down at the letter, that he had never heard Charon call him by his name before. Seeing it written there, he wished he could hear the God say it. Wished to have Charon his his name in his gravelly tone, taking time and dedication to each syllable just as he did with every word he spoke. Hermes could hear it, plain as day, like Charon was standing right behind him and whispering it in his ear.

The thought sent a shiver through Hermes’ body. He read on.

‘A flood has decimated a seaside town. The casualties are numerous. I apologize; I will be unable to accompany you for the foreseeable future. Two weeks exactly.’

Disappointment flooded through Hermes. His heart sank to his stomach and his stomach to his feet. Two weeks - to Hermes, that felt like an eternity. The longest he has gone without seeing Charon (or hearing, or generally being aware of his presence) was a few days, and it was torture. Hermes became antsy. Bored. Lonely.

Left all alone with his thoughts.

Biting his lip, Hermes continued reading. ‘Once the souls are dealt with, I will be there the moment you call for me.’ That- did something funny to Hermes’ heart. ‘Work on your Petteia skills in my absence. We can play again when I return.

Charon.’

Even with sadness still aching in his chest, the note made him smile. He could hear the snarky dryness of the last sentences so clearly, the cadences of Charon’s harrowing voice ringing in Hermes’ head as if the God stood before him.

Sighing deeply, Hermes carefully folded the note back up like it was a wilting flower, tucking it with the utmost care into his kolpos. He stood by the temple for a few more minutes, hoping that Charon would still show up - but of course, he didn't. And now Hermes would have to spend the next two weeks filling his evenings with activities that meant a lot less to him than spending time with Charon.

He picked up his wheat crown and lumbered home, taking his time getting there. The moon had long since risen in the sky when he finally pushed open his front door, tossing the crown on his table and flopping down on his chair with a sigh. He looked at the crown with some disappointment that he couldn’t give it to Charon - but perhaps he should be glad. With how fast he had rushed to make it, It wasn't his best work. And Charon deserved only the best. Certainly, by the time Charon returned, Hermes would be able to make a crown more fitting for the God.

He just had to make it until then.

Hermes dreamed.

He dreamed of houses with familiar yet never-ending hallways, empty of all decoration. No matter how much he called out, there was no reply - not even a howl from the wind. He ran and shouted and ran and shouted until his lungs burned. He stopped only because he knew the truth. There was no one there anymore, no one but him. He was alone.

He dreamed he was in a crowd of people. He talked and talked, but the words were unintelligible - not that it mattered. None of those around him heard what he was saying. Or maybe they did. When he reached out for one of them to place a warm, reassuring hand on a shoulder, his fingers go right through their arm. They ignore him, unaware of his attempts to reach out. He was alone.

He dreamed he was standing in front of his home-built temple - though it was a temple no more. Piles of mud and clay lie everywhere, the structure decimated by- something he wasn't sure of. Hermes called out, pleading for Charon to appear before him, but he didn't come. There was no cold to prickle his skin, no smoke to invade his lungs, no sallow skin to gaze upon.

Hermes dreamed - he dreamed he was alone.

If Hermes spent the days without Charon sulking, that was nobody's business but his own.

He tried to be his usual, chipper self - he really did. He did his work with as much vigor as his body could muster, greeted people cheerfully, made pleasant conversation when he went into town. And yet, there was still an air of melancholy and apathy that surrounded him like a plague. He rots in it - spending every night staring at his ceiling, dwelling in feelings of loneliness he hadn't felt in a long while. Even evenings out with his friends don't help much, leaving him wondering if being home alone would feel just as isolating. It wasn't anything against them. He just- he missed Charon.

Yet, despite his best efforts to go about everything as normal, the people close by still seemed to see right through him. It was his own fault - he has always worn his emotions plainly on his face. Not even the most valiant of efforts could conceal how he was really feeling. When he ventured into town to sell some of the over flow of vegetables from his garden, he counted at least five concerned looks thrown his way, three from people passing by, and two from those who stepped up to purchase some of his goods. Only one of the two was brave enough to ask him what was going on.

“Hermes?”

Pulled harshly from his brooding thoughts, Hermes' eyes slid from their spot far off in the distance to greet the face of Pylas, who looked back at him with eyebrows bunched in concern. The man looked remarkably well, considering the circumstances around his marriage - the rumors of which Hermes was still not entirely inclined to believe. The face of a thoroughly broken man was one not easily forced.

Still, he looked- better. Slightly ragged, like he hadn't slept in a while, but not like he was two seconds from falling to the ground and weeping to the heavens. It made Hermes smile genuinely for the first time in days.

“Pylas, my friend!” He exclaimed, standing to greet the man. “Been a while since we last spoke! Might I say you are looking- uh- good. Better.”

A hint of sadness crossed Pylas’ eyes, a wince pulling at the contours of his face. It was gone as quickly as it arrived. He smiled tightly at Hermes. “It has been a while, indeed. I miss our talks, but it appears we have both been rather too busy for them.” The man commented - and now it was Hermes’ turn to wince, because now he was thinking about why he had been so busy lately, which was because of Charon, and now he was thinking about Charon again and how much he missed him and wanted to talk to him, and how these weeks weren't going by nearly fast enough-

“Hemes? Are you alright?” Pylas called out again, that same look of concern coming back. Hermes laughed nervously, perhaps somewhat frantically, and waved the concern away.

“I’m fine! Completely fine; just been so very busy with work - feels like it's the only thing I do nowadays!" Hermes cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose I have always been very attached to the work I do, but lately, I have just been so incredibly busy. Really, haven’t even had much time for sleep, truth be told! So, perhaps I am a little tired from it all. A little sleepy. But it’s nothing a nap won’t fix! You know how it is, right Pylas my friend?” Hermes rambled, continuing on even though the man in front of him didn't look like he believed any of the words he had spoken.

“Ah. I see.” Pylas said, biting his lip and fiddling with his fingers. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to say it. “Are you sure that's it? It’s just-” Pylas started, then stopped with a sigh, glancing around. Hermes also looked around, seeing the eyes of almost everyone in the immediate vicinity glued to their conversation. Some tried to be more secretive, peering from the corner of their eyes (which Hermes could still see, but it was the thought that counted), though some outright stared, not even bothering to hide their curiosity.

Hermes felt itchy. He wanted their eyes and looks of concern off of him.

“It looks like you’re almost sold out here - do you want to maybe take a walk?” Pylas asked, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he did. Hermes looked down at the table in front of him, only a few tomatoes and sugar beets left, then had a quick glance around at all the eyes tracking his movements.

“Yes. Sure. Yeah. Let’s go on a walk.” Hermes said, abandoning his table to follow Pylas, who had already begun to walk away from the crowded marketplace. He followed close behind like a duckling following its mother, covertly trying to shield himself from the prying eyes around them. They walked in silence, weaving through streets and walkways until they reached the quiet courtyard gardens behind the temple of Artemis. It was quiet and relatively empty, only the gardener and a few others wandering about. Pylas lead them to a bench surrounded by hedges and flowers.

“I apologize for leading you all this way - but I felt this would be the best place to keep listening ears away from our conversation.” Pylas commented as they sat. Hermes laughed lightly, somewhat awkwardly, and waved away Pylas’ apology.

“No need for that. It is nice to get away from- all of that.” Hermes replied, wriggling in discomfort on the hard stone bench. The awkward angles of it dug harshly into his tailbone, no matter what position he tried to take.

“Indeed.” Pylas responded. The two sat in awkward silence for a good while, before Pylas finally turned his body on the bench to face Hermes.

“I don’t think I really need to tell you this, Hermes, but there is a lot of speculation going on about you currently.” He said, confirming what Hermes already knew, but had been too caught up in his own thoughts to really think about. “Everyone noticed how happy you were for a while, almost soaring above the clouds. But now you seem... sullen.”

“I dread to think of what people are coming up with about me.” Hermes said jokingly, nudging Pylas on the upper arm. The man’s serious expression broke into a gentle smile, nodding in understanding. And he did truly understand - Pylas had been dragged under the gossip wheel again and again with no mercy since his marriage was called off. It wasn't lost on Hermes that instead of distancing himself from any drama or spectacle, Pylas had chosen to talk to Hermes, and warn him of all the fleeting eyes and harsh whispers.

“Well, I just wanted to warn you. People talk. And even if what they say isn’t true, they will believe what they want.” He said, eyes downcast as he spoke. Hermes’ heart ached for the man.

“Do you- want to talk about it?” Hermes asked hesitantly. No one had yet been able to get the real story out of Pylas, which only added kindling to the already unstoppable spread of gossip. The rumors about him being seen with another woman were all but confirmed when he wouldn’t speak on them - confirmed to all except Hermes, who could see so clearly how distraught Pylas had been.

“I brought you out here to talk about you, not me.” Pylas responded, trying to sound amused but falling flat and ending up at bitter.

“I know, I know. I just- no one knows the truth. And I know I also often have a hand in spreading gossip - which is why you said you don’t need to tell me that people are talking about me - but I promise I won’t tell another soul.” Hermes said, placing a comforting hand on Pylas’ shoulder. “And if it is any consolation, I don’t believe that you were with another woman. I know enough about you and your feelings for Ada for me to recognize that there is something more happening.”

Pylas looked at him, eyes misty, making Hermes start to wonder if Pylas really brought him back to talk about the gossip going around about him, or because he desperately wanted to talk to someone he knew would understand what he was going through.

“Ada, she- I found out recently that she doesn’t share the same feelings I have for her.” Pylas started, his hands wringing together anxiously. Understanding creased Hermes’ brow. “Even though it was our parents who pushed us together, I really thought we had something special, and that we could be happy together. But a while back, she broke down and confessed that she was in love with someone else. And that if she is to keep her happiness in mind, she can’t possibly go through with our marriage.”

Pylas’ voice was heavy with misery, the words caught deep in his throat only barely able to be forced out. Hermes’ chest ached for him, sympathy squeezing at his heart and lungs. “And I- I love her so much, Hermes. I was willing to do anything to ensure she would be happy.” His voice trembled as his back slowly hunched over, tears dripping onto the cobble walkway below. “We both knew that our parents wouldn’t let her leave our relationship just because of her loving someone else. And I just couldn’t bear to see her cry. So I-” Pylas let out a heartbreaking sob. Hermes scooted closer, holding Pylas’ shoulder in an act of grounding. He waited for Pylas to let out his grief, sniffling and weeping with no control.

It took several minutes, but eventually, he was able to lift his head, heavy with emotions, to look Hermes in the eyes. His eyes were rubbed raw, red, and swollen. “I was the one who started the rumor.”

Now that - Hermes didn’t expect. His jaw dropped to the floor, his hand recoiling off of Pylas’ shoulder in shock. “Wait, hold on. Hold on. Wait.” Hermes stuttered, trying to comprehend what had just been relayed to him. “You- You started the rumor that you were seen with another woman?” Hermes asked incredulously. Pylas nodded - once, firmly. Resolutely. “Why would you do such a thing? I don’t even-”

Realization hit Hermes. Love. Pylas loved Ada so much he was willing to go through public humiliation and scorn so that his beloved could be released from their engagement, and be free to be with another. Hermes’ hand covered his mouth, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Oh, Pylas, that- I cannot believe you would do that for Ada. That is just the most- romantic and heartbreaking thing I have ever heard.”

Pylas laughed, though there was no humor behind it. “Yeah, well. My romantic ideals survive, meanwhile my relationship with my parents, Ada’s parents, and everyone else in the city have crumbled.” He said bitterly, leaning down to rub his face with his hand.

“I-” Hermes paused, unsure of what to say. Perhaps if someone else had spread the rumor, he could have vouched for Pylas, and let everyone know the truth so they would get off the poor man’s back. But since Pylas himself spread it, so that Ada could be with who she loved, there wasn't much he could do besides give a shoulder to cry on.

“I’m sorry, my friend. Thank you for telling me. I hope that getting it off your chest has at least lifted some weight off your shoulders.” Hermes said, leaning over to give Pylas an awkwardly placed side hug, squeezing the man’s upper arm.

“Knowing that someone knows the truth is a relief, I will say,” Pylas replied, smiling weakly at Hermes. He turned his head and wipes away his tears. “I apologize; I didn’t know I had all that brewing up, or that it would explode onto you. But I appreciate your willingness to listen.”

“No worries my friend. I was the one who asked for the truth, after all, and you know me - I just can’t stay away from a good story.” Hermes said, retracting his arm and winking at Pylas before his expression pulled back into one of seriousness. “As I said, though - I promise I won’t tell a soul. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Hermes.”

They sat quietly for awhile after that, staring at the beauty around them. Hermes would say something every once in a while, usually a joke or some sort of anecdote, but most of the time, they were content to let the silence of nature wash over them. He hoped it brought Pylas some peace, in a time where there was none.

Pylas cleared his throat. “They think you have taken a lover.” He said, out of the blue. There was more he said after that, but it blurred togethere into the background of Hermes’ pounding heart and racing thoughts, his serenity smashed into a million pieces. A lover? No, he- he hadn't taken a lover. Certainly, they didn't think that? He made a friend, that was all - a very good friend. A best friend, even, but Charon was certainly not his lover. Why would they think that?

Sure, he had grown quite fond of the God - especially now that he could see Charon. At first, he had been somewhat frightened of his associate’s appearance, but he had grown to like it. Admire it, even - as one admired anything about the Gods, of course. And he did end each day thinking about the chance to see it again the next evening. And Hermes adored Charon’s dry sarcasm and witty remarks (almost as much as his well-thought-out pearls of wisdom), but who wouldn't? Even if they were spoken in that painfully beautiful voice. It hurt Hermes to hear, and yet he could never get enough of that lovely agony. Gods, he really missed hearing it. And then there was how Charon listened to Hermes in a way that no one ever had before, how he put up with his rambling - even enjoying it - making Hermes feel so special, so happy, so loved-

Oh.

Did he-

Did he love Charon?

The world dropped out from around Hermes, Pylas and the gardens disappearing into a black void. How could he not have noticed it before? That burning feeling in his chest that he had been trying to ignore, waving it away like an annoyance that he should maybe see a doctor about - was that love? Love for the witty, tight-lipped, beautifully eldritch boatman of the Underworld who had become his closest and most trusted friend? The more he thought about it, the more everything began to make sense. Hearts weren't supposed to ache the way his had while Charon was away. You didn't yearn to hear a friend’s voice or to see their face the way Hermes did for Charon.

Dear Gods.

He might love Charon.

Or- Gods, he couldn't even think straight. Did he love Charon? Question after question assaulted his mind, his anxiety building with each one. How did one love a God? Was it really love? Was it possible that it was misplaced admiration? Was Hermes so used to being ignored that he fell in love with the first being to pay complete attention to him?

No. No, it ran so much deeper than that. The warmth in his chest when he thought about Charon, the happiness when he saw the God, the overwhelming affection he felt when he made Charon laugh - certainly, that was more than admiration. But was it love? Hermes had never felt such a way about anyone or anything else, so what else could it be?

Perhaps it wasn't love just yet - but it was damn close.

Okay. Fuck, okay, so now- what did he do with this information? Did he tell Charon? Surely not. The very thought of doing that made his stomach tie into knots. What if he didn't feel the same? What if Charon wasn't even capable of romantic love? For all Hermes knew, maybe Chthonic beings didn't feel those kinds of emotions. Not that he would ever be able to get that out of Charon, secretive as he was. If he didn't feel the same - or couldn't - then Hermes would ruin their friendship forever. No, that was out of the question. He couldn't lose Charon. He would rather suffer in silence with his feelings for the rest of his short mortal life than lose the happiness and companionship Charon had given him. Surely, he could keep them to himself - at least until he could determine Charon’s feelings.

“Hermes!”

Hermes jerked from his thoughts with a frightened jolt, head snapping sharply to the left to look at Pylas. The man looked at him with great concern. “Are you okay? I was talking to you, but you zoned out. Like you were asleep with your eyes open.” Pylas said, laying a comforting hand on Hermes’ shoulder. Hermes tried to gather his thoughts, but they were still racing with the newfound realization of his feelings (that had been there for Gods knew how long, he was just too dense to take notice).

“I- yes, I’m fine!” Hermes squeaked, standing abruptly. Pylas’ hand fell unceremoniously back to his lap. “I apologize, Pylas my friend! I haven’t gotten very much sleep lately - been doing so much work. I think perhaps, as you said, I might have just fallen asleep briefly. With my eyes open. Just a brief eyes-open nap, you know how it is.” Hermes laughed nervously, talking a million miles an hour. “I should probably be heading home to get some proper sleep sooner than later.”

“I see.” Pylas said, not looking like he believed any word of what Hermes just said. The man watched Hermes’ face closely, as if searching for something in it. And whatever it was, he seemed to find it. His eyes widened as he stared at Hermes, making him squirm anxiously. Could Pylas see the feelings written on his face? Were they that obvious to, apparently, everyone but him?

