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No one understands it. Sometimes you think you don't either. It might be an obsession at this point. The fact that you haven't seen a single sign of him in months doesn't comfort you. But here you are in the low light of your room, match in hand, relighting the last few stubs of candles.
The table is empty other than the candlesticks and the patchwork cloth beneath them. Maybe irreverence like this is why he hasn't come to see you. By the book, you should lay out today's treasures first. Bothering him with the flickering of the flames and nothing worth the effort it takes him to turn his attention toward you is rude. You aren't irreverent. You wouldn't do this except for the fact that the sun has all but set and you know the fluorescents in your apartment bother him. The candles are all you have to see by if you don't want to scare him away.
You aren't sure whether to take your time or rush to prepare. On one hand, if he sees the candlelight and no offerings, you risk him turning away. If he has no intention of visiting either way, working slow would give you the space to feel him watching. You'll miss it if you hurry and you might be left with nothing at all.
Plenty of your friends are spiritual. Lots of them have altars similar to yours. The idea of you worshiping a deity isn't what weirds people out. It's that theirs are different. Most of them worship old powers. Norse or Celtic or Hellenistic deities with centuries of strength and lore. They don't get visits and their gods have a sense of distance that yours doesn't. You've learned to avoid saying too much about him. Or mentioning too many visits. Maybe that's what you've done to upset him.
No apologies exit your mouth quite yet, but they echo in your head as you cross the room to retrieve your bag. The first thing you take from it is a CD. You pick at the thrift store sticker for a moment before you open the case. You used to always have music on before you started preparing the altar. He'd complained about every item in your collection, though, which led to one of your regular offerings being new music. Someday you'd find something he'll enjoy. It takes little more than pressing play to have a reasonable suspicion that this album is another miss. The empty case sits on the table on the off-chance you're wrong.
Next to it you place a copper bracelet. You'd found it in the same store you'd chosen the CD from. It's rare to find good jewelry for him. Long, long ago, you'd made the mistake of offering something golden rather than gold and he'd acted as if his skin was burning off. When you apologized he made it clear that plated jewelry was not up to his standards. You believed him until he had the same reaction to several other pieces on account of them being 'too dainty' or 'too gaudy'. You'll never tell him that what he actually has is a nickle allergy, but you've been dutifully testing for alloys ever since. This one, however, is a pure copper band with a pattern of flowers and vines hammered into it. You think it will match well with his other bangles.
Your pouch full of trinkets is heavier than usual this time. Most of its contents are buttons and charms you'd swiped from chain craft stores. They were easier to pocket than larger items and you'd noticed a preference for things he knew you'd stolen over those you'd bought or found. He'll only take a few items from the hoard of tiny, glimmering treasures, but he'll be selective with which he takes so you'll need all of the options.
You take a moment to breathe in. The air in front of you has grown warmer as the candles burn. It's tempting to say that you feel him closer than you have lately. It's also terrifying, because what if you're imagining that?
Focusing on it won't do anyone any good. You keep unloading things from your bag. Yesterday you'd gone to an artist trading card event. A lot of what you'd brought home ended up on your own cork board, but a few pieces had stuck out to you as things he'd enjoy. You lay each out in front of you. Separated for easy viewing.
"You're overdoing it again."
His voice is smooth and soft. It always is. Gentle and in contrast to the rest of him. It startles you anyway. You shake the table when you jump and have to still yourself before you turn toward him.
"Well I wasn't even finished." Your voice, on the other hand, is sharp and pointed.
He sighs and tosses his head back, wicks bouncing with the dramatic movement. "Fine, what else do you have?"
You'd like to turn back to what you were doing. He should have waited until you were done. He's supposed to wait until you ask for him. Particularly after all these weeks of you asking, almost begging, with no response. It could be all that time of separation that makes you unable to look away from him, if the ethereal high of his presence isn't excuse enough. You have to tug the bag to your side by the handle. He's patient with you, but he tries to look bored. It's not a challenge to look past the irritation and catch the spark in his eyes. One of the benefits of worshiping someone is that you become intensely familiar with them. Sometimes you wonder if you know him better than he's ever had a reason to know himself.
With some stumbling as you refuse to look away from him, you retrieve the loose pomegranate from your bag. He raises an eyebrow at it.
"Have you had one before?" you ask.
"No."
He bends his knees and lowers himself to sit on your floor across from you, facing the altar you've made for him.
"I forgot to grab a knife. Wait here?"
He grunts at you. It's not until you're getting up that you disrupt the euphoria enough to realize that a portion of the warmth spreading under your skin is actually irritation. You deserve an apology, right? Or an explanation? Something more than criticism and grunting, at least.
Even with that sense, it's hard not to reach out and touch him when you stand. His eyes flick toward your hand, anticipating the desire that you're struggling to suppress. The way his lips curl upward makes it all the more tempting, but you hold strong and leave to get the knife.
"It's a good season for them." you say as you walk, "Pomegranates. They're always the best in November."
"'s that so?"
Your back is turned to him, but you can hear him shuffle toward the table and begin sorting through the gifts. Your heart swells for a moment only to be quelled with bitter jealousy at the idea that he's only paying you any attention for the things you've brought him. Sure, that's supposed to be the deal, but you can't deny that you'd thought at one point that he'd been starting to care about you. Even that he enjoyed visiting you. That's why it's been so hurtful and shocking to be ignored for so long.
"They're a pain to open. But the whole ones are so much better than buying the seeds prepackaged."
"This is nice," he's slipping the bracelet on when you settle back at the table.
"Not too...?"
He shakes his head, "I like it. The music is awful though."
You're reaching to turn it off before he even says it, "Back to the drawing board."
You have to move some candles closer to him to make room to cut the fruit. He doesn't comment on you doing so, too busy admiring trinkets.
"Hobie," you say, knife making a 'thwack' against the table as you make your first cut.
"Mm?"
"Where were you?"
"Home." He holds a silver button up to the candlelight, "Stolen?"
"Found." you answer, "I was praying to you."
He sets the button back down, unsatisfied, "I was sleeping."
"For five months?"
"Lost track of time. You know five months isn't long to me."
You narrowly miss hitting your fingers with the knife, too focused on him to pay appropriate attention.
"I know." The heartache is audible. You know because he looks over at you and pretends he isn't.
This is where your friends have a point. They're right that you seem to be in love with him. It's not a good idea to fall in love with a deity. Certainly not one you're a patron to. You knew that before and you knew it even better now. These past few months had taken you lower than you'd been when you first met Hobie. Before you'd pledged yourself to him.
"Here."
You slide a segment of pomegranate toward him. He sets down the card he was holding, a watercolor orb weaver illuminated by the candlelight. You watch him scoop seeds up with his hands. A familiar sense of pride fills you when his eyes sparkle at his first taste. Your heart skips a beat as he sucks juice off his fingertips.
"Come closer." He orders.
There's no hesitation in your obedience. You skirt around the edge of the table and sit next to him, turned to face his body. He turns to face you, abandoning the treasures in front of him. He grasps at your elbow and lets his hand slide down to your wrist. Trails of gold dust stick to your skin in every spot his fingers touch.
"I'm sorry," he says.
His words taste like honey. All of your senses blend together when he touches you. It's one of the things that makes you believe it all. A clear reminder of what separates the