Work Text:
The stench of death and gore was as familiar as a child’s favored blanket to Ares. He wore it not with pride, nor with shame, simply as an aspect of his being. The one he sought would not judge him for it.
This was a personal delivery. A delivery that, yes, Hermes or Thanatos could have made, but that Ares wanted to. The crop of souls was nothing special, but the objective was.
The objective, as it often was, was Charon. Dropping off the souls for his beloved for the express purpose to see his beloved. Why, how could a god resist?
His sword clanked against his armor, rhythmically timed with each step. It would have been easy enough to simply appear at the River Styx, but Ares enjoyed walking as the mortals did. He found it gave him time to think about that which was important. And, in the case of this visit, that was only Charon.
The bag over his shoulder carried nearly no weight to him, yet it brimmed with souls. The tie cut off the sounds of their voices, allowing Ares a mostly silent trip.
His beloved’s face hung heavily in his mind. The face that only he was allowed to see. Charon, a rather shy one, constantly putting on the facade of a skeletal face, only showed the true handsome countenance below to a select few.
Dionysus would have called Ares prideful, greedy, all sorts of things for the pleasure he took in being one of those few. But Ares could hardly help himself. Perhaps he was greedy. There were far worse things to be, he mused.
It was on a delivery just like this that Ares had seen his face for the first time, by complete accident. And it was at that moment Ares decided every time he could, he would return to the river to see the Stygian Boatman. For it was not long after that Ares became acquainted with an emotion rather new to him.
Love. Each stage more intoxicating than the last. And ever merciless Aphrodite had noticed instantly, choosing to bring it up at every opportunity.
Her comments barely bothered him. After all, how could his heart be burdened by mockery if it were already taken away from him, in the palm of his beloved’s hand?
The face Charon made when Ares told him of his feelings would forever lurk behind his eyelids. Pure fluster, smoke spilling out of his mouth, subconsciously forming heart shapes. It said everything Ares needed to know.
Their first kiss tasted of smoke.
Though many of the Styx riverbanks were quite hospitable, even beautiful, Ares’ favored meeting spot was dark, utterly untouched by mortal hands.
Through gnarled branches and an ashen path, over stone-ridden ridges and through snow drifts the size of which daunted most mortals with sense. None of these things were enough to slow Ares, not even on foot. It was perfect.
The bubbling of the river and the steady clanking of his sword was more than enough company as he made his way to the meeting spot. In preparation, Ares tugged out one strand of his hair.
Charon was a busy man. He lurked nowhere, needing to be summoned. Ares was no exception, though he was for most other things.
The river bubbled not too far from Ares, this section oddly quiet, removed from the anguished screams of the dead. Ares had plenty of that in his bag, and for once, delighted in the idea of quiet with his beloved.
The small parting of the trees leading to a sandy knoll by the river was almost invisible to those who were unaware of its existence. Ares stepped through the barren trees, carefully, and drew to a halt beside the river.
The babbling of Styx in all of its comfort was no match for the one he associated with it. Though he would never admit it to a soul, the excitement at seeing Charon again itched at his veins. With how busy they both were, it was difficult to find time to be together.
Ares knelt down, dropping the strand of his hair into the river. Instead of floating, it sank below the water, absorbing with the distant ringing of a bell, a slight sizzling in the water.
Within mere moments of returning to his feet, the familiar groan echoed around the forest, the sound of an oar through the water gently paddling to greet him.
Charon’s face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, his strong arms dutifully rowing his vessel downstream. Smoke trailed behind him, subconsciously forming heart patterns. It only served to cause an ache in Ares’s chest.
Gentle eyes of amethyst set into a scarred, pale face stared out at him, a matching smile gracing Charon’s perfect mouth.
He pulled to a stop next to the shore, allowing Ares to step closer. As Ares' mouth opened to speak, it filled with smoke. Soft, warm lips met his, wasting not a moment of time.
Ares’s bag, utterly forgotten, dropped to the ground.
Though the kiss didn’t last long, it was enough to send shivers down Ares’s spine, his lips tingling from the contact, biting the skin to simulate the feeling.