Oh Gods, that was why everyone had been sending him those sly grins. Why Ione said he looked happier. Why Iosas said he was up in clouds-

“Hermes, are you-”

“Yep, I really should be going! Have a nap to get to, after all. And lots of work - so much work. It all must be done! Thank you for this talk, Pylas! I hope I helped you as you have helped me! Goodbye!” Hermes rambled, already fast walking away and rounding a corner before even finishing his spiel.

His walk home was done by muscle memory alone, his thoughts too all-consuming to concentrate on where he was walking.

How could he be so foolish, allowing himself to (possibly, he really, really was trying to think of anything else it could be) fall in love with a God. Hermes had heard enough horror stories to know how that usually ended up - heartbroken and alone, maybe turned into a bear or a cow or some other kind of animal.

But- Charon was different. Caring and wise and playful; a kindred spirit, unlike anyone Hermes had ever encountered before. He had never given Hermes any reason to think he would hurt him. Even when he had good reason to lash out at Hermes when he had pushed his boundaries, he hadn't even so much as threatened him. For Gods’ sake, Charon hadn't even touched him before.

His thoughts took him all the way back to his home, and far beyond that as well. He had long since eaten and cleaned and laid in bed, and yet they still haunted him. There was joy there, thinking about Charon and how much he cared for him. But there was also panic and dread, wondering if Charon could ever have the growing feelings Hermes had, or if telling the God would ruin everything they have created.

It was hours later when sleep finally found him. And while he slumbered, he dreamt of pale hands gently clasping his, caressing his face and pushing back dark curls from his forehead, bony teeth, and thin lips pressing against the top of his head.

Chapter Text

Five days after Hermes’ realization was when Charon was due to return. And where the days before had dragged on, chained by Hermes’ misery, now they went by far too fast. When he tucked himself into bed the night before their reunion, staring at the intricate wheat crown he had been working on for the last week, all he could think was that he needed more time. More time to work on the crown, and make sure it was perfect. More time to think about the extent of his feelings. More time to consider his options - even if there were only two, and he had already spent days going over each one carefully. To tell Charon about his feelings or not.

And yet, despite his worries, he rushes to the temple the next day like the flames of the Underworld were licking at his heels. The only thing stopping him from breaking into an all-out sprint was the wheat crown tucked carefully into the bag looped around his right shoulder. Hermes would be damned if he dared damage the tender stalks after spending so long weaving them.

When he arrived at the temple, Charon was not yet there, and the structure looked far more worse for wear than the last time Hermes had been. The first few days after receiving Charon’s letter, he had gone out to make sure it was clean - but had quickly grown tired of venturing out only to stay for a few minutes. As it stood, it had been a week and some days since he last visited, and it showed. Hermes carefully placesdhis bag on the ground, using his foot to sweep dead grass and leaves from inside the temple, clearing the items of dust and lighting the candles. They were short and squat from lack of wax - he would have to get new ones soon.

He was lighting the last candle when a familiar cold overwhelmed his senses, freezing everything except for his heart, which jumped into his throat then fell to his feet before settling back into place. For a moment, Hermes felt paralyzed, watching the flame of the candle flicker in the presence of Charon, who was undoubtedly standing right behind him. His heart thrummed against his ribs, his recently discovered feelings making themselves well-known.

Hermes?

Hermes sucked in a breath, his cheeks flushing in a way unrelated to the cold nipping at them. Fuzziness overwhelmed his chest until breathing felt like an impossibility. Hearing his name from the God was as wonderful as he thought it would be, his slow, methodical voice caressing each syllable beautifully inside Hermes’ mind. Taking a deep breath, Hermes turned and stepped out of the temple, throwing his arms open wide.

“Charon, my friend!” He exclaimed, getting a good look at the God for the first time in two weeks. The first thing Hermes took notice of was the way his heart squeezed with undeniable affection upon seeing Charon. Gods, he was so stupid.

The second thing was that Charon looked tired. It wasn't an affliction he had seen on the God before, but it was undeniable - the hunched posture, the way his grip on his oar was so loose, the glow of his eye dulled, pulsating dimly.

And the last thing he noticed - though Charon seemed entirely exhausted, he looked happy to see Hermes. The ferryman looked at him with his version of a gentle smile, as if Hermes was something special.

“It is so good to see you again!” He continued, his voice strained. “You do not imagine how much I have to fill you in on! Two weeks is a lot of time, and without you here, I had to find some way to entertain myself. So you just know I caught up on a lot of the gossip going around town.” Hermes said, grinning widely up at the God.

It is good to see you as well. Charon responded, his voice quieter in Hermes’ head than usual, further confirming his exhaustion.

“Are you alright, my dearest companion?” The words of endearment shouldn’t have come as easily as they did - and yet Hermes couldn't seem to stop them. “You seem not quite as jolly as usual - which is something you always are, yes.” Hermes teased. The God huffed in exasperation, though Hermes was just glad that he wasn't too exhausted as not to respond to his ribbing.

Tired. Charon responded - and Hermes just refrained from saying something snarky. He held it in, keeping quiet as Charon continued. The souls to transport were endless. I- Charon paused, teeth clenching together in something akin to frustration, his oar squeezed tight between those two large hands. Hermes let him think.

This exhaustion is new to me.” Charon admitted. I have never needed a break before. Hermes couldn't tell whether he was more surprised that Charon hadn't felt exhaustion before or that he was, for some reason, feeling it for the first time.

“I see,” Hermes lied - because he did not see at all, in fact, he was somewhat confused. “Well, hopefully, now that the souls are done and dealt with, we- you can have a moment to relax.” He said, stumbling over his words as he looked his weary companion up and down. If Charon noticed, he didn't say anything.

“But! I know just the thing to cheer you up!” Hermes exclaimed, nabbing his bag from the ground and turning to face Charon again. Hesitancy hit him like a bull when he did - suddenly, the wheat crown he had spent a week working on felt like it was not even close to being done. A million other things he could have added to make it more worthy of the God’s time flooded his mind, his stomach tumbling with nerves.

There was no going back. Charon was already looking more chipper, excited to see what Hermes had brought him, and there was nothing else in his bag beside the crown, matches for the candles, and a few extra stalks of wheat should any of the others break off. He pulled the crown out slowly, dropping the bag to display it. Stems of golden wheat had been carefully weaved back and forth to create the band of the crown (which Hermes could only hope would fit Charon’s head, he had thought for hours about the shape of Charon’s large hat, trying his best to match it in size), beige kernels followed the circular pattern of the band, with sprigs of green and brown weaved in between, and small white and yellow flowers placed carefully in place of gems and jewels. Seeing it relieved some anxiety - it was his best work. He held it out with confidence.

But Charon didn't take it.

In fact, he no longer looked excited - he was something closer to disappointed. Hermes’ face dropped, anxiety coming back in full force. It only worsened when Charon looked away, suddenly a few feet back, reminiscent of how he acted when he first revealed himself to Hermes. Always a few steps away. Out of touch, out of reach.

Hermes pulled the crown to his chest, wanting more than anything to hide it away. Embarrassment burned a his cheeks. “I spent a week or so making it.” He said slowly, his eyes not leaving the ground. “Do you- not like it?” Hermes asked quietly, feeling quite the fool.

It is beautiful. Charon said, relieving some of Hermes' anxiety, though it was quickly replaced with confusion. He tore his eyes from the ground to look up at the God, who looked so conflicted and tired and ethereal and magnificent- So beautiful. But I can’t accept it.

Hermes looked between Charon and the crown. “Why?” He asked, needing clarification before his anxiety overwhelmed him. Charon deliberated on this question for a good long while, until Hermes felt he might explode. Finally, when it seemed the God was about to say something, instead of speaking, his glowing eye slid down to Hermes’ bag on the ground, the contents of which had spilled out when he dropped it. The matches rolled out and disappeared somewhere into the grass - likely for Hermes never to find again - and the extra stalks of wheat stuck out from the opening.

In the blink of an eye, Charon was next to him once more, and despite everything - the anxiety and confusion - Hermes’ ears warmed as he dared to tilt his head up and look at Charon. The God looked down at him with a softness Hermes desperately wanted to mean something, before bending over and plucking one of the stalks from the ground. He didn't move away. He stayed there beside him, just where Hermes wanted him to always be.

Charon held the wheat between his thumb and pointer finger, twirling it and admiring the beauty of it as he did with everything he touched. The action, the act of adoration, only confused Hermes further - until he noticed the stalk beginning to wilt. It took a few minutes, but soon enough, the wheat went from healthy and glowing to shriveled and dead within Charon’s hand.

And with that, so many things started to make sense. Such as why Charon didn't ever let his feet touch the ground - something about his relation to the Underworld made plants die faster than they were meant to. A memory tugged at the back of Hermes’ mind, taking him back to the very first time Charon came to the temple. Back when Hermes hadn’t known what was haunting his temple, only feeling the sudden chill. Hermes faintly recalled there having been a circle of dead grass he spotted in the distance, which, at the time, he shrugged off as an anomaly.

“Oh.” Was all Hermes could say, staring dumbly at the brown, brittle remains of the wheat stalk.

Your crown is beautiful, Hermes. I would love to wear it. But I cannot. Charon said, turning his palm over. Hermes watched as the dead plant fell to the ground, breaking apart into brittle pieces in the air before settling back on the Earth. There were so many questions Hermes had for Charon in that moment, but only one came uninhibited from his mouth.

“Is that why you won’t let me touch you?” Was what he asked, though he certainly had not meant to word it that way. The instant the words left his mouth Charon looked at him in surprise, and Hermes’ face burned. “I mean-!” Hermes coughed and looked away, patting his face to try and will the blush away. “I do apologize, friend; that is not what I meant to say. I have just- noticed that you back away when I get close to touching you, and you refrain from getting close to me, so I figured that might be the reason why. Is all.” Hermes quickly clarified. Charon relaxed, though his figure still had a tenseness that came from sharing something so personal.

You are correct. Charon replied. Disappointment weighed on Hermes’s heart. Would he truly never be able to touch Charon? Even if, by some miracle, Charon were to reciprocate his feelings, they would be stuck forever, unable to touch? And even if he didn't return his feelings, Hermes was such a physical person. He loved giving physical comfort; a hug, a comforting hand on the arm, a cheerful slap on the shoulder - he craved touch.

“Have you-” Hermes paused, unsure what would be construed from his next words. “-ever touched a living mortal before?” He asked, hands wringing together nervously, weight shifting from side to side.

No. Charon responded. A tiny glimmer of hope fluttered in Hermes’ chest, restoring some of his confidence.

“So- how do you know the same thing would happen to a human? Plants are fragile.” Hermes asserted - and Charon, surprisingly, was quick to respond and rise to the challenge.

Humans are fragile. You are fragile. He declared in Hermes’ mind, staring the small man down. Hermes’ heart stuttered at how those words are uttered - so filled with quiet certainty and gentle heat. It gave him hope for something to be there that might not be. I see human souls every day, killed by- insignificances.

“But how will you know if you don’t ever try? Perhaps I- we are not as fragile as you might think.” Hermes responded, bending down and placing the crown on top of his bag. He still treats it carefully, even though he now knew Charon couldn't wear it. At least, not for any extended period.

A shame. He would look so beautiful with it on. And Hermes had been so excited to see what he looked like without his hat.

When he straightened back up, he held his hand out to Charon, palm facing the sky. The God reared back, suddenly a few feet away before Hermes could even take a breath.

No. Charon said, that same fear tinting his voice from when Hermes couldn’t see him, scared for the young man to get too close. Hermes’ eyebrows scrunched in something close to frustration. He walked closer to the God, who continued to be a few feet away from Hermes, seemingly without moving, no matter how far Hermes walked. You don’t know what you are offering.

“Charon, I might not be that smart; maybe talking and farming is all I’m good at - but I understand what might happen. And I am offering it anyway.” Hermes replied, stopping in his advances. Charon paused as well, face terrifyingly blank as he stared at Hermes. He held out his hand again, and this time, Charon stayed where he was. “I trust you, Charon. And I promise if I start to feel- anything, anything at all, I will let go. Just- please - let me try.” Hermes begged.

Conflict overwhelmed Charon’s face, his glowing eye flitting rapidly from Hermes’ offered hand to his face then back to his hand again. His grip tightened on his oar as Hermes looked at him pleadingly, tight enough that any even the special oar creaks and groans under his grip. Still, Hermes reached his hand out further, ever closer to the God.

Charon switched his oar to his left hand, and for a moment, Hermes thought he was going to refuse. He looked ready to. And, truthfully, Hermes wouldn’t blame him, with how much he was asking of him. But then the ferryman’s free hand was reaching out, and Hermes' heart leapt into his throat. Charon’s hand moved slow as sludge toward Hermes’, giving him ample time to pull away. He didn't. He kept still, letting Charon initiate the movement and contact, treating him like a wild horse that would take off with a twitch of an eye.

A shuddered breath left Hermes' lips when their fingertips finally, finally brushed together. A feeling like an electric shock ran up his arm and down his back at the contact. He nearly jerked back, only just refraining from doing so - there was no telling how Charon would take that reaction. The God briefly paused, but Hermes wasn't having it. He slid his hand forward until his fingertips were touching the God’s palm, and then further, only stopping when the God’s long (very long) fingers brushed the thin, delicate skin of Hermes’ wrist. His beating heart thrummed rapidly, anxiously, against Charon’s fingertips.

Despite the cold that surrounded him, Charon wasn't cold to the touch - a fact that was rather surprising to Hermes, who had been confident that touching the God would feel like pressing his hand on a block of solid ice. But it didn't. Touching Charon felt more like an absence of temperature - neither hot nor cold, just... there. Existing, and yet, not.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Hermes holding his breath and Charon not taking his eyes off their hands. Slowly, as nothing happened, Hermes began to relax. He didn't know what dying or withering away would feel like, but he could hazard a guess and say it probably wouldn’t feel like nothing. Still, Charon continued to look paralyzed, so Hermes kept quiet until the God was equally certain nothing would happen.

Finally, Charon looked up - and Hermes smiled widely, gently squeezing his large hand. “See? I told you - us mortals are stronger than you might think.” He said, trying to be gentle despite his giddiness. Charon looked shaken to the core, an expression of vulnerability contorting his gaunt face. And yet, despite his terror, the God’s pale hand shifted, moving and shifting their hands until their fingertips were entwined. Hermes’ heart throbbed in his chest, pinching and aching and pulling, desperate for him to get closer to Charon. Touching the boatman was everything he ever thought it would be and more, and he could hardly contain his excitement in the face of it. Now that he had touched him, was touching him, he couldn't resist stepping closer-

Charon quickly pulled away, suddenly a good distance from where Hermes was standing. His oar was gone, his newly free hand clutching the one Hermes had just been holding like it had burned him.

Risky. Was all Charon said, his voice taking on an odd, distorted tone that Hermes’ mortal mind couldn't quite make heads or tails of. Despite what he said, Hermes could see the touch affected him far more than it had Hermes. Disappointment slumped Hermes' shoulders, though he was quick to shake it off. It was clear that Charon needs more time to get used to touch - and as always, Hermes was more than willing to give that to him.

“Right.” He responded, nodding in agreement. Charon visually relaxed, and for a moment, the two sat in silence. It was a little awkward, though mostly it was comfortable, the two soaking in each other’s presence after their weeks apart.

Hermes cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Well, now that we have got the dramatics out of the way!” He exclaimed, trying to regain some of his chipperness. “As I said, I have a whole lot of things to fill you in on - two whole weeks of gossip!” He said, bringing a smile to Charon’s barely-there lips. “See, this is why you shouldn’t leave me alone for so long; now I have such a backlog of things to tell you that I don’t even know where to start! Oh, but you just won’t even begin to believe what I found out the other day while I was in town selling my vegetables. There I was, minding my own business, when-”

They moved easily past the tenseness of the last few minutes, slipping right back into their usual banter. Hermes talked and talked, and ever so occasionally, Charon would respond. And yet - there was a difference in the air. Something that changed between the two of them. Whether that was because of the touch they shared or because of Hermes’ newly realized feelings - whether they may or may not be love - he wasn't sure. But as they spoke, Hermes would clasp his hands behind his back every so often, secretly grazing his fingertips along the palm that Charon had touched, wanting so badly to feel it once more.

They grew closer after that, physically and emotionally - though physically was a lot slower going. Every day Hermes tried to touch Charon at least once so that the God (and himself, truthfully) could get used to it. At first, when they would get to the end of the day and Charon would ask Hermes for his one question, Hermes started asking for a touch of the hands in exchange.

“While I think about it.” Hermes said the first time, winking mischievously. And Charon always looked so adorably nervous and - perhaps - slightly panicked, but in the end, he always reached out to Hermes. Their hands clasped together, and while Hermes rambled on discussing what his question of that night might be, they held hands. Hermes would always hold a little tighter, tanned hands wrapping around pale fingers to keep them from pulling away. Of course, if the God really wanted to, he could get away quite easily, and Hermes certainly didn't like making Charon feel uncomfortable - but he needed the God, more than anything, to understand that he wanted this. That he was not scared of the consequences, and even if he was, his desire to be so close to Charon would always outweigh it.

