Work Text:
That night, the world felt suspended—no burdens, no missions, no fate hanging over their heads. Just the two of them, alone in their own sacred space. The moonlight spilled through the wide-open windows of the lodge, illuminating the room with a soft, ethereal glow. Shamane lay beside 6, propped up on one elbow, his dark eyes tracing every line and curve of the man who rested beneath him. His breath was slow and reverent, as though afraid that speaking too loudly might break the spell of the moment.
6’s skin glowed under the silver light, pale and flawless, each muscle a testament to years of discipline. His form was taut yet elegant, every movement of his chest as he breathed deeply reminding Shamane of statues he had seen long ago in temples—works of art carved by hands more skilled than mortal. But none of those statues had ever captured what lay before him now.
“You would put the finest sculptors to shame,” Shamane said softly, his voice hushed in awe. “Even if the gods themselves had carved you, I don’t think they could have made anything so perfect.” He reached out, fingers gently grazing the plane of 6’s shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, as if to memorize him by touch. “You’d outshine Apollo himself.”
At that, 6’s eyes opened, the glint of amusement flickering through his silver-blue irises. His lips curled into that rare, sardonic smile of his—the one that seemed so small yet held a world of mischief.
“Careful, Shamane,” he said dryly, though his tone was playful. “The gods have struck people down for less insolence. They might not appreciate you comparing me to their golden boy.” Shamane chuckled, the low rumble vibrating through his chest. “Then let them be jealous. I’m not afraid of any divine wrath.”
6 raised an eyebrow. “Not even Zeus with his thunderbolts?” Shamane chuckled, the sound warm and deep like a spring. “If he tries, I’ll tell him I have my own set of gods. And he'll just have to deal with it.”
The jest lingered between them, but there was truth hidden beneath the humor. Shamane’s gods had always been different—mountains and stars, rivers and trees, and the souls of those he loved. They weren’t beings to fear or worship; they were things to live for.
“And what would these gods say about you loving a man who’s destined for a short life?” 6 asked, quieter now.
“They’d say it’s not the length of life that matters,” Shamane replied without hesitation. “Only what you fill it with.” For once, 6 didn’t reply with wit or sarcasm, one that he had begun to show beneath being "6", and more of Atticus. Instead, he reached up, threading his fingers through Shamane’s wild, dark hair. He pulled him down into a kiss—slow and deep, filled with the kind of tenderness that had taken years to grow. The stars bore witness to their love, shining brightly overhead as they carved their own fate.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to fill it with everything.”