Charon’s hands cupped Ares’s face, thumbs running under Ares’s eyes. Charon’s palms, warm and rough from calluses, moulded perfectly to his cheeks. Ares couldn’t help but smile.
“Hello to you, too.” He greeted with a low chuckle. Charon let out a groan, one that vaguely sounded of concern.
One of his hands dipped to Ares’s jaw, one finger grazing across the shallow cut Ares had received on his neck, so shallow he could no longer even feel it.
“This?” He laid his palm over Charon’s bony knuckles. “Nothing to trouble yourself over. I lost myself in the melee, that is all.”
Charon was having none of it. He dropped his hold for a moment, bending to reach his own bag of endless supplies, and rummaged around for a moment. Ares could only look on in ill-concealed fondness.
Smoke curled around his form, wrapping around him similarly to his lover’s embrace. The scent of it would cling to his armor for hours. The scent of burnt wood and nectar, intermingling in only the most pleasant mix.
Charon finally produced a squat, crystalline purple container, the contents of which were mostly obscured. He rose to his full height and opened the container, a pungent smell immediately wafting into the air. Ares wrinkled his nose, turning his head away.
“Is this really necessary?”
Charon grunted in response. He took hold of Ares’s chin, tilting his head to the side with a pat to ensure it would stay in place. Ares only had to wait a moment before a light stinging hit his skin, barely enough to hurt.
“Need I remind you that I am no mortal?” But he made no attempt to stop Charon’s care.
Charon wiped his hand on his robe, smearing light green starkly across the black cloth. He tucked the container back into his bag and turned Ares’s face back to him. Ares grabbed his arms before he could pull away. Charon’s lips twisted into a smile, eyes visibly softening as he met Ares’s gaze.
“Your concern is the most exquisite offering bestowed upon me, my love.”
Smoke encircled his wrists, accompanied with a soft groan. Though the exact meaning would forever be lost on Ares, he could interpret it well enough. He sighed, bowing his head.
“I know. You have my sincere apologies. We spend so little time together.” He pulled one of Charon’s hands to rest over his heart. Though Charon could not feel the warmth of skin through the armor, Ares hoped he would understand the sentiment. “I vow to you that one day, I will spirit you away from these dreadful responsibilities of yours. Surely, my uncle can survive without his boatman for one day.”
The changes in Charon’s expression were never dramatic, the subtlest differences speaking volumes. When his eyes ever so slightly changed, Ares noticed.
The idea pleased him.
“And for the record,” Ares bent, retrieving his discarded bag, holding it out for Charon. “I haven’t wasted your time with my arrival.”
Charon growled, a sign of displeasure -- surely at the phrasing -- but accepted the bag nonetheless. He tossed it carelessly onto the back of his boat. He nodded, slowly, tipping his hat.
“No need to thank me. I would rather anger my father than arrive empty handed.”
Despite the need to return to the battlefield, Ares made no move to do so, instead relishing in Charon’s touch on his neck.
Charon leaned in, pressing his forehead to Ares’s. His eyes fluttered closed, every long eyelash visible.
Through the contact, Ares could divine his exact meaning with no words necessary and reciprocated, gently. A silent vow to return, to sustain no further injury.
A vow to come home.
For the final time, Charon broke away, bending to retrieve something from his bag. He produced a pendant of the deepest obsidian, hung on a black chain.
He placed the pendant around Ares’s neck, a stark black against the gold of his armor. Ares couldn’t help his impulse to tease.
“What do I owe you?”
Quick as a flash, Charon drew him back in for a searing kiss. It was regrettably short, only the barest whisper of Charon’s tongue before it was over.
With hesitation in every step, Charon mounted his boat once more, raising his hand in a small wave. As he moved, a veil cast itself over his face, altering the soft features of Ares’s beloved into the eerie guise of a skeleton.
“I will return to you, my love.” Ares vowed. Charon nodded, smoke forming a heart shape in the air.
He watched with an ever growing ache in his chest as Charon rowed down the river, turning away from him.
He reached up to clasp his hand around the pendant, finding it strangely warm to the touch. The smile appeared on his face before he could stop it.
He would make good on his promise. One day for just Charon and himself. But for the time being, he turned his back to the river, taking only a moment to prepare.
Ares returned to battle.