Not that Charon needed to know that last bit.

Eventually, Hermes started to spring touches on Charon outside of the planned hand-holding each evening. The first time was a gentle touch on the upper arm when Charon was talking about something or other - truthfully, Hermes had been paying just a bit more attention to the God’s broad shoulders than what he had been saying. Even if they were mostly hidden under his robes, they were still a distraction. He wanted to touch them, but the height difference between the two made that dream a far-off chance. He had tried over and over to convince Charon that he could stand on the ground, that he didn’t mind the grass around the temple being dead - but the boatman always refused, leaving his shoulders far out of Hermes’ reach. So, Hermes settled for a touch to the upper arm - and Charon shot away, looking at Hermes and his hand so scandalized that it sent Hermes into a fit of howling laughter that went on until his stomach hurt. Then he apologized and promised to ensure Charon would be aware of all his touches before they happened.

After that, Hermes always made it a point to telegraph for Charon that he was about to touch him. He reached his hand out as slow as a turtle, creeping closer and closer until he was sure Charon had seen and wouldn't jump away like a frightened cat. It took a while, but eventually, Charon relaxed into the touches, not needing them to be as slow or gentle.

Something Hermes noticed in the following weeks - which wasn't surprising but perhaps a bit disappointing - was that Charon never initiated contact. It was always Hermes. On rare occasions, when Charon thought Hermes wasn't paying attention (he was, he always paid attention to Charon), the God would start to reach a hand out toward him. Hermes’ heart would race with anticipation, only for Charon to remember himself and snatch his hand back from the air like Hermes was a live flame. And then Hermes would have to calm his heart from beating out of his chest.

Another thing Hermes noticed was that he was a complete idiot for not having realized his feelings sooner. Truthfully, he was surprised that Charon had also not caught on. Now that he was aware of the feelings - whatever they may be - it felt like they were at the forefront of every interaction the two had. Every conversation, he barely refrained from calling Charon something more than a friendly nickname (‘my lovely boatman’ had slipped out once, and Charon had stared at him like he had five heads). When Charon appeared, the God was met with soft sighs and adoring eyes from Hermes, his name spoken like a breath of fresh air. On the increasingly more common occasion that Charon laughed, the sound echoed over and over in his head, Hermes’ heart threatening to break free from the confines of his ribs and tear through the flesh of his chest.

And as the days went on, he was more certain that these feelings - as horrible of a curse from Aphrodite as they were - were love.

He couldn't help it. Charon was- everything. He was the first cool breeze after a harsh summer. A moment of reprieve at the end of a long day working in the fields. His smile - as odd and unnatural as it was - cut through the pain Hermes had held in his heart for so long. Charon was the last thing Hermes thought about when he went to bed and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. He dreamed of his tall stature and pale skin and Godly features so beyond mortal comprehension; they invaded his mind and refused to leave. Any other person would likely have turned and ran upon seeing him - but Hermes saw his beauty in a way they never could.

And that was perfectly fine by him. Their loss, his gain.

Eventually, Charon started to get used to the touches, but there was still something there. A reluctance that didn't seemed to have anything to do with Hermes but with Charon himself. It showed itself when Hermes' touches lingered too long or moved too fast, and when Charon yanked himself away with a speed that a God his size surely shouldn’t have. And Hermes- he couldn’t bear it if he had been forcing something onto Charon that he didn't want.

“Do you not like touch, Charon?” Hermes asked one day when the sun was still warm, though a hint of coolness tinted the air. He was all too aware that soon the fall harvest - the largest of the year - would begin, and he likely wouldn't be able to see Charon for a while. Though for the moment, that wasn't what he was concerned about.

Charon tilted his head in response to the question, asking without words what Hermes meant. “Sometimes when I touch you, you leap back. I just want to make sure it is something that you actually- want. To happen, I mean. Because I would just feel terrible if it isn’t, and you are just doing it to humor me or something.” He clarified. He waited as Charon pondered.

I am unused to it. He finally responded, a pale hand wringing back and forth on that perfectly formed spot on his oar. Hermes was briefly distracted by his hands, the response not clicking until a few moments later.

“You mean- you’re not used to being touched?” He asked. Hermes still wasn't entirely sure about the going-ons of Charon’s life - but surely he had people who gave him, at the very least, friendly touches? He had brothers and sisters, didn't he? A mother? Others he worked with down in the Underworld?

And if not-

The thought created a deep ache in Hermes’ heart. What must it have been like to exist for thousands and thousands of years with so little physical contact that even the simplest of touches caused discomfort? The thought was horrid. Cruel. It was entirely unfair for a being so kind and gentle as Charon, who - in Hermes’ eyes - was built to be lovingly touched.

Charon nodded, confirming such a horrible fate and causing a sting in Hermes’ chest. “Is it- does it bother you, then? When we touch?” Hermes questioned, still uncertain what message Charon was trying to convey. The God sat in contemplation for a long while, mulling over Hermes’ question. Hermes could all but see the thoughts running through his head, the cogs in the God’s mind turning over and over as he pondered.

I want to touch. And to be touched. Charon clarified, staring at Hermes in a way that sent butterflies through his stomach. But unaccustomed as I am, there are times it is... too much.” The God lifted a hand, clenching and unclenching it as if trying to simulate the feeling he described to Hermes. When a touch lingers, it feels as though something is crawling under my skin. Prickling and scratching, sometimes... burning.

How awful. Hermes thought back to those times when Charon pulled away, how he would rub the spot Hermes had been touching as if soothing it, or how he would hide his hand away within the many folds of his robe so it couldn’t be touched any longer.

“Touch makes you feel uncomfortable, but despite that, you still want me to- you still want to be touched?” Hermes asked, trying to reaffirm what he has just heard. Charon looked far off into the field, deep in thought, his glowing eye wavering in and out. Then he looked at Hermes, stared at him.

Incessantly so.

Hermes swallowed deeply. The lowered timbre of Charon’s voice sent shivers down his body, rendering Hermes unable to look directly at him. There was heat to those two words - but was there really? Or was Hermes deluding himself, hoping for something that couldn't be so? To distract himself from it all - deciding he was definitely projecting his amorous feelings onto Charon, and he didn't deserve that - he pondered everything he had just been told.

The more he thought, the more certain things start to make sense. If Charon was as touch starved as he claimed, perhaps it was simply a case of too much, too soon, not because he didn't want to be touched. He knew that feeling of itching beneath the skin better than Charon might very well think. “I see. I think I understand that.” He said, then clarified when Charon did that adorable, curious tilt of the head that made Hermes swoon. “It’s not exactly the same - and maybe it's a little silly - but when Geleon was still alive, there were days when he would be nicer to me than usual. He would pat my head, or give me hugs, or squeeze my shoulders - and it should have felt nice to have that attention, but it never did. It felt similar to what you are describing.”

I see. You are correct. It is not the same. Charon stated firmly, almost disgruntled by the topic of Hermes’ old mentor. Hermes blinked in surprise at the venom for someone the God had never even met (or, had he? Certainly, the boatman would have met Geleon to row him down the Styx, as Hermes had been sure to bury him with an obol), and then he grinned like the sun, cheeks warming at Charon’s care for him.

“Oh, of course. Completely different.” Which, of course, it was. The feeling might be the same, but the intentions behind them were not.

Charon nodded resolutely to Hermes’ statement, which only widened his grin. “Thank you for telling me, my friend.” He said, turning his head away to try and will the redness off his cheeks. “I appreciate it. And I will try my best to take it slow - so please, if you are ever feeling like a touch would be just the worst thing ever, an absolute travesty to endure - tell me. And I will keep my hands to myself.” Hermes assured him. Charon smiled and nodded.

After that, there weren't too many times Charon rebuffed Hermes’ attempts at touching him - though it did happen every once in awhile. And Hermes was glad for it, because it meant Charon was comfortable telling Hermes when he was overwhelmed, knowing that Hermes would always listen. Soon after, the God settled in and got more used to the hand holding when answering questions, the pushes to upper arms when he said something funny, the joking slaps on the chest when he mocked Hermes. He still didn't initiate anything - but his willingness encouraged Hermes to try for more and more.

Above all, Hermes hoped, with time, that Charon would learn the joys of touch. His past had a lack of it, but all he could do now was encourage and care for Charon to make up for that.

And maybe, sometime in his future, it would no longer bother the God.

From the moment Hermes opened his eyes, everything was a struggle.

He liked to think his optimism and enthusiasm in the face of life and it's struggles could get him through bad and mediocre days - and most of the time, they did. He stayed in the present, because dwelling elsewhere only ended in heartache and misery. Each day he woke up was another day alive, and some weren't as lucky to say the same. So enjoyed life as best he could. Above all, he tried to find humor in everything, even all the little things.

But sometimes- It wasn't enough. Sometimes, Hermes woke up with his thoughts clinging to him like a dark cloud, weighing him down with the peltering rains of self-defeat and loneliness. Sometimes, there were days when he couldn't force his endless well of energy to produce anything.

And boy - was today one of those days.

Getting out of bed left him winded. Dressing himself felt like an impossibility. And even thinking about work felt like the most awful thing in the world. But it had to be done - so he trudged his way out of his house and into the brisk early morning air, the stars lingering in the sky reminding him of the sleep he could be getting. When the sun rose, he tried his hardest to greet any people passing by with his usual smile and overly friendly, excitable chatter, though in the end, his efforts were for nothing. There was still a person or three who asked if something is wrong. Who told him he didn't seem as plucky today. Who let him know how tired he looked. He refuted each one with a smile as if they didn't wear him down even more.

By the time he returned to his house in the evening, his feet dragged along the ground. A trip and fall were bound to happen at any moment, but Hermes couldn't find the energy to pull them any higher. He tried not to think about how he wouldn't be able (or willing) to pull himself back up again if he fell.

He gave himself ten minutes of laying in bed staring dejectedly at the ceiling before he was out the door to go and meet Charon. Normally doing so boosted his mood no matter what kind of day he had, and yet, even seeing his favorite person in the world felt like too much. How would he keep a conversation going? Their friendship was built on Hermes talking and talking and Charon occasionally giving his input or making sarcastic remarks, to which Hermes would then talk and talk some more. And that was how Hermes liked it. He liked that Charon listened to him in a way no one else ever had. It was what drew him to the God in the first place - but with Hermes not having his energy, would it be the same? And if it wasn't, what then? Would Charon get bored of him?

Charon was already there when Hermes arrived, a glowing eye staring past the fields towards the far-off mountains. Hermes paused and took a deep breath when he saw him, then plastered on the best imitation of his usual smile he could muster and jogged forward.

“Good evening, my friend!” He called out, pulling Charon’s attention away from the mountains and whatever he had been thinking so deeply about. The God pulled a hand away from his oar to wave at Hermes, who stopped in front of the temple. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Not too cool, not too hot. Just right. Made work today a real breeze!” He commented, trying to hide the heavy rise and fall of his chest from the short trot forward. Ducking his head into the temple, Hermes made sure everything was spick and span - and let his expression drop for a few moments of relieving privacy.

“Let me tell you-” Hermes started, turning around and putting the smile right back on - only to discover Charon was now right in front of him, when moments before he had been feet away. The God stared down at Hermes with a mysterious expression, deep and sonorous, his eye searching Hermes' face like he was trying to find something. Hermes laughed nervously.

“Hello there, boss. What can I do for you?” He asked, trying to joke even if his tone fell flat, sounding more exhausted than teasing.

You are upset. Charon stated plainly. Truthfully, Hermes wasn't surprised. The God was very perceptive and seemed to notice everything about Hermes. Even if Charon didn't always quite understand what Hermes was saying or going through, he was aware.

With not much fight left in him to continue the facade of happiness, Hermes’ shoulder slumped, eyes sliding to the ground.

“Nothing gets past you, my attentive ally.” Hermes said, grasping his upper arm with his hand. A humorless laugh came out in the form of a short exhale from the nose.

What is wrong? Charon asked, easily pushing past Hermes’ attempt at avoiding the conversation. The man in question sighed deeply, leaning his back against the temple, then sliding down to a sitting position, pulling his knees to his chest. Charon looked at him with concern so deep it would be easy to see even for someone who hadn't memorized all of the ways emotions pulled at the God’s face - like Hermes had.

“It’s-” Hermes tried, then paused. The two sat in silence as he thought, ruminating over how best to convey all the heavy feelings of the day. It didn't escape Hermes’ attention, that Charon allowed Hermes to think, just as he did for him. He stood beside Hermes’ curled-up form like a boulder Hermes could cling to while being swept away by the rapids of emotions that pull him this way and that. He was there, steadfast and unyielding. A beacon of comfort and safety that Hermes found himself unwilling to let go of.

“I like to think I have made peace with everything that happened my childhood,” Hermes started again, trying to speak clearly, though exhaustion weighed everything down - even his voice. “I prefer to live in the moment, because dwelling in the past only makes people upset.” He said, wrapping his arms tighter around his legs and leaning his chin on his knees.

“But sometimes, all I can think about is- my mom.” He admitted. Charon’s head tilted.

Your mother? He questioned. Hermes responded with a small nod of the head, only a slight tilt up and down.

“I was young when she passed on, but old enough to remember her when she did. When I- " Hermes cleared his throat as it starting to ache in that horrible way that predicted unwanted crying. "When I close my eyes, I can still remember her face. And if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear her laugh or picture how she always had her hair swept over her shoulder.” He explained, with some painful effort, he tried to swallow down the lump forming in his throat. “It all happened so fast. One week she was happy and healthy; the next, she was sick; and the next, she was dead. There was barely even time to process what was happening. And since my father has never existed in my life, I was suddenly alone and had to fend for myself.”

His eyes stung, which he tried to blink away. The next step of the unwanted crying. Hermes tilted his head away from Charon in hopes that the God wouldn't see the yet unshed tears. “I think I did well for myself, all things considered. But I miss her. A lot.” His voice became thick and gummy with emotion; it stuck itself to his throat and wouldn't leave even when he tried to clear it away.

“But I also- I resent her sometimes? For leaving me by myself.” He admitted - and that was what finally made the tears fall. They slid down his cheeks in thick droplets and created tracks in the dirt he hadn’t bothered to clean off from his day of work. “It wasn’t her fault she got sick, and it wasn’t her fault that my father wasn’t there to take me in. But there are times that I can’t help but feel bitter about the way things turned out. And I just-”

Hermes' lungs gave out with a stuttered breath, tears coming down in full force. He could barely get the next words to leave his lips, but he pushed them out anyways. “I just wish she could have been there for me when I needed her most.”

He could no longer help it - his shoulders shook as sobs wrack his body. He sniffled and wiped desperately at them until his cheeks were rubbed raw - a ruddy mixture of tears and dirt - but they kept coming. He apologized over and over, trying to laugh through the tears, going on and on about how ridiculous he was to be so upset about something that happened so many years ago, even though the life he had was- fine. Good, even. Better now with Charon in it.

And during it all, Charon stood by him, being the grounding figure Hermes needed. He didn't say anything - and Hermes appreciated that.

Eventually, the tears did calm down, but even then, Hermes still tried to keep talking. “I remember when I was very young, I always asked so many questions - more than I do now - and my mother did her best to answer them. There was only one time that she tried to shut me up because she was really tired and trying to sleep, but even then, I kept trying to quietly ask her things. Like being quieter would excuse the number of questions. Isn’t that ridiculous? The mind of a child is truly amazing. I’m surprised there was only the one time - at least that I can remember. She was probably always so exhausted from listening to me; I wouldn’t be surprised-”

Hermes. Charon interrupted, silencing him in an instant. His teeth clicked together audibly as his jaw clamped shut. He dared to break his gaze from a small pile of dirt on the ground before him to look up at the God, towering over him like a giant. The evening sun was setting behind him, illuminating the God’s silhouette and outlining him in reds and purples and pinks.

Beautiful, Hermes thought.

Too beautiful for me, he thought again soon after.

You don’t have to talk. Charon said, confusing Hermes’ emotionally-muddled brain.

“What?” He asked - which was a stupid question because, of course, he knew he didn't have to talk, but he wondered why Charon was saying that now. Was he tired of Hermes’ talking, finally?

Before that horrid line of thinking could go any further, Charon interrupted it. We can just sit in silence. You don’t have to talk. He repeated. Hermes’ fingers fiddled nervously together.

“Wouldn’t that be... boring? If I don’t talk?” He asked, barely loud enough for the God to hear him. Even if so many people found it annoying, talking was his thing. It was what he was good at.

Charon shook his head.

Time with you could never be boring. Charon said. Hermes’ cheeks became redder than they already were, his heart thudding loud in his chest. Even if he did want to talk, the ability had been taken from him, along with all the air in his lungs. He managed a nearly silent “oh,” and then nothing else.

