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"Make a wish,"
The blond coos, void-esque eyes peering right back into the weary eyes that wince to merely perceive the entity. Shirano notes how he's mimicked his appearance, had fun with the appearance of a holy being that scintillates and glimmers like nothing else; a beautiful falsification to feed the appetite of somebody who admires the image of themself that gazes back in a reflection– He could never quite share the same sentiment, face blindness put aside. Now that he was in the vast expanse of emptiness, somewhere neither light nor dark, yet somehow not dim– He found the space far more fitting a description of hell as the Christian gods would have it, because you could always learn to love warmth and harshness and everything that pricks at your skin. He knows he has. To have nothing and everything all at once is to delude yourself, and that is a nightmare he would never know to grow used to. So he supposed that he was grateful for the offer by the god he had learned to shake hands with many a time before, regardless of intention.
"...You're granting me a wish,"
He started, voice echoing despite his quiet mumble. The wings of his companion flutter about, and the eyes scattered across his copied body stare right into him. They blink, while the ones attached to Onari's face does not. He stares. Stares in a way perfectly fitting of the description of uncanny. His voice had wavered ever so slightly, trembling in disbelief– All that suffering and sacrifice, all to be rewarded? That wasn't how he was taught death would be like. It was honourable to suffer. Was it not?
"Of course,"
Laughter trickles out his mouth, as if he'd made a stand-up joke worthy of a comedians grin and charisma in a late night bar after a few paid-for drinks.
"You kept your deal. Might as well reward you, no? Look at how far you've gotten! All you've done for your people– I'd say it was admirable if I really cared, but it was fun watching you. You're a good pass-time, no matter which incarnation."
"Have you met me before, then?"
"Hmmm. Mayhaps,"
He shrugs, and his flowing hair in spite of the lack of wind responds when he twirls playfully, wrapping around his body as though he were underwater only to undo itself and flutter back into place.
"I've lost track already. Rest assured, I know you when I see you. We're tied together, so don't you worry about straying too far from me. I'll find you. Like I always do."
"...I can have any wish I want?"
Shirano lowered his gaze to the floor, or- Wherever it was that kept him standing upright. The lack of people rendered his perfect demeanor useless, so there wasn't much of a need to look him in the eye as he spoke, nor was there a need to puff out his chest and stand tall like he was confident in himself no matter what. His thoughts raced- He thought of how he could help his people, his kingdom- His death did nothing but inconvenience the many families and children that looked to him to keep their lives afloat. A final sacrifice would be kind, it would feel less selfish. But what did he get out of it? Maybe shallow reassurance that he didn't burden them as much. But even a fool like him knew that a starving man would never be filled with a single meal.
And then his thoughts switched to his own life, devoid of his people. Marinisha. The man he had devoted all of himself to, the man he pressed soft kisses onto when he woke up, the man he'd learned to sacrifice everything for- Oh, how he'd bled for him. How the dreary nights of reliving a childhood shared with him haunted his dreams, whispered into his ears and disoriented him enough to find the year printed clearly on his calendar as a foul lie. How his heart raced in terror at the thought of not having provided enough– He's seen him cry, just as he had when their languages weren't lined up, broken sentences of harsh-accented English drowned out by sobs and wails of agony when their parents could not be who they were meant to be. The way he held him as though they were still the same lonely children in that worn down Manor, mind perpetually stuck in an eternity of time that had already passed; how he held him late at night, trying to control his breathing as to not tremble with his beloved's head to his chest, eyes pinned to the door as he expected a man to burst into the room and yell and scream– How he helped him eat when his appetite betrayed him, just as he snuck in food for him late in the night when he'd been starved of supper– Fear was sewn into every muscle in his body, and even when his mind was barely present, they moved to squeeze his hands, moved to let his tongue speak words he was starving to hear–
'It's alright. You're safe now, nobody will hurt you. I'm right here. Nobody will touch you as long as I'm here.'
He remembered how every day was a day he staggered through to see him smile. Even with an open wound, he dressed Marinisha's own, reassuring him with the sweet nothings he had never quite heard meaningfully. 'I'm here. It's the present day, you're safe. We can move forward and be happy. I'm going to make sure you're safe. I'm going to protect you.'
They say it is the healers hands that are stained with the most blood.
He could barely wash it off even if he tried.
Recalling the late nights he spent alone as his work separated them, he remembered the shrill cold digging into every pore of flesh there could be, and how his head would spin, and suddenly he was back in those same hallways, creaky wooden floorboards beneath his feet as he ventured the hellscape he had learned to navigate. He would be back home, where love was a show of sacrifice and bloodshed instead of gentle hands and light dancing across ones eyes– He had learned to bare his teeth and clench his fists. He wasn't ever sure if he had stopped doing so. His knuckles are white, and his muscles are sore. Exhaustion wracks him to his core; and a wish pops into his mind.
His love for him will always be eternal, immortalized through the ghosts that have met the edge of his sword. They wail in the language of Shirano's love, brutal and merciless behind a veil of well-intentioned drive.
"...Can I whisper my wish to you?"
The words come out quiet, and asking for permission in such a way remind him of picking at scars and waiting for a cold voice to authorize him to do so.
"Pff. Go ahead,"
Onari gives a snide smirk. It doesn't exactly matter much to Shirano as he steps forward and leans his head close by the crook of his neck, hands hovered around his ear like a new story shared around the playground during recess.
"I wish that me and Marinisha never come back."
The wish catches Onari off guard rather visibly- He pulls away, staring at the mortal with a puzzled look. That was the last thing he expected him to say– The very opposite, actually. He'd prepared for a thousand mocking remarks he could make to a wish that was somewhere along the lines of 'I wish we were both happy in the next life', but now he was asking for this?
"...You sure you said that right?"
"Yeah,"
He replies simply.
"I want you to get rid of us. I don't want to come back. Not with him."
"Do you hate him?"
Shirano laughs, and he could almost wipe a tear from his eye. His laughter trails off into a heavy sigh, and his fingers reach for the golden locket just beneath his turtleneck that has the photo of his beloved. His husband.
"No, I don't think I ever could."
"..Then why?"
He stayed silent. Pursed his lips to speak, before correcting the words he was to utter.
"I think I've had enough of it all."
Onari stares at him in disbelief. Circles him for a moment, but settles down and looks away- A small hum of curious acknowledgement leave his lips and he nods.
"..Alright, I can do th-"
"I want to be safe."
"..."
"I want to feel safe."
Shirano is well aware of the bewilderment on his face. He understood him, really- What would a god of destruction know of his experience? Even if Onari had stayed by his side, he was ultimately his time bomb, awaiting for this very moment. And he no longer wanted to live in the past, hell– he didn't want to live at all. He'd reached his limit, and he was done. Tired. Death is a pretty little thing that works as a self service to those whose lives were determined by a set of confinements tailored to their wrists and ankles.
That is what death is to Shirano.
Even if it is eternal in that way, he could care less.
He's dragging Marinisha down with him, for the off chance that somebody would love him as he had, and the cycle would repeat again. He never wanted such a thing to happen.
"You're odd, even when you haven't anything to lose."
"Did I ever really gain anything?"
Shirano outstretched his hand, left up in the air as the entity contemplates for a moment. A wry chuckle leaves his lips, dark and scheming– Their deal is solidified by a shake of the hand, and soon, Shirano–
Ceases to exist.
And so, two gods are born; a god that shines bright as a star, guiding those with light, and a god whose hands determine whether the cat in the box is dead or alive. In the end, they will meet again, and Onari will watch the infatuation in their eyes spark once more.
After all, their existence is nothing but memories.