That was how they stayed for a long while. Neither of them spoke or move; they just sat in peaceful silence. They watched the sun set together, falling lower and lower beyond the horizon until the stars were peaking out and the sky was dark blue.

Surprisingly, it was Charon who broke the silence. There is nothing wrong with what you are feeling. He said, detaching Hermes from his thousand-yard stare. He glanced up at Charon, who was already looking down at him. Maybe he never even looked away.

You went through hardship in your youth. The feelings towards those experiences are understandable and inevitable. You needn’t shun them.

“Even if they don’t make sense?” Hermes questioned. Charon nodded in response.

From my experience, most of what mortals do don’t make sense.” He said. It didn’t sound like he meant it to be humorous, but Hermes laughed anyway. He laughed and laughed until he was sure Charon was looking down at him with concern marring his beautifully gaunt face.

Maybe it was the laughter, or the moments of silence watching the setting sun, or just being in Charon’s presence - but Hermes found himself not feeling quite as horrible as he had at the beginning of the day. His shoulders felt a little lighter, his chest not as heavy

“For someone who so rarely speaks, you always seem to know exactly what to say, Charon.” Hermes said, smiling up at him. The boatman’s face relaxed, pulling into something of a smile in return. They fell into another silence, though not nearly as long.

“Can I hug you?” Hermes asked - and despite being a God of relatively small movements, if any movement at all, Hermes could feel Charon freeze in place. The shorter man willed himself to stand up, turning his body to face the God, who was looking at him with a blankness that made Hermes nervous. “You can say no, of course. It would be nice right now, a hug.” He clarified. Charon looked at him from the corner of his glowing eye, his thoughts on the idea unreadable to Hermes. After what felt like hours, the God finally turned to face him, feet lowering gracefully to the ground for the first time since Hermes had known him. The grass didn't die instantly, but Hermes knew soon enough, it would start to wilt. Charon nodded slowly, but firmly.

Relief flooded Hermes’ body, his hands clenching and unclenching in excitement, and perhaps some nervousness. He searched Charon’s face for any resistance as he stepped forward - but when he found none, he didn't let the gift he had been offered go to waste. He wrapped his arms around Charon, pressing his head against the boatman’s body and holding him tight. Hermes only came up to the bottom of Charon’s chest, adding a small level of awkwardness to the hug, but once he was settled between the folds of his robe and pressed against his body, Hermes didn't think he could be happier.

Until Charon’s arms wrapped around him in return.

He hadn’t expected the God to hug him back, but there it was. Long, strong arms slowly rising to wrap awkwardly around the top of Hermes’ body, pressing him even closer.

And yet, what surprised him even more than getting a hug back from Charon was the feeling of the God’s body under all his layers of robe. Hermes wasn't sure what he thought he would find behind all that cloth (because he had definitely never thought about it while laying in bed at night), but what he might have guessed was something bony and angular, much like Charon’s face. That was not what he felt. What he felt was solid muscle, and a thick, wide chest, more like the God’s arms than his face.

He thanked any other God listening that the robes practically swallowed him whole because from his ears to his chest had heated enough to rival an inferno.

Helping? Charon asked. He hesitantly placed a large hand on the back of Hermes’ head, nearly melting him to the ground. Oh, how he yearned for Charon to thread his fingers through his hair, running through it, playing with it, pulling-

“Yes.” Hermes responded, his voice five pitches higher. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, it is helping. Thank you, Charon. I hope this isn’t making you too uncomfortable.”

It is not. He responded, pulling Hermes a fraction closer.

“So would you be willing to do this more often? Hugging, I mean.” Hermes asked, snuggling his face into Charon’s abdomen and inhaling that unique smell that he had grown to love, like old smoke and river water and aged wood.

It took a while for Charon to respond, but Hermes didn't mind at all. Geleon could be brought back to life and start shouting obscenities at him, and he would be none the wiser. Being so close to Charon, nothing else mattered.

Yes. He finally replied.

They spent the rest of their time in silence. The hug had to end eventually, and Hermes had to go home, but he couldn't bring himself to stop it until Charon finally pulled away. Everything - his mother, his childhood, his anxieties - were washed away while hugging Charon. And yet, even after it was over, the warm happiness it gave him lingered. As he walked home - which earlier had felt like a chore amongst chores - he felt light on his feet. Blissful. Safe.

Happy.

If there was any doubt remaining before, none remained. How could he possibly deny it when Charon brought him a joy no other had before? When he made him feel so heard, so seen, so cared for? He had tried to ignore it, or reason it away, or turn it into something else, but he could do so no longer.

He loved Charon.

Chapter Text

Hermes walked toward the temple a little slower than he usually did - though that was to say he still walked faster than a regular person, who didn't have the energy of a bolt of lightning at all times. But for him, it was a slow, agonizing walk, sluggishly heading toward the day he had been dreading for weeks. He tried to push it back; he really had - but ultimately, there was no way to hold nature back. If he stalled any longer, he and his farm would be in a bad way.

Charon had noticed something wrong, directly questioning Hermes on three separate occasions about what it may be. And each time, Hermes - regrettably - lied through his teeth, telling his caring Cthonic companion that he was tired or something else was bothering him.

That ended today.

When Hermes arrived, he went through his usual steps of preparing for Charon’s arrival. He didn't have to do them, but he liked the temple being neat and tidy for Charon - even if the God himself said he didn’t have to.

(It is appreciated, but unneeded. Charon had commented as he watched Hermes clean out the temple a couple weeks back. Mortals never worship me, nor must they. And nor must you. And maybe that might have convinced other people to stop - but not Hermes. All he gathered from that was that mortals were stupid, and Charon deserved all the worship in the world. He had promptly told Charon that he wasn't doing it because he must, but because he wanted to.)

Charon didn't appear right away as he so often did, which both relieved and stressed Hermes. On one hand, it gave him more time to think about what he was going to say to break the news to Charon. But on the other, the longer it drew out, the more anxious Hermes became. Which was ridiculous, honestly. It was nothing bad. He wasn't going to tell Charon he was dying or something. Yet Hermes was sweating like he was standing under the sun on the hottest summer day.

When Charon did finally come, his sweat instantly cooled, clinging uncomfortably onto his body and chilling his skin until it tingled.

“Good evening, boss!” He greeted with only minimal chatter from his teeth, folding his arms to protect himself against the cool. “How goes it in the Underworld?” He asked, hoping to delay what needs to happen as long as possible.

It is as it always has been. You are shaking. Charon commented - and Hermes couldn't help but laugh at that.

“Always so straight to the point! No beating around the bush with you!” Hermes exclaimed, and Charon did that thing with his glowing eye that Hermes was reasonably sure was the equivalent of someone rolling their eyes. He did it often when Hermes was in a particularly silly mood. “No worries, though, my godly associate. I am just a little cold - and your forthright nature is part of your charm.”

Charon barked out a laugh at that. He looked ready to say something else - but before he could, Hermes started straight into an endless stream of rambling. He could see plain as day that Charon was still suspicious about Hermes' odd mood the last few days, so to combat anymore question, he didn' let him get a word in edgewise. Which wasn't hard in practice, to be sure. Charon was naturally quite. But Hermes had somewhat of an obsession with listening to Charon speak, so not letting him do so was painful.

“-so they were already complaining about the amount of pepper I put on it, which I mean, sure, the outside was probably inedible, but the inside would have been just fine! I will stand by that to this day - so despite all their bickering, I just kept roasting it. But then, of course, I got talking to Galatea, and we got on the topic of places we have traveled, and she has been to so many wonderful places that I would love to go someday, and the next thing I know, the duck is in the fire! Completely charred it. After that, I was taken off of cooking duty and have never been put back on. Baking only for me!” Hermes explained, talking so fast his words were starting too blend together. He took a breath, ready to launch into another story - but for once, Charon was faster.

Hermes. He called out, instantly silencing the man. Hearing his name from Charon still sent shivers up his spine and a sizzling warmth through his stomach. It rendered him speechless - which was what Charon wanted, it seemed, as underneath his concern, there was a hint of smugness.

I know something is wrong. Charon said, not even bothering with a question - he outright stated what he knew to be true and what Hermes knew he knew to be true. There was no way out of it now.

Hermes groaned and rubbed his face until he saw stars. When he finally looked back at Charon, it was with a lip stuck out in a pout. “You can’t just let me come out with it in my own time, can you?” He asked, and Charon shook his head, staring and staring and staring at Hermes until the smaller man relented under his intent gaze.

He couldn't help it - he was weak for Charon.

“Fine! Fine, I'll tell you.” Hermes said - and there was that look of smugness again. He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow is the start of fall, which also means the start of the largest harvest of the year.” He started, kicking some chunks of dirt away from beneath his sandal. “It’s a really, really busy time of year. All I do for weeks is work and sleep and ride back and forth between different cities." Hermes back ached just thinking about it. Every year it got harder. "Because it starts tomorrow, that means-” He paused, biting his lip. From the downtrodden look on Charon’s face and the slump of his posture, he had already guessed what Hermes would say. He continued anyways. “That means I won’t be able to come here for a while. I don’t know for how long; it could be a couple of weeks; it could be less - most likely, it will be more.”

I see. Charon said, his hands wringing around the grooves in his oar. We will be apart once more.

Somehow, that wording made the whole situation feel even worse. There was a brief moment Hermes considered saying screw the harvest - but no, he couldn't.

“Yes. It seems so. But I promise you, the moment the harvest is done and everything is sorted and sold and packaged and whatnot, I will be here. And hopefully, you will be as well.” Hermes sad. Charon considered his words for a moment, then bowed his head so deeply Hermes feared his hat would fall off.

On the Styx, you have my word. Charon said - and Hermes wasn't too sure about a lot of things the Chthonic Gods did, but swearing on the very river Charon rowed felt like an awfully serious promise. And even if it wasn't, a promise is a promise, and Charon was a man - being, God, boatman - of his word. Hermes’ smile could have lit up the sky in the middle of the night. He bowed back just as formally, giggling as he did so.

“And my word as well, my good boatman.” He replied - and there was that rolling of the eye again, that odd slide of Charon’s that denoted both exasperation and humor.

When Hermes parted with Charon that night, it was bittersweet. He didn't know when he would see him next, their future interactions uncertain. But as he left, Charon allowed him a long hug, and when he returned home, he still had Charon’s promise held close to his heart. The coming weeks would be hard - they always were. Hermes’ work would be backbreaking and endless, separated from his social life and everything else close to his heart. Even before having Charon in his life, the harvest was a rough time.

But at the end of the tunnel, there was Charon and his vow. And all Hermes could hope was that it would push him through the worst of it.

“What're you thinking about?”

Hermes’ eyes snapped to the boy beside him, who was leaning on an iron-tipped hoe and - truthfully - not being very much help, Ioloas. Younger brother of Ione, the dried fruit vendor, and Iasos, the also a dried fruit vendor but far less kind and helpful, he was a boy of about sixteen and shared his siblings’ ginger hair and freckled face. Since he was twelve, he had helped Hermes with his larger harvests - though it had not been of his own accord. Ioloas' mother was always very persistent that he knew the strain of hard work, just as all her children had. And, well, Hermes could always use the help around that time of year. So he was glad to have an extra pair of strong, capable hands.

Except the boy seemed more keen on talking this year than in the previous ones.

Which, normally, Hermes was all for having a good chat. He loved talking, and he craved social interaction while he was holed away in the fields with the fall harvest. But talking was just prolong their work, and he really wanted to get it over as fast as possible.

(There was no denying why - he wanted to see Charon. Perhaps a couple months before he would have denied it, but was what the point? He wanted to be done faster so he could see his boatman. And that was that.)

“Work is what I am thinking about, which is also what you should be focusing on.” Hermes replied, wincing as he hefted a large bag of golden-colored stalks onto their cart, tying it securely with a cord of rope. While he was excited to see Charon, there were certainly other reasons he wanted to be done as soon as possible - his back ached with the strain of a week of nonstop work, the callouses on his hand had long since cracked and bled, and cracked again, and his tanned skin was peeling endlessly from exposure to so much sun. A fun time he was not having.

Ioloas groaned softly and leaned more weight onto his hoe. “We’ve been goin' for hours; I need a little break.” He pouted. Hermes sighed and brushed the back of a dirty hand across his sweat-soaked forehead. It was true; they had been going for quite a while - Hermes even longer than Ioloas, who didn’t join until the sun was high in the sky, while Hermes had started when there were still stars.

Perhaps a break was in order.

“A break it is, then,” Hermes said, smiling as the young boy lit up. “Let’s go get a drink.”

The two walked to the creek that cut through Hermes’ land, gladly washing their hands and scooping fresh, cool water to their parched lips. All too soon, they would be dirty again - but the brief moment of refreshment would make the rest of the day easier.

As Hermes watched Ioloas happily soaking his feet in the water, memories of his time under Geleon wormed their way unwillingly into his mind. It was hard not to, comparing the moments now and the moments then. Geleon worked him with no remorse, with long, hard days out in the harsh sun, no breaks, and certainly no food until the work was done. Watching the then twelve-year-old Ioloas work, he couldn’t imagine forcing such harsh conditions on such a young child. He made a vow, then and there, to never to treat him as Geleon treated him. Even now, at sixteen, Hermes always, always relented when Ioloas needed a break and gave him food at appropriate times. How Geleon watched Hermes suffer in the fields, crying, begging for a rest-

“So, um- you never told me what you were really thinking about.” Ioloas said, thankfully pulling Hermes from his thoughts before they could spiral into something nasty.

“I know I don't have the best memory, but I think I recall telling you what I was thinking about.” Hermes replied, using his foot to splash Ioloas with water. The young man snickered, splashing him right back.

“Come on, I might be young, but I'm not stupid. I know you weren’t thinking about work.” He said. Hermes’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. He may not remember much of his teenage years besides the harshness of hands and the stress of work - but he certainly was not that perceptive when he was Ioloas’ age. However, he could think of two others who might be planting such thoughts into the young boy’s head.

“Uh-huh. So what have Ione and Iasos been saying about me?” Hermes teased, smirking as Ioloas flustered.

“Nothing! I mean- nothing really, they talk about you sometimes- but only because you come to their stand a lot! But I- they-” The young boy stammered, face flushing with the embarrassment of getting caught. Hermes laughed, interrupting his frantic rambling.

“Hey, hey, I’m just teasing, Ioloas. No harm meant.” Hermes said, stretching his arms towards the deep blue sky. His back cracks and pops, easing some of the pain from his aching spine and stiff joints. Ioloas sighed in relief, leaning back on his hands and swishing his feet in the water.

“Though now that I’ve brought it up, I would be interested to hear what they find so interesting about me.” Hermes wiggled his eyebrows and scooted closer to the young man, who put his head in his hands.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” He grumbled. Hermes nudged him in the side with his elbow, smiling in good nature.

“Come on! You have to tell me something. My curiosity can’t handle it!” He exclaimed. Ioloas cursed under his breath, then looked at Hermes.

“Okay, well Ione- um, she says that you-" Ioloas paused, looking like he would rather dive head first into the creek and bash his head on the rocks than say what he was going to say next. "-look like you’re in love.” He finished, his face and neck turning deep, scarlet red. Hermes’ grin stayed plastered on his face, though underneath it, a current of thoughts swirled about his brain. Were his feelings really that evident to everyone else except him? Ione and Iasos had mentioned him seeming in the clouds - but they hadn’t said anything about love.

Of course, Pylas had said that others in the village thought he had taken a lover. But hearing direct confirmation that they thought he was in love was - odd. Not untrue because he was in love. Deeply, truly, emphatically in love. But it felt strange all the same.

Perhaps Ione and Iasos had been trying to hint at something that Hermes himself hadn’t been able to comprehend at the time.

“Though it's mostly Ione and my parents who talk about it, Iasos doesn’t because he-” Ioloas paused right in his tracks, eyes wide with horror at almost having revealed something - and that peaked Hermes’ curiosity more than anything.

“What? Why doesn’t he talk about it?” He asked, much to the chagrin of the young boy, who shook his head furiously.

“Nothing! Please, please, please forget I said that.” Ioloas begged. Hermes debated for a good long while whether to take mercy on the poor boy who looked like he was about to throw up or to feed his curiosity and insist he was told. After all, why would Iosas waste an opportunity to gossip about Hermes?

“Hm, fine, I’ll let it go.” Said Hermes, much to the boy’s relief. “For now, at least. I will get your secrets out of you yet.” He teased, splashing Ioloas again before standing and stretching out the last of his aches. Ioloas stood as well, shaking water from his hair and slipping his work shoes back on.

“Ready to get back to it?” Hermes asked. Ioloas sighed deeply.

“As ready as I can be, I guess.” He said, the two starting their walk back to the patch of grain they had been harvesting. They were nearly back when Hermes noticed Ioloas had slowed, a frown of conflict pulling at his sun-chapped lips.

“What is it?” Hermes stopped to ask. The young boy flushed again - and Hermes nearly laughed.

Oh, to be a young boy again. So full of false confidence, and yet, so easily embarrassed.

“Sorry, I just- um- are you? In love?” He asked slowly, turning his burning face from Hermes’ view. Hermes faced the young boy; eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“That depends. Are you gonna run off and tell your whole family my answer?” He questioned. Ioloas’s gaze snapped up to Hermes’, eyes wide and hands waving frantically.

“No! No, I wouldn’t- Hermes, I would never-”

Hermes chortled, resting his hands on Ioloas’ shoulders and shaking the poor boy from his panic. “Ioloas! It’s okay! I’m just kidding you - you know that, right?” He asked. Somehow Ioloas looked even more embarrassed, though nodded nonetheless. “You know I don’t really care what other people talk about, even if it's about me. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Ioloas said, taking a deep breath and relaxing his pent-up shoulders. “So, are you?”

Hermes released the boy’s shoulders, sighing deeply. He scratched the back of his head, kicking some dirt beneath his sandal as he considered his options. To tell the truth or keep it obfuscated, now was the time for Hermes to decide. Despite Ioloas’ insurance that he ‘would never’ - he was still a young kid. There was a high chance that whatever Hermes said would be circled around town before he could blink an eye.

And somewhere, deep down, Hermes knew that admitting it to someone other than himself would make it far, far too real.

“....yes, I am.” He replied, continuing their walk, heart thumping against his breastbone.

“Oh." Hermes glanced at Ioloas, who was chewing on his bottom lip. "That’s- good.” He finished awkwardly. Hermes chuckled and nodded. There was a few more minutes of silence as they picked up their tools and returned to work. Though soon enough, Ioloas was speaking up again.

“What does- 'it' feel like?” He asked. The question surprised Hermes, if only because it wasn’t the question he had expected to be asked. Ioloas hadn’t asked who the person Hermes loved was, or where they were, or any other subject that most others would likely be asking. No, he wondered - in a very teenage way - what does being in love feel like?

A strange kid to be sure - but Hermes respected him for it.

“Hm. That’s a tough question.” Hermes said, kneeling and using his sickle to cut and gather a section of crop that was lower to the ground. “It feels like-” Hermes paused, tapping the sharp point of the sickle on the ground as he thought. What did it feel like? Hermes hadn’t ever thought much about it.

And even as he did think about it, how was he supposed to explain to a teenager that love was like the first push-off in a foot race - that moment of high adrenaline, of pure energy, of feeling like flying was no longer an impossibility. It was the excitement of being done with the day, knowing that you have the whole evening stretched out before you, with unlimited paths to take, because the time was yours to do anything with. It was the first sip of cool, refreshing water after a long day spent playing in the sun with your friends, sunburned and grinning ear to ear, feeling like nothing could make the day any better - because it was already perfect in every way.

It was so many things, and yet, none at all. How could one put into words such a simple, complex, terrifying, wonderful feeling?

“It’s- it’s hard to explain. The person I love, they make me feel... supported.”

“Supported?” Ioloas repeated, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he returned to his work.

“They make me feel like who I really am more than anyone else ever has. For the first time, I feel like I can be myself, and nothing less. They listen to all my talking like it’s the only thing they want to be doing. Around them, I feel heard.” Hermes said, ripping up weeds and tossing them away with little thought to where they land.

“Oh. I see, I think. That’s... nice.” Ioloas responded, though Hermes was too distracted by thoughts of Charon to say anything more. By the Gods, he missed him. He had tried his best not to think about the boatman in hopes of staying on task, but now the floodgates had opened, and he was all Hermes could think of.

Hermes looked out at the horizon, where - somewhere in the distance - the temple stood. They couldn't see it from where they were, but Hermes knew exactly how fast he could get there from that spot. He could so easily go visit Charon. Have a nice relaxing evening in the midst of his hard work.

“Hermes? Are you alright?” Asked Ioloas, looking at the man with concern. Hermes shook his head of those thoughts. He would have all the time in the world to visit Charon when the harvest was done. For now, he had a job to do.

“Perfectly fine. Let’s get back to it.”

When Hermes opened his eyes, there was nothing around him but inky blackness. An infinite void that he was unwillingly suspended in. It was silent, but not in a peaceful way. The stillness was suffocating, compressing and squeezing him until no sound or air could escape his lungs. He wanted, more than anything, to talk. To alleviate the painful silence, fill the tightly-wound space - but he couldn't. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

It felt like hours of Hermes’ worst nightmare before the silence finally broke. It began as tiny whispers, small enough that they would have been barely noticeable to anyone except Hermes, who was desperate for any kind of sound. Then the voices were closer. More conspicuous. And for a brief moment, Hermes was ecstatic to have something other than stillness, listening closely to what the whispers might be saying.

“For the love of the Gods boy, can you not just be quiet?”

Hermes’ blood froze at the sound of Geleon’s voice, gruff and clear as day. As if the long-dead man stood before him. And just like that, the voices were no longer a source of comfort or a way to chase away the looming nothingness - they taunted him relentlessly, filling his head with memories he wanted more than anything to avoid.

“Hermes, honey, can you please leave Mommy alone for a little while? She is very tired.”

Oh, Gods. He remembered her voice so clearly.

“How do you talk so much? I could go insane just listening to you!”

One of many people Hermes called a friend. Their comment hurt, but he hadn't said so. Hermes always laughed along with his friends, agreeing that he talked too much, that he could tone it down a bit - but his heart always ached. Why did he need to change?

“Quiet down, would you?”

“Oh, that’s just Hermes! He’s always like that - he’ll talk your ear off if you don’t reign him in!”

They surrounded him, their voices unescapable in the abyss. Even covering his ears didn't help. Their voices sank through his hands like they didn't exist, boring through skin and bone to invade his mind. One after another, a never-ending cycle of words that wounded him. And the worst part of it all - he still couldn't speak. Even in his dream world - because that was certainly what this was - he couldn't (doesn’t?), try to defend himself. He mouthed for the voices to stop, but they didn't heed him. They only got louder.

Hermes, hands still covering his ears, looked wildly around for any sort of escape. He didn't expect to find one, sure that he would be trapped in this nightmare for the rest of his life. Yet there, far off in the darkness, was hope. A faint light, barely a speck in the distance, but there all the same. Hermes’ heart leapt into his throat. Surely, this would be his escape. He started toward it, though moving through the void was hard, like trying to maneuver through thick sludge. He moved with an awkward, half-swimming half-walking motion that brought the light closer so incredibly slowly, inches at a time. Worse still, the voices followed, becoming louder and more forceful as he approached the dawning light.

By the time the light was close enough to shine blindingly in Hermes’ eyes, the voices were a barely intelligible cacophony, each hurtful comment barely recognizable over the next - and yet they were no less panic-inducing. Tears might be rolling down his face, but he couldn't be sure - in the nightmare, he wasn't sure of anything. All he could think about was reaching the light and hoping it would be his escape from this horrid place, from the voices that taunt, tease, and mock. He reached out desperately for the light. Surprisingly, something reached back. A familiar, ring-bearing hand was held out, palm up, waiting so patiently for him. Hermes stretched as far as his arm would go, but his fingertips barely missed those held out to him. He was so, so tired - but it was so close. With one last heave, one final push, he launched forward, grabbing the offered hand.

The void disappeared.

All at once, the darkness around him was gone, replaced by a field of brightly colored flowers and gentle breezes. Hermes took a gasping breath, filling his lungs with the sweet air denied to him in the dark, matterless sludge. The area surrounding him was beautiful. Far better than where he had been before. It was so open and free, like he could run anywhere - though all he truly wanted to do was look at the God standing beside him, still holding his hand.

“Charon.” Hermes could finally speak, his voice soft with admiration and love. The God looked down at him, smiling in his unique, inhuman way. He didn't respond, but he there was need to. Hermes saw all he needed to in his glowing eye, and on his face.

In a blink of an eye, Charon scooped him up so they were face to face, the God holding Hermes with a single arm like he weighed nothing. Even still, Hermes wrapped his strong legs around the God, helping where it likely wasn't needed, because he wanted to. Charon deserved everything from him. Charon’s other hand came up and rested on Hermes' cheek, his thumb stroking the flesh there with a tenderness that made Hermes want to weep after all he had experienced.

“Can I- can I talk? You won’t be angry with me?” Hermes asked, his voice still a whisper. Charon’s stroking briefly stopped, his gaze wandering Hermes' face as he contemplated his words.

Never. Charon responded, his groan rumbling somewhere under Hermes’ thighs still pressed against Charon’s abdomen. Hermes smiled. A tear must fall down his cheek because Charon’s thumb moved once more to brush it away, before leaning in and pressing his forehead to Hermes’. The God’s large hat sheltered them from the gentle sun.

Hermes. Charon said his name with the love and adoration that awake Hermes wanted so desperately to be there. And despite all the things that should have surely woken him before - the voices, the yelling, the mockery, the panic - Hermes started to feel his grasp on the dream fading, his body pulling him to consciousness. He held desperately onto Charon.

“No, no, no- please don’t go. Please stay with me. Don’t leave, please don’t leave. I need you here with me.” Hermes fisted Charon’s robes desperately. Charon shook his head, prying Hermes’ hands off and placing him back down. He held the smaller man’s hands in his own.

Hermes. He said again, his voice so far away. I- Hermes is waking up. -love-

Hermes shot up in his bed, hands patting his blanket wildly, like there was something there to find. It took a moment of looking around his room to realize where he was and that what occurred was a dream.

Oh, but what a dream. Hermes fell back and stared up at the ceiling. The beginning had been horrible, but the ending - the ending all but made up for it. His face heated from his cheeks to his ears as he remembered Charon hoisting him into his arms, holding him like he was something precious. Something he cared for greatly. Hermes turned his face into his feather pillow and let out a little scream, then sighed and turned his gaze back to the ceiling. He stared into the dark, his joy fading into something forlorn.

How badly he wanted to be loved by Charon.

The concept was now invading his dreams, just as it had his daydreams. Picturing the God adoring him had gotten Hermes through the last part of the harvest, when the work was at its hardest and his muscles ached the most. Thoughts of Charon’s large hands wrapping around his waist, his fingers combing through his hair, pulling him close to hug him, Charon kissing him - he didn't even know how Charon would kiss, but he wanted more than anything to find out. He wanted to know what Charon’s love felt like. And the thought of not having that, of being rejected, of never telling Charon and hiding it away - it was torture.

He yearned.

Oh, how he yearned.

When Hermes finally came back to himself, a look outside confirmed it was still a couple of hours until he should be up again. Just a couple more days Hermes reminded himself as he snuggled back under his covers, trying to will himself back to sleep. The harvest had taken so much out of him; the extra rest was needed. And the sooner it was done, the sooner he could see Charon again.

He didn't need much more encouragement than that.

“Looks like that’s it!” Exclaimed Hermes, watching Ioloas load the last bags of grain onto his ox-drawn cart, the old thing on its last leg. It had been in use since long before Hermes came to work for Geleon, and its age showed - wood on the side gates splintering, wheel spokes missing, the bottom worn thin from years of work and sunlight and bugs. Still, it worked - and that was enough for Hermes.

Ioloas hummed in response to Hermes’ comment, the young boy exhausted from just shy of three weeks of work. Hermes could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the way conversation diminished more and more each day. The last couple had been all but silent as they worked, both determined to fast track getting to their much-needed rest.

Butt finally, it was done. Hermes could return to his usual work, and Ioloas was free of his obligation to help. Hermes knew that, no matter how well they got along, there were many others things the teenager would rather be doing than working in the fields - nonetheless he appreciated the help.

And he was sure to make the boy’s time worth it.

“Done.” Ioloas announced, standing by Hermes so the two could marvel at the sight before them: the last cart of crops to be delivered. They sat silently for a long while, trying their hardest not to sway drowsily on their aching feet. Hermes glanced over to the young boy - who looked five seconds away from falling to the ground - and reached into his sewn-on pocket.

“Here. Thanks for your help.” He said, holding out a fist toward the boy. Ioloas sluggishly raised his hand, though when the coins in Hermes' hand fell onto his palm, his eyes bulged from his head.

“Um- Hermes, I don't think this is right.” Ioloas said, holding the coins back out to him. Hermes glanced at the coins from the corner of his eye, then smiled and looked back to Ioloas’s wide-eyed confusion.

“Nope. Looks about right to me.” Hermes replied, only raising the young boy's confusion.

“But- this is- three drachmae? Normally you- this is too much; I can’t accept it.” He demanded, still trying to offer the coins out for Hermes to take. Hermes laughed and closed Ioloas’ hands around them, patting his shoulder as he did.

“You can, though!” He exclaimed. His smile softened at the conflict on Ioloas’ face, torn between the manners his mother taught him and what he could use the money on. “I have really appreciated your help these last few years, Ioloas.” He continued, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “You have saved me- Gods, probably hundreds of hours of work. And for that, both me and my back thank you.”

Ioloas laughed tightly, holding the coins to his chest. Hermes grinned. “So, I won’t take no for an answer. In fact, if you try to give it back, I will be very offended-" Ioloas opened his mouth, though Hermes was quick to interrupt, "-as will I be if your mom tries to take it and give it back." He clarified. Iola's' mouth shut. "So I suggest you put it away and say nothing more on the matter. Yes?” Ioloas contemplated this momentarily, then nodded and tucked the coins away. “Yeah- yes. Um... thank you, Hermes.” He said, rubbing his upper arm awkwardly.

“Ah, ah! I said nothing more.” Hermes smirked. Ioloas laughed, wisely sealing his lips closed.

Shortly after, Hermes bid the boy farewell, commanding him to get lots and lots of rest, then loaded himself into the cart to deliver the last of his crop. By the time payment was sorted, the bags handed over, and Hermes’ cart was cleaned and stored for (hopefully) another use - it was late into the night. With dirty feet and aching bones, Hermes dragged himself into bed, intent on getting a good, long night of sleep.

His mind had other plans.

Within only a couple hours, Hermes was wide awake, staring out his window and thinking of nothing else but Charon. He tried his hardest to go back to sleep, but Charon’s name bounced around in his head like a maddening, unending echo. Charon. Charon. Charon - it was a siren call he could not resist. It lured him in with promises of gentle touches and witty banter, pulling him from bed no matter how much his body protested.

Within moments he was dressed and walking to the temple, the faintest sliver of sunrise peaking from beyond the horizon. He knew he would regret leaving his bed - sooner or later, exhaustion was going to hit him like a bull - but that was easily ignored when he thought about seeing Charon.

By the time he reached the temple, the sun had halfway cleared the mountain range to the east, giving some much-needed warmth to the morning air. It was the awkward time of year where early mornings and late evenings were cool and crisp, while afternoons were still warmed by the waning summer sun. But Hermes didn't let the chill stop him.

“Charon! My friend!” He called out as he jogged up to the dilapidated structure.

He didn't need to say anything else - the boatman appeared immediately before Hermes. In his chest Hermes' heart leapt, excitement speeding him up to a full run, despite the protests of his creaking bones and aching muscles. Charon waved with his free hand as Hermes approached, and in a moment of mindless emotion, he launched himself at Charon, wrapping the God in a tight hug. He smiled as he buried his face into Charon’s robes, inhaling the uniquely Charon smell. By the Gods, he had missed it. Missed him.

And as Hermes stood there hugging Charon, his heart trying its hardest to beat out of his chest, the warmth of love and happiness flooding his body - he realized there was nowhere he would rather be. He loved Charon so much. So very much - so much that reuniting with him after such a - relatively - short time apart felt like the first gasp of air after being plunged underwater. He wanted to spend every moment with Charon, talking and hugging and kissing - oh, how badly he wanted to kiss Charon. He wanted the smoke flowing from the God’s mouth in his lungs; he wanted to know if it was as sweet as he imagined, if-

Hello, Hermes. Charon greeted in return, wrapping his arms comfortably around the small man. Heat flushed Hermes’ cheeks, realizing far too late he should have asked Charon for permission before hugging him. Still, the God was holding on just as tightly as Hermes held him - so he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. It was selfish, but Hermes would gladly take that title if it meant getting a hug from Charon.

“Hello.” Hermes replied, his voice muffled by Charon’s clothes. He tilted his head up to look at the God’s face, his chin resting below Charon’s chest. It was a face so unnaturally beautiful in ways beyond Hermes’ comprehension, a face he would gladly kneel in worship for, for even just a glimpse. Charon would hate that, so Hermes never would - but his adoration ran that deep.

You look tired. Charon commented. He rested a hand on Hermes’ cheek, and the smaller man nearly melted.

“That bad?” Hermes joked, grinning lazily when Charon chuckled. It took everything in him to hide the disappointment when the God pulled his hand away, and then the rest of him, taking a step back from Hermes.

It is not bad. Charon clarified, tilting his head to get a better look at Hermes. It is you, looking like you need sleep.

“That I do.” Hermes said, leaning against the temple in an attempt to get some weight off his feet.

Was your harvest successful? Asked Charon, head tilting. Hermes silently cursed the God for his adorable mannerisms and their ability to make his heart beat out of his chest.

“The work was long and difficult, and my blisters have blisters, and my shoulders have probably peeled enough skin to make a whole other me - but we got it done.” Hermes said, grinning proudly at his achievement.

We?

Only then did Hermes realize he had never once mentioned Ioloas. Considering how he had told Charon about everything else in his life, it took him by surprise. “We being me and the kid I employ to help me. Whenever I have these large harvests, I always get a little help from the son of some acquaintances of mine. His name is Ioloas. Super sweet kid, always nervous about most things, and pretty scatterbrained, but a hard worker. Definitely a lifesaver during the harder times.” Hermes explained.

I see. Charon said, pausing for a moment to consider this information. I am glad you have help and that you got it done.

“You and I both, boatman. My joints will be glad to have some time off from work.” Hermes said, slowly making his way to the ground. His muscles whined and complained the whole way down, but when he was finally sat, he sighed in relief.

Are you alright? Charon asked, looming over Hermes with a concern that caused a small quiver in his poor mortal heart.

“I’m fine, no need to worry. Just a little tired and sore; I’ll be back to running races in no time, you’ll see.” Hermes responded, smiling up the God, who accepted the answer with a small amount of skepticism.

For a while, they sat in silence, Hermes too tired to come up with a topic of conversation, and Charon rarely one to start a conversation. And despite usually hating silences that dragged on for too long, Hermes found himself sinking into it. Even in the cold of Charon’s proximity, the God’s presence made him warm. The glow of trust and companionship settled into his tired bones until his body became completely lax.

Even still, he couldn't refrain from at least trying to talk occasionally.

“Ioloas’s sister and brother are the ones who make the dried fruit.” He said, his words slurring together in exhaustion. “Their parents own a fruit orchard. Used to give me a sack of blackberries when I was younger whenever I passed by.”

They are kind people, then?" Charon asked. At some point, he had moved closer to Hermes. He was still standing, ever the strong, unyielding monolith, though now both their backs were facing the temple. Hermes nodded, his eyes slipping closed for a moment or two.

“Very nice. ‘Cept Iasos. He’s teased me ever since we were kids.” He said, blinking rapidly to try and rid the sleepiness from his eyes. It worked for a moment.

I recall your stories. Hermes smiled lazily. Of course Charon would remember them - he always listened to Hermes’ stories with rapt attention, like they were the most interesting stories to have ever been told.

“Don’t mind him much now, really. He still teases like a kid, even now that we’re adults. But I'm sure he'll grow out of that-” Hermes paused for a large yawn. “-grow out of that eventually.”

Charon didn't respond, and they fell back into silence. Hermes’ tired eyes slid over to his side, where ends of Charon's robes just barely brushed against his arm. If he really wanted, he could reach out and grab onto them. He wouldn’t, of course - he doubted Charon would take kindly to that. But still, being so close to the God, and knowing that he could do that, filled his stomach with butterflies. Maybe if he asked, Charon would give him another hug before he left. He seemed like he was getting more used to them. When he-

Hermes.

Hermes gasped and sat up, glancing around wildly in confusion. He looked up and saw Charon staring down at him, his gaze full of concern - and also, a sweet, caring softness. Though, if that was Hermes imagining things, he wasn't sure.

You fell asleep.

He did?

“I didI?” Hermes asked, holding his spinning head. “I- apologize, my good boatman. I guess I am more tired than I thought.”

You should return home. Charon said, gesturing the end of his oar towards the direction of said home. Disappointment flooded his chest. He wanted to spend more time with Charon. They had been apart for so many weeks, and they had barely had that long together. But he knew what Charon said was true. And who was he to disobey a God?

“You’re probably right. I should go get some rest.” Hermes said, standing on wobbly legs. Charon’s hand flinched on his oar, as if he had been tempted to reach out and steady Hermes - though perhaps that was wishful thinking on Hermes’ part. Instead, the God simply nodded.

“Right. I will see you later, then.” Hermes said, voice deflated. He turned his back to Charon, intent on starting his walk back home while trying to quell his disappointment.

Hermes. Charon's voice called out in his mind, halting him in his tracks. Hermes craned his head back to look at the God, who still stood in the same spot. I will be here when you return. On the Styx, you have my word. He said, repeating the same words he said before they parted before the harvest. That same promise to be there when Hermes came. Hermes stared at him intently for a moment, then a large grin pulled at his dried and cracked lips.

“I’ll be seeing you, then.” He said. Charon nodded - then he was gone, the gentle mid-fall, mid-morning heat returning to the air. Hermes resumed his walk back, now with far more pep in his step.

When Hermes woke, it was dark out. Moonlight shone through his window, stars still gleaming brightly. He groaned. All the awful delirium that came from sleeping way too long - head spinning, mouth is dry, confusion of who or where he was - haunted him. And yet, when consciousness finally did returned, he felt something - odd. A nagging at the back of his brain that he couldn't shake away.

He sat up and stared at the moon for a while, trying both to decipher the feeling and make it go away so he could get more sleep. But it wouldn't leave. It lingered, only growing stronger and stronger the more he tried to push it away. It felt like an anchor on his heart, a desperation for something he wasn't sure of, a longing-

Charon.

The weight of it hit Hermes like a bull. More than sleep, more than anything in the world, he wanted to see Charon. Which, was ridiculous, wasn't it? He had just seen him a few hours before, and Charon promised he would be there when Hermes next ventured to the temple. But waiting for the evening to come - or even for morning - suddenly felt like too long. He wanted- needed to see him again. The three weeks apart were enough.

Throwing his legs off his bed, Hermes rushed about, throwing on clothes better suited for walking in the dead of night. For all he knew, Charon wouldn't even be able to come to him at such an odd time of night - but he wanted to go anyways.

The walk there was a quick one, lit entirely by the large moon and the stars. His need to see Charon hurried him - until a weed wrapped around his sandal and tripped him, only just able to stop his face from hitting the ground. Then it was slower, if only a little. He approached the temple, intent on calling out to Charon - only to run full force into a bulwark of cold. He froze in place.

Charon was already there.

It was hard to spot him at first, with it being so dark - the God’s robes blended effortlessly into the inky blackness of night. But then Hermes spotted his glowing eye and iridescent smoke on the side opposite of the temple from him, and his heart leapt into his throat. They were both there. Somehow, someway, they both were there, despite knowing the low chances that the other would show up.

“Charon?” Hermes called out softly into the night, getting as close to startling the God as one likely ever would get. Charon turned to face him with some level of surprise, hands relaxing his grip around his oar once he saw Hermes standing there. He breathed out, smoke flurrying in the air and drifting to the ground. The two sat in an intense, silent staring contest for a good while, both equally confused by the turn of events.

A smile cracked at Hermes' lips, growing from a slight uptick of the lips to a fully-toothed grin. Soon enough, he was giggling, then laughing, then doubling over in hysterics. “Charon!” He exclaimed, gasping for air through his fits of laughter. The God tiled his head in question, though smiled just as brightly. “I can’t believe- I thought- you’re here! Even though we just- wow!”

It took a long while for his laughter to calm down, but once it did, he found himself laying on the ground, staring at the stars with a hand resting across his belly. He still could not believe that Charon was there. What were the chances they both were to show up there, in the middle of the night, with no prior discussion to do so? Charon made his promise that they would see each other again, but there had been no plans for when.

Certainly, was a sign.

The harsh grip of nervousness suddenly clenched at Hermes’ stomach. Certainly, it was a sign - but was Hermes ready for what such a sign entailed? What it meant for him to do? He wasn't sure. Nervous eyes stared intently at a particularly bright star right above his head, hoping that it would give him the answers.

There was little surprise when a shadow fell over him. Charon looked down at him, blocking his view of the star with height and smoke, questioning. Hermes smiled and patted the ground next to him.

“Join me, boss? It’s not often we get to gaze at the night sky together.” He requested. Charon glanced at the spot by Hermes, contemplating, before reaching up and removing his large hat from his head. Hermes’ smile dropped, staring in awe and adoration at Charon. Beautiful couldn't begin to describe him. Illuminated by the stars, features unfettered by his hat, he was radiant. Sublime. Entirely ethereal and utterly breathtaking. Hermes couldn't take his eyes off the God as his bare feet touch the grass, his large body slowly lowering until he was lying beside Hermes. Somewhere along the way, his oar had disappeared, his hat placed nearby. There was only an inch or two between them - for Hermes, it was an inch or two too many.

He tried to concentrate on the stars. He really did. But every time he looked at them, it was only a few moments later that his gaze was drawn back to the God beside him. His pale hair was fanned out around his head, pulling Hermes’ hungry eyes to a view of his neck, a spot usually so hidden, before sliding back up to his face. Thankfully, Charon didn't seem to notice his staring - or at the very least, he was pretending not to notice. Hermes wasn't sure which of those options he preferred.

Surprisingly, it was Charon who broke the silence.

It is not often I have seen the stars. He commented, the light of his eye focused on the sky. They are beautiful.

“Yes, they are.” Hermes whispered, unable to will his eyes away from Charon. He smiled gently, tenderly. “Everyone always says that when the Gods place the stars in the sky, they form them to take the shapes of great heroes or others of importance. And that they are put there to honor them.” He asserted, finally tearing his eyes away from Charon and looking at all the clusters of lights above them. “I can’t say I know many of them - so maybe there is even one for you up there, boatman of the Underworld.”

Charon snorted at that, his head shaking once firmly. I am of no importance; to the Gods or the mortals. He replied. His tone didn't indicate any sort of feelings other than neutrality at that statement, but it still made Hermes sad. Charon was important. Hermes hadn't thought it when they first met, but now, he knew it to be so. The more he had learned about Charon’s role in the Underworld, the more he had come to understand the significance of it. And more than that - he was important to Hermes.

That had to count for something, right?

“They should make one for you, then. I will have it commissioned and put up in the night sky as soon as possible. I’ll send a message directly to Zeus if I have to.” He joked, though there was a tenderness to it that he couldn't possibly keep out of his voice.

Charon laughed. Never subject yourself to that willingly. He warned, and Hermes laughed along with him.

Once more, they descended into silence - though it was no longer peaceful for Hermes. Thoughts and feelings tumbled over each other in his mind, each fighting to be at the forefront. Eventually, one battled valiantly enough to exit his mouth.

“We've misjudged you.” Hermes said, barely above a whisper. Charon’s head turned to him, though Hermes didn't need to face him to see the confused look the God was sending him - he could feel it burning the side of his head. Instead, Hermes kept his eyes on the stars, watching their slow crawl across the sky. “Us mortals, I mean. Everyone is always so scared about dying and having an encounter with the boatman of the Underworld. Really, with anyone in the Underworld, but you seem to be at the forefront of many minds.” Hermes cleared his throat, stopping his rambling right there before it could go further and stray him from his point.

“I just think that if they knew how kind and gentle you are, they wouldn’t be scared. If they knew you - the real you, not the you they've all made up - they would worship you like you deserve.” Hermes swallowed deeply, cheeks dusted with red. “Put you in the stars, like you deserve.”

When Hermes turned his head to face Charon, he saw the God was staring at him, watching him intently. The expression on his face - Hermes could only dare to hope, but by the Gods, did it look like love. It was a stare of gentle fondness that shook Hermes to his core. Like the sun, it was too blinding to look at straight on - and yet, like an eclipse, he couldn't force his eyes away. Quite the opposite, as he found himself drawing closer, so close that Charon’s smoke surrounded his face, caressing it before evaporating into nothing. He paused, unsure and not wanting to make Charon uncomfortable - but as Hermes had, the God drifted closer. They weren't quite touching but were close enough that Hermes shivered in desperate anticipation.

“Charon, I-” Hermes tried, his voice getting caught somewhere deep in his throat when he looked Charon directly in his eyes, one glowing, one a void. He swallowed and tried again. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve enjoyed the time I have spent with you these last months. It has made me the happiest I’ve ever been - you have made me the happiest I’ve ever been. You stand by me in a way that no one ever has before. And this might be sudden and definitely foolish, but I have come to- to really care for you.”

No, he couldn't halfway this. It was now or never - Lady Aphrodite protect him. Hermes’ hand started a slow, hesitant trek up to rest on Charon’s cheek, to feel his skin, to caress his face as he had wanted for weeks and weeks. “Charon, I love-”

In the blink of an eye, Charon was gone, standing once more with his back turned to Hermes. It happened so suddenly that Hermes’ hand stayed suspended in the air for a few seconds before his mind caught up with the realization that Charon was no longer there. An overwhelming hurt ached in his heart, his hand clenching around the now vacant space in front of him. He sat and watched Charon stoop down to pick up his hat, placing it with some hurry back on his head. Confusion and sadness stabbed painfully at Hermes' chest. That was as clear of a rejection as Hermes’ had or would ever get.

But no, surely- that couldn't be. Hermes wasn't the sharpest stick of the bunch, but the way Charon looked at him - so soft and adoring, like Hermes was the most valuable, precious piece of gold - surely he couldn't be making it up in his head. Surely, what had been contorting the God’s beautiful face couldn't be anything other than love.

“Charon! Charon, wait- wait, hold on!” Hermes called out to the retreating God, awkwardly stumbling from leaning on his side to kneeling, his hand desperately stretched out to the God. Charon briefly glanced back at him, his face contorted in pain. It broke Hermes' heart, how saddened he looked. Hermes kept his hand held out.

“Charon-”

With no warning, he was gone. Disappeared into the night sky just as his smoke ddid, leaving Hermes alone in the middle of a dark field. Faint warmth returned to the air and prickled at his skin as Hermes stared dumbly at the spot Charon had been just moments before, the only remnant of him being the patch of now dead grass from under his body. So recently that the outer blades were still in the process of withering. And now he was gone. Tears welled up in Hermes’ eyes, sliding silently down his cheeks and wetting the ground.

What did he just do?

It was a stupid question - he tried to confess his feelings and got rejected. Definitively, absolutely, emphatically rejected. Hermes wasn't even sure how much worse it could get than the person you’re confessing to running away.

But- it didn't make sense. There, in the dark, lying side by side, he was so sure there was at least a little something there. A smidge of mutual attraction. The faint curiosity of possible romantic feelings.

It seemed, in the end, that Hermes was wrong. There wasn't anything there - and he just made the biggest fool of himself. Soft sobs shook his shoulders, trying to use the back of his hand to wipe the tears away. It was a fruitless endeavor. He only succeeded in smearing them across his face until his cheeks were rubbed raw.

Unsure of what else to do, he went home. The whole way back, he was numb, staring off into the distance as he replayed Charon running from him over and over. It was a wonder how he made it back to his house - but he managed. When he made it inside, he didn't even bother to kick his sandals off before sliding into bed, though it was a fool's errand to think that he might get any sleep. He ran through everything once, twice, over and over, trying to decipher what had gone wrong and why it happened so fast. But most of all, he couldn't get Charon’s wounded face out of his head.

They could talk about it, Hermes decided some hours later. When the sun was setting in the evening, and he ventured to the temple as always, they could have a proper discussion about what happened. Whether it would have a happy ending was another story - but regardless, everything would be solved when they talked tomorrow. It must be. He couldn't bear to lose Charon; he would rather shove his feelings into a dark hole in his mind, never to see the light of day again before risking his friendship with Charon. They just needed to talk about it.

Everything would be fine.

Chapter Text

Charon didn't return.

The day after Hermes’ failed love confession, he arrived at the temple with the intention of fixing what he had broken. If Charon didn't return his feelings- well, Hermes could deal with that in time. Perhaps they were better off as friends, anyhow. Really, for a God and mortal, it was the most sane, rational option not to be together romantically. Being in a relationship with an immortal being, surely it would only end horribly - was what Hermes tried to convince himself of, desperately, like the lovesick fool he was. As if telling himself he could never be happy with someone so kind, funny, and gentle as Charon would help soothe his pain.

But in the end, Hermes didn't get his closure, because Charon never showed up. He waited in vain by the temple well until the stars are out before admitting to himself that the God isn’t coming. As he made his way home carefully through the dark, a sick feeling settled in his stomach, worried he had chased away his best friend with a single moment of weakness.

Even still, he tried to keep his head up. Surely, it was bad timing, and Charon would be there tomorrow.

Though he had faith he would see Charon again - because surely, the God wouldn’t abandon him - the next day, Hermes brought two pieces of gold, laying them out in hopes of summoning Charon. It was a practice he hadn't indulged in for quite awhile, but, desperate times and all that. And when it didn't work, and Hermes was left waiting for hours once more, he called out for his Chthonic companion, voice tainted with the beginnings of panic. He apologized out loud to the God, telling him he wanted to talk it all through.

He left the temple with no answer, head hung and back hunched from the weight of his heart in his chest.

Every day after was the same. Hermes returned to the shrine for weeks, leaving more gold with each visit, hoping he would come back to find even the slightest sign Charon had visited.

There never was.

No matter how many shiny offerings Hermes left, no matter how desperately he called out for Charon, or how hard he cleaned the small interior of his temple - the God didn't return. All he was left with was a spotless but vacant temple and a growing pile of gold that was entirely worthless because it wasn't bringing Charon to him.

Hermes became apathetic. Indifferent. If the townsfolk whispered before about his change in mood, now they all but yelled about it straight to his face. What happened to Hermes, they wondered. He used to be so full of life, they said. It’s like his body is here, but his mind has gone elsewhere, they speculated. Sometimes it was even right over Hermes’ shoulders, like he was so far gone that he couldn't hear them.

He could.

Pylas tried to speak with him in the same manner as he had previously, but Hermes brushed him off with a disarming smile and an assurance that he was quite fine and didn't need a talking to. Which was a lie. He could very much use a person to vent to about pushing his closest friend and confidant away, who just so happens also to be the love of his life, and how being stabbed in the chest would feel far less painful than dealing with the thought of never seeing him again. But that, of course, came with the admission that said person was a God - and not just any God, not a small, minor God, oh no, that would be far too simple. He would have to say that if said God was unwilling to see him, the only way Hermes could ever speak to him again was if he took the permanent trip downstairs, as he was the ferryman of the Underworld himself. The Stygian boatman. Deliverer of souls.

And Gods knew he didn't have any sort of mental capacity for dealing with that conversation.

And so, with no way to vent his feelings, no person he could talk to about everything, Hermes threw himself back into work. He returned to how he was before Charon came into his life - but worse. He spent hours in his fields, in his garden, in town, only to spend his nights sitting by the temple, talking nonsense in hopes that Charon might be listening, wherever he may be.

It was odd - Hermes thought to himself three weeks into Charon’s absence - how much his life had come to revolve around the God. Without him in his life, everything had become so dull and colorless, entirely uninviting. And while that scared Hermes (because since when has he depended so much on another being to see the good in life?) it also made him realize just how deep his feelings run. His body, his mind, his soul ached for Charon in ways he couldn't even begin to fathom. How he longed to hear that voice, like rocks striking together, a sound so shocking and grating, and yet, he couldn't help but want to hear it over and over and over. Or to feel Charon’s skin, so cool to the touch and almost translucent in certain spots, especially near the wrists where Hermes could see- something flowing through the God’s veins. It certainly wasn't blood. No, it was probably something far more divine.

The longer he wet without even a trace of Charon, the more he realized he might never get the chance to ask what it was.

Desperation took hold of Hermes, digging its jagged claws into his heart and tearing it painfully from his chest. He would give up everything in his life - his farm, his friends, his gold - just to see Charon one second more.

And what an ugly thought that was.

Nights were the worst of the new torture Hermes found himself in. When he slept, he dreamt of eyes staring into his own, one glowing and one an empty void, yet both still full of the love and adoration he so desperately wanted to see. He dreamt of soft groans in his ear, translating into tender whispers of devotion. Sometimes, all he could hear was Charon’s laugh, rough around more than just the edges but all-encompassing in a way that felt comforting even if it really shouldn’t be, like being wrapped in a blanket that was warm and cozy if only because it was on fire.

But by far the worst was when his dreams were filled with cool hands tenderly touching him, holding him, loving him. Palms resting so heart-breakingly gentle on his face, thumbs caressing tanned and reddened cheeks. Hands clasping hands, giving three distinct, gentle squeezes. Pale, ringed fingers tightly clutching bare hips and thighs until their prints were left engraved in skin. Fingertips tracing from his neck, down, down, down, until Hermes awoke crying out in desperate need, his flushed body quivering and aching for what he left behind.

After those dreams, he didn't get much more sleep.

On one such night - when Hermes was awoken panting and wanting with fading recollection of being held both lovingly and carnally against a strong chest - he cried. Truthfully, he had cried many times during this ordeal, but this time felt different in such a horrible, terrible way. When he woke with the false memory of loving and being loved so wholly in return, he sobbed at the unfairness of it all. He let himself mourn those feelings, because even if they were only in his dreams, and even if they were only for a few moments - to him, they felt real.

It hurt. Every moment hurt. He loved Charon so damn much - but what was he to do? Charon hadn't returned, and eventually, Hermes knew he would have to face that he might never see his beloved companion again. Eventually, he would have to stop sulking and move on. Eventually, he would have to stop waiting at the temple like a widow draped over her husband’s grave and get on with life.

When that would be - when the pain would dull enough for that to be - Hermes wasn't sure.

He hoped it would be soon.

The roaring of wind and pounding of rain woke Hermes. His eyes burned with exhaustion as he wrenched them open, his body stiff and unmoving, a feeling like a boulder pressing him down into his bed. The weeks of barely any sleep had taken their toll - he deserved one good night of sleep among the nights of restless tossing and turning. And yet, even when he closed his eyes to try and fall back asleep, he couldn't. Something about the torrent of rain hitting the roof of dried clay above him created an itch at the back of his mind - a wandering thought wanting to push forward, but his mind’s hazy delirium couldn't seem to bring it into focus.

Groaning, Hermes dragged himself out of bed, stumbling blearily to his window to look out of the rain, for lack of anything better to do while his mind wouldn't let him sleep. He rubbed his eyes until the blurriness clears, then even further until stars sparkled in his vision. It took a moment for the view outside his window to come fully into focus - but when it did, a vague sense of dread overwhelmed him.

It's really coming down, he mused, pressing his palm against the, frankly, filthy glass of his window (he hadn't had much time - or will - to clean recently). And, truly, it was coming down - the dirt path just outside the window had become thick mud and anything beyond that Hermes couldn't see past the sheets of rain. Luckily his house was protected from downpours like this or-

The temple.

A spike of fear pierced Hermes’ chest. Panic invaded the fuzzy haze of his sleep-deprived brain, mixing to create a perfect storm of senseless turmoil and terror. The thought that had been trying to make itself known wasn't a thought at all, but rather, a memory - a memory of his first attempt building the temple, the lackluster construct being inundated by rain until nothing but a pile of mud and chunks of clay remained.

Without a second thought to stop and throw something on other than the perizoma he wore to bed, Hermes was out the door.

The cold rain and biting wind did nothing to unscramble his chaotic thoughts, focused solely on getting to the temple. No idea was there about what he would do once he arrived - he just knew he needed to be there.

He lost his way a few times, the wind blowing a constant spray of rainwater into his eyes and knocking over the landmarks he used to guide himself. But when he eventually found his way to the temple - hair stuck to his forehead and body shaking from the rain pelting his bare chest - he discovered his worst nightmare happening right before his eyes. The temple, roughly built as it was, had begun to melt away under the harsh touch of nature.

Hermes rushed towards it, unsure what he would do but knowing he must do something. The temple roof had fallen, burying the altar and the bowl that sat atop it. The candles and desperate offerings Hermes had left were gone entirely, likely never to be seen again. They didn't matter. All that mattered to Hermes was the thought his delirious mind had created that if the temple was destroyed, so too would be his link to Charon.

And that was not an option.

Hermes desperately braced his arms against the southernmost wall of the temple, trying to hold up what little support it has left. It didn't help, his efforts for nothing as his hands sunk into the softening wall, clumps of mud sliding wetly down his arms. It took a couple of tries to yank his hands free from the wall, only succeeding in further tearing down his work. Warm tears mixed with cold rain as Hermes leaned down to try and collect the larger chunks of clay and mud and place them back into a vague temple shape.

It was as he was lifting a larger piece of clay that he slipped. His arms waved in desperate circles to try and keep himself upright as his bare feet slid effortlessly through the mud, squeezing his eyes shut tight in the face of his inevitable fall.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was staring up at threatening clouds, rain pouring with unrelenting force onto his face. A strike of lightning flashed across the sky, accompanied by a rumble of thunder that shook the ground beneath his quaking body. His mind told him to get up, that with every moment he laid there, he was losing Charon, his best friend, his most trusted and beloved companion - but his body didn't move. With one single slip, barely a few seconds, all the fight that had been there had left. And as the rain pouring onto his head cleared his mind, he realized just how stupid he was being. What could he have done, anyhow? He should go home and forget about the temple - because it wasn't like Charon was going to come even if he had saved it, somehow.

But he couldn't. He couldn't leave. And he couldn't just - forget. How could he forget all of the beautiful memories the temple had brought him? Letting it fall symbolized the end of those good memories - and Hermes couldn't bear that thought.

All he could do was sob, using a mud-caked hand to try and wipe away the tears, smearing silt and crumbled bits of clay on his face.

“Charon.” He whimpered the God’s name, hoping now more than ever that he was listening. The rainwater threatened to flood his mouth, cutting off the words he doubted anyone was even listening to.

“I don’t know if you can hear me - I would like to think maybe you are. But I- fuck, I miss you.” He lamented. “I’m starting to realize that coming out here was so- so stupid.” He continued, laughing humorlessly as he stared up at the sky. “Ah, well. Just another crazy Hermes idea, right? Made without any thought, just like always. Forever leaping in with no planning or care, that’s me. Maybe you don’t even care if the temple falls. Maybe-” Hermes sucked in a stuttered breath, bottom lip quivering. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter.”

Tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes, sliding in hot trails down his temples. The thought that even if Charon could still come to Hermes without his sad excuse of a temple, he simply wouldn’t - it hurt. He pressed the palm of his hands hard into his eyes to try and stop the tears. He sucks in a breath. “I just want you to know that I really am sorry if I- upset you. I care for you, Charon, and I would never want to do that.” He said, slowly lowering his hands, pressing them into the squishy earth below his fingers. He closed his eyes and let out a shuddered breath. “Never.”

He laid there, exhaustion weighing down his body. With his mind finally clearing, he knew he couldn't stay in the rain much longer, or illness would set in. But even still, he couldn't find the energy - or the will - to stand. All he could do was lay there in the ruins of his temple and lament.

The rain changed, the air turning chill. Hermes’ eyes fluttered open as the rain turned to sleet, the hot breaths from his mouth turning into mist as they hit the air. And despite his body beginning to shake from the sudden influx of cold - he knew what it meant. He threw himself wildly to his knees, looking behind him and up, up, up.

Charon.

The God stood there, looking down at Hermes with worry and concern. The sleet didn't touch him, as if an invisible force surrounded his body, protecting him from the elements. For a moment, Hermes was certain that he wasn't real, that he had already taken ill and his sick mind was teasing him with what he desperately longed for. He reached a hand forward slowly, hesitantly, until his fingers brushed the soft material of Charon’s cloak. He clutched it in his hand, burning hot tears welling up in his eyes.

“You’re here.” He whispered. Charon nodded once in affirmation, seemingly uncertain himself. Hermes took in a sharp breath, feeling so many things at once. Happiness was there - but in front of it was shame and embarrassment. Letting go of the God’s cloak, his eyes fall to the ground. He slowly stood, wrapping his arms around himself, an act to both quell his shivering and hide his shame.

“I-”

Hermes couldn't get another word in. The world shifted as Charon leaned down and wrapped his arms around him, hoisting him into his arms like he weighed nothing. He pressed the smaller man firmly against his body, one arm hooked under his bare thighs to keep him held up, the other reaching up to hold the back of Hermes’ head comfortingly against his shoulder, the pauldrons on them noticeably absent. And all Hermes could do was sit there and let it happen wide eyes, gobsmacked that Charon was really, truly there, and that the first touch he had ever initiated with Hermes was a hug, of all things. And it was a very, very good hug, too, the perfect amount of gentle pressure.

Slowly and hesitantly, Hermes unfurled his arms from where they were crushed between his body and Charon’s chest and hugged the boatman back, repositioning his head until his face was turned to Charon’s pale neck.

“I love you, Charon.” Hermes said, barely above a whisper. The only indication that Charon heard was how his arms tensed around him - but he didn't let go, so Hermes continued. “I- I need to get it out once. And when I’m done, you can reject me again, and I promise I won’t take it so harshly. I just-” Hermes sniffled, burying his face into Charon’s neck, inhaling the scent that he was so confident he would never smell again. “I love you. I adore you. I think you are the most wonderful person - God, deity - I have ever or will ever know. And I know I am a fool for rushing here to try and save the temple, but I was so- desperate not to lose you. I thought if- if the temple fell, I would never see you again - and I couldn’t handle that. I could never. You mean so much to me.”

Charon didn't respond, but Hermes could tell by the turn of his head he was looking at whatever dilapidated pieces remain of the temple. He held Hermes tighter, groaning softly in his ear.

There is no need for a temple, Hermes. I will always come for you, whether it stands or not. He said, nudging Hermes so he would look him in the eyes. It was an offer that Hermes could no turn down. Being closer to Charon’s face than ever, he was keen to look his fill. And it seemed the God was happy to do the same, staring at Hermes like he was the sunrise after an eternal night. He leaned in even closer to Hermes, past his face, until he was groaning softly in his ear.

I love you.

Hermes’ fingers gripped the exposed cloth on Charon’s shoulders until his knuckles turned white. Tears poured down his cheeks, his head shaking in disbelief. It didn't make sense. Hadn’t Charon rejected him? Why was he saying he reciprocates Hermes' love when Hermes had been so sure he didn’t? Why was he saying he would always come for Hermes when he ran and never responded when Hermes called for him? It made no sense, absolutely none - but his heart leapt in joy at those words all the same.

“Oh- Charon, please don’t- please don’t say you’re teasing me; I don’t think I could bear it after hearing that.” Hermes begged, pulling back to look the God in the face once more, his heart beating out of his chest. Never would he think that Charon could do something so cruel, but he feared his ears were playing tricks and deceiving him with words he so desperately yearned for.

Charon’s hand came up to rest on Hermes’ cheek, just as Hermes had tried to do that night so many weeks ago. When the contact was finally made, Hermes sucked in a gasp of air his lungs desperately burned for. He leaned into the touch, rubbing his cheek against the God’s palm.

Never. Charon said, leaning his forehead against Hermes’, his hat shielding them from the outside world.

“But I- I don't understand. I don't understand-” Hermes whispered, interrupted by a sound of quiet discontent from Charon.

Because you are you, Hermes Charon responded so gently, nuzzling his head against Hermes’. He melted in the God’s arms. No being, immortal or not, could ever compare. No one has ever done for me what you have. You brought light to my monotonous existence. How could I not adore you?

Hermes’ heart stuttered, hearing that. It was too much. Too many feelings overwhelmed him, and between that and the crying, he was gasping for air. He could barely even think, let alone speak.

And yet, he still found a way. "While you were gone- Charon, I couldn't function. I couldn't eat, I barely slept- it's like, when you left, I was lost, and I no longer knew how to be myself." He said, holding tightly onto Charon's robes. "And I don't think I could do it again. So please- please, please, don't leave me.”

Charon’s gentle expression fell into one of despair. Never. He repeated, then amended, Never again. Forgive me, Hermes. Please forgive me. Hermes wilted at the sound of Charon begging. Never had he heard the God so broken, so desperate. Whatever had forced him to run that night so many weeks ago; there was a deep-rooted guilt about it.

That was for another time. Right then, there was something Hermes needed to do that he had longed for since he discovered his feelings.

Kissing Charon was - strange. Not bad, but strange. It was the feeling of thinly stretched skin beneath his hands as he pulled Charon’s face to his own. It was the pressing of plush lips against hard teeth. And it was the burn of lavender smoke invading Hermes’ lungs when he breathed in. A brief coughing fit forced him away, but he was diving in for more before Charon could express any kind of concern. The smoke was its own addiction, though it was nothing compared to the kiss of a God.

His God.

Hermes kissed every part of Charon’s face, always ending back up at his mouth, taking the God for all he was worth - and Charon gave as well as he took, even if he couldn't kiss in the sense Hermes was used to. He squeezed and caressed Hermes’ thigh, grazed his bared teeth gently down his neck, curled his free hand around Hermes’ head to hold him in place. It was everything Hermes had imagined, and yet, somehow, more. Being held up like he weighed the same as a feather, shielded from the rain by whatever divine force protected Charon, kissing and being kissed so thoroughly - it was too much. Hermes was overwhelmed with happiness and excitement and joy and want.

In the end, it was his exhaustion that forced him to stop. With adrenaline fading, all he could feel was the overpowering need for sleep. Charon seemed aware of this, shifting Hermes to hold him like a groom would hold his bride, tucking Hermes’ head under his chin and rocking him like a child.

Sleep, little bird.” Charon commanded softly, as if Hermes could do anything else - though the nickname did make him smile. He briefly peeled his eyes open to look at Charon.

“Will we- when I wake up, will you be here? Will we talk?” Hermes asked, his words all melding together. Charon was silent momentarily, nearly long enough for Hermes to fall asleep before he heard his answer.

I may not be there when you wake, but I will be there as soon as you call. Then we will talk.” He said, and Hermes decided he was fine with that answer. Sleep now.

Moments after, he did as his God commanded and allowed sleep to take hold of him.

When Hermes woke, he was in bed, staring at an all-too-familiar ceiling.

He jolted up, looking around wildly as the memory of the previous night came to him. Or- was it a memory? Was it all just a dream? Panic surges through his veins, the painful thought that all he remembered - the rain, the temple falling, the confession, the kisses - were his mind again tormenting him with dreams of what he desperately wanted.

His breathing picked up pace, near hyperventilation - until he spotted something resting on the edge of his bed, undisturbed by his restless sleeping patterns. With shaking hands, he reached out and picked up the first of two objects - a dead flower. The petals and leaves were withered and brown, and the slightest movement caused them to break from the stem and fall onto his bed, crumbling away to nothing. Next to it was a neatly folded piece of parchment, which Hermes was quick to scoop up and unfold. He was greeted with familiar, barely legible handwriting.

‘Remember my promise. - Charon.’

Hermes smiled, which quickly turned into a bout of joyful laughter. He laughed and laughed, falling back into bed and clutching the letter tightly to his chest. It was real! It all happened - the rain, the temple falling, the confession, the kisses - all of it.

Charon loved him.

And somehow got him back home and into his bed, which was for Hermes to contemplate later.

Hermes threw himself from bed with renewed energy, quickly pulling on the first clothes he saw. As much as he wanted to run to what was left of the temple so he could see Charon right that second, there were, unfortunately, a few things he had to do first. He made his way around outside his house, checking to ensure nothing was broken or in disrepair. There were branches, grass, and mud flung everywhere, which would undoubtedly be a pain to clean, but otherwise, everything was still in the same shape as the day before. A survey of his fields showed they were a little worse for wear - but nothing Hermes couldn't fix. If there was one good thing about all his extra time working, the time and effort put in helped the tilled ground to hold firm.

Only then did he make his way out to see Charon.

Just as it had been the night before, the temple was completely destroyed. All that was left was a pile of mud and clay, a stone altar, and a cracked bowl. And yet - Hermes was at peace with that. In a way, it was almost symbolic - no longer was Hermes worshipping Charon as the God he was, but rather, as a friend and - hopefully - lover. That word filled Hermes’ stomach with butterflies, unable to stop the large grin that pulled at his lips.

“Charon-”

The God appeared instantly, standing tall, intimidating, and so beautiful before Hermes. It happened so fast; he wondered if he had been waiting for Hermes to call for him. For a few moments, they were silent, just staring at each other - Hermes with a large smile, Charon with concern. Are you alright? The God asked, leaning down to inspect Hermes.

“I'm fine, boss. Alive and well.” Hermes comforted him with a gentle smile. “Are you? Alright, I mean.” He asked. Charon nodded, nervously shifting his oar from one hand to the other. Hermes could see his hesitancy clear as day, which just wouldn't do. He reached forward and placed a hand on the God’s, stopping his nervous habit.

“I think I was promised a talk, yes?” He said, smiling and rubbing his thumb comfortingly along Charon’s fingers, brushing against the cold metal of his rings. Charon’s gaze locked briefly on their hands before rising to Hermes’ eyes. He nodded, shifting his oar to his other hand so their hands can be properly entwined.

Yes. The night I fled, I must apologize. Charon said, bowing his head, though he was tall enough that Hermes could still see his face. It was cowardice.

“But why? What do you have to be afraid of?” Hermes asked, thoroughly confused. A God being afraid, it just didn't sound right - especially not a God as intimidating as Charon. He shouldn’t fear anything, let alone Hermes and their feelings for one another.

What I know of mortals are their deaths. How easily they injure; how fast they perish. You are all fragile in a way I cannot comprehend. It distresses me. Hurting you is- Charon paused, unsure how to continue. He took a moment before he spoke again. Unfathomable. Unacceptable. And also, a possibility. It happens far too often with the Olympians and their mortal lovers. He said, bitterness in his voice when mentioning the Gods above. Before Hermes could step in, he continued. Rather than face that possibility, I fled.

“What made you come back, then?” Hermes questioned, drawing closer to Charon. The God looked distraught.

I could hear your sorrow and anguish, even from the Underworld. In my pursuit to shield you from harm, I realized I only caused you more. Charon lamented, his voice warbling in misery. For that, I truly, deeply apologize.

As Hermes listened to Charon speak, he marveled at how... mortal he sounded, for lack of a better word. That a God of the Underworld, ferryman of Stygian rivers, had weaknesses and insecurities that he willingly exposed to Hermes. It made him smile. Not because the insecurities brought him joy, but because of the thought and compassion behind them.

“You are already forgiven, my lovely boatman.” Hermes said, squeezing Charon’s hand. “I am just glad you are here now and that we can clear things up.” Charon looked at him in surprise, then confusion, then joy, squeezing his hand in return.

They fell into a comfortable yet jittery silence. Hermes wasn't sure what was going on in Charon’s head; all he knew was that he couldn't stop thinking about the previous night. The way Charon held him up, a strong arm tucked under his thighs, caressing the sensitive skin there. How he begged for forgiveness, his gaze so full of desperation and love that Hermes could barely look directly at it, and yet, also couldn’t look away. And then there were the kisses they shared. Kisses so unlike any Hermes had ever had before or would ever have again - and yet they felt so right.

And he wanted more.

He stared at Charon for a bit too long as he thought about it, causing the God to shift nervously. Hermes smiled, stepping closer to him.

“Tell me again, please.” He asked in a hushed voice, shifting their clasped hands so Hermes could rub his cheek against Charon’s exposed palm. “While I am awake and coherent, I want to hear it again.”

Charon looked at Hermes with an adoration that stole his breath away, made only worse when the God slowly lowered his large body to a kneel, not taking his eyes away from Hermes’ for even a second. On his knees, Charon was still taller than him, but Hermes couldn't find any words to make a comment about it. All he could think about was Charon and how beautifully he knelt before him - brought to his knees in devotion, as if it was Hermes who was meant to be worshiped. And oh, what a terrible, wonderful feeling. One that Hermes shouldn’t be taking pleasure in, and yet, he couldn't help it. It was too powerful. Too alluring.

I love you. Charon said. And though he asked for those words, it was almost too much - Hermes’ knees wobbled, only held up when Charon’s large hands slowly, hesitantly, grasped his hips. Despite how freely he touched Hermes the night before, Charon seemed to have returned to more tentative touches, looking vaguely uncertain as to whether they were wanted are not. Hermes just barely refrained from grabbing his shoulders (now in reach) and shaking some sense into him.

Dear Gods, was his touch wanted. More than wanted - it was desired, needed, craved for.

“Again, please.” Hermes begged, reaching up and threading his fingers through Charon’s hair as he had wanted to do since he first saw the God. It was soft, just as he knew it would be, brushing against his skin like fine strands of silk. Charon’s grip tightened on his hips, drawing Hermes in until their bodies were flush together.

I love you, Hermes.

Hermes leaned in until their foreheads were pressed together, greedily inhaling the smoke from Charon’s mouth. He breathed and held it in until his lungs burn, then exhaled it slowly so the purple misted past his own lips, just as it did for Charon. The sight seems to shake the boatman, his hands constricting even tighter on Hermes’ hips.

(Deep down, he hoped there were marks left on his skin from Charon’s fingers. Indentations of love, marring his skin with affection.)

Is that enough? Charon asked, his eye staring hard into Hermes’ own. A large, sly grin stretched across Hermes’ face as his fingers threaded through the hair at the base of Charon’s neck, tightening ever so slightly. A groan, wordless and soft, cut behind Charon’s teeth.

“Never.” He said, then pressed his lips to Charon’s mouth. His eyes closed as he kissed the boatman’s face, still getting use to his inability to kiss back but unwilling to stop just because of a bit of inexperience. His hands clasped Charon’s face to hold him still, pressing kiss upon kiss to every exposed section of placid skin. With every brush of his lips, every peck to the forehead, and nuzzle of the cheek, Hermes learned how best to adore Charon, just as he had wanted to for ages.

It was Charon who eventually pulled away, squeezing Hermes’ hips in sympathy when a whine left the back of his throat. It took him a moment to come back to Earth when his head and heart were both high on Olympus, but when he did, he quickly noticed the strained expression on Charon’s face.

“Are you- are you alright, Charon?” Hermes asked, eyebrows scrunching in concern. Charon’s fingers clenched and unclenched nervously against his hips.

Overwhelmed. Charon said, his voice taking on a strange, inhuman quality. Red colored Hermes’ cheeks.

“Right, right, of course. Sorry.” He said, pulling back so Charon can have his space. Though even then, he couldn't bring himself to pull entirely away - not when the God was still kneeling so tantalizingly before him. Luckily, Charon was unwilling to let him completely remove himself, either.

No need to apologize, little bird. Charon said, bringing his hands down from Hermes’ hips to grab his hands, thumbs caressing the tanned skin of the back of them. There was that nickname again - he wasn't sure he had actually heard it, as tired as he had been when it had been spoken - but there it was.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had someone call me something like that before - why ‘little bird’?” Hermes asked, a blush coloring the apples of his cheeks.

You are small. Charon started - and Hermes’ smile dropped into a pout.

“That’s easy for someone who towers above everything to say.” Hermes remarked back. Charon’s mouth stretched into a grin.

You are small. He said again. Hermes stuck his tongue out childishly at him, but it did little to deter the God. And you remind me of a bird - excitable, always chirping, constantly on the move. Charon leaned closer to Hermes. Adorable.

Hermes sputtered at that. With how reserved Charon was, he wouldn’t think him so easily able to dish out such compliments, but it seemed he thought wrong.

“You-” Hermes whined, pulling his hands away to cover his face. “You can’t just go around saying those kinds of things, Charon. I don’t know if I can handle it.” Hermes said, muffled by his palms. Charon chuckled, patting Hermes’ curls gently with sympathy. He pouted at the God, trying to will the blush away - a nearly impossible feat with the gentle way Charon was looking at him.

They sat in comfortable silence until Hermes started fidgeting nervously with unspoken thoughts.

What is it? Charon asked, head tilting.

“Oh- I just-” Hermes cleared his throat of the words caught in it. “Wanted to know how you got me back to my house and into my bed. I didn’t think you could leave the temple- though now that I’m saying it, it sounds a little ridiculous. I’m sure you can go wherever you want.” Hermes said, laughing awkwardly. Charon nodded sagely.

It is possible for me to go beyond here, yes. But this world is not my own, so I don’t often explore it. My brother is up here enough for all of us in the Underworld. He stated, a sharp reminder to Hermes that the brother of the man he loved so dearly was Death himself - and that was a strange feeling he didn't think he’d ever get over. But after the last few weeks he'd had, he didn't have the mind or emotional capacity to handle thinking about that, so he decided to go right back to ignoring it.

“I see, I see. Well, even so, I hope you know you are always welcome to, um- in my house. My door is always open for you.” Hermes said, realizing halfway through the sentence that it sounded like like a proposition to his dear boatman, which- maybe he was a little, but that hadn’t been the intention. “If you want, that is.” He clarified. Charon thought about the offer for a moment.

Perhaps. Was all he said, but it was enough to make Hermes’ heart rattle in his chest. The thought of Charon in his house, amongst his things, brushing the top of his ceiling, sitting in his chairs, laying in his bed- Hermes glanced away, stifling a giggle and suppressing a blush at the thought of Charon in his small bed.

He may need to invest in some larger chairs and also maybe, possibly, a larger bed.

“So long as you know the offer is there, my enchanting associate.” Hermes said, trying to regain some ground in this conversation. It did wonders, the boatman flustering at the compliment. He shifted his oar between them to hide his face - but that just wouldn't do. Hermes peaked around it, smiling up at the bashful God.

You don’t need to say such things. Charon muttered, much to Hermes’ confusion.

“What do you mean?” He asked, laying his hand over Charon’s larger one that was grasping his oar. The action startled the boatman, staring intently at their hands both clasped around the oar’s shaft. It took a moment for him to find his words again.

<>Calling me ‘enchanting’ and ‘lovely.’ You don’t need to do such things. He replied, only confusing Hermes further.

“Why would I not? Of course, I don’t “need” to, but I want to.” He said, and now it was Charon’s turn to look confused. His face scrunched in conflict, his hand under Hermes’ wringing nervously at his oar.

I don’t look like you. Or like other Gods. Charon said. And while Hermes was well aware that Charon didn't look like him, the part about not looking like other Gods took him by surprise. Did Charon not look like his brothers and sisters? His mother?

Though, that was hardly what he was focusing on.

“That doesn’t matter to me.” Hermes said, stepping back into Charon’s space. “Your appearance was... surprising, at first, I will say - but I have long since grown to love it. To me, you are-” Hermes paused, flushing from his ears all the way down to his chest. “No one could ever compare to you. You are the most captivating being I have ever laid eyes on.”

Charon’s face was alarmingly blank as he looked at Hermes. That can’t be true. He said, tone flat, but teetering on the edge of something.

“It is completely true. You are beautiful, Charon.” Hermes confirmed. He was close to making a joke about never lying about something so serious when a flood of smoke pours from Charon’s mouth, inundating the area around them in a sea of purple. Hermes gasped, his knees wobbling as the smoke surrounded his body, surrounding him in a gentle warmth. The tendrils wrapped around his wrists and ankles, caressing his face and curling around the back of his neck. It felt so nice, so right, so lovely - it was almost too much to bear.

With great determination, Hermes forced his hand up to try and wave the smoke away so he could see Charon clearly. When the air was clear, the boatman had his face covered with his free hand, hiding his expression from Hermes. A smile cracked on Hermes’ face as he watched the scene unfold, Charon groaning without meaning into his palm.

“Don’t tell me you’re flustered, my dearest boatman.” Hermes said, stepping closer to try and peer beneath Charon’s hand. The God turned his back to Hermes, waving him away with his oar, which only egged on the smaller man. “You are! I’ll say, I wasn’t sure such a tall, intimidating God like yourself could fluster, but it seems there is still much I need to learn about you.”

Charon grumbled, looking down at Hermes with a glare that would likely send most people running. Not Hermes, though. His smile only grew, latching onto Charon’s free arm.

“I’ll just have to compliment you lots so I can learn more, my enchanting companion. My lovely associate. My captivating-” Hermes’ long list of endearments was muffled when Charon placed a large hand over his mouth, covering the whole lower half of his face. He smiled behind Charon’s large palm, face flushing at having the God initiate physical contact so easily.

Are you done now? Charon asked, trying to act miffed, but Hermes could see and hear the warmth and tenderness behind it. He shrugged, then pointed to the hand covering his mouth. Surprisingly, the God didn't pull it away, just slid it so he was cupping Hermes’ cheek. And that - did some funny things to Hermes’ heart.

“For now. But you know me - I’ll never pass up an opportunity to tease.” Hermes said, nuzzling Charon’s hand with his face. The God seemed to accept this - or was just too distracted by Hermes to comment further. Regardless, Hermes was glad to settle into silence, enjoying the weight of Charon’s loving touch gently curled on his cheek.

Where do we go from here? Charon asked, breaking Hermes’ peace. He sighed deeply, pulling his face away from Charon’s hand as much as it pained him to do so. He had a feeling that was coming. It was a good question - a valid concern to have. But it was one Hermes didn't want to deal with right then. All he wanted was to cuddle up with Charon, talk about everything and nothing, and maybe exchange some more kisses in between it all.

“Do we have to talk about that right now?” Hermes asked. Charon looks mildly concerned, so Hermes was quick to continue. “I mean- I know it is something we will need to talk about sooner than later. Whatever this may be going towards, what our relationship will be. It needs to be talked about. I know that. I do.” He said, shuffling from one leg to the other. “But- right now, I’m just enjoying your company and feeling so happy that you feel how I do.” He explained, allowing Charon to relax once more.

“So maybe, for today, we can just... pretend we don’t have anything serious to talk about? We can be happy for right now and then figure everything else out later?” He asked hopefully, looking up at Charon with pleading eyes. The God considered this for a while, then nodded in agreement.

For today. He confirmed. Hermes smiled, plopping himself onto a bit of dry ground and patting the spot next to him.

“Let’s get to it then. I have so much to tell you about.” Hermes said. Charon’s oar disappeared from his hand, settling beside Hermes with a grace the towering boatman shouldn’t have. As there had always been, there was a small gap between them - though unlike before, Hermes wasn't quick to accept it. He scooted over, leaning his head on Charon’s upper arm, practically draping himself access the God. Besides a small tensing of the muscles (Charon's large arm muscles, which Hermes could feel even through the God’s robes, flexing and unflexing as if nervous to be supporting Hermes’ weight), he gave no indication that he wanted Hermes to move.

Happy and blissfully ignoring the serious talk the two needed to have, Hermes filled Charon in on everything he missed while the two were apart. He didn't miss a single detail, the most insignificant parts of a story never skipped. Hours and hours they spent in each other’s company, the same as before, and yet, so different. Now as they spoke, there were hands linked together, brushes of lips and teeth across skin, gentle exploration of fingertips across whatever exposed skin was to be found.

Their time together was bliss. Even more than that, it was happiness. It was a paradise far greater than any Charon could ever deliver him to.

It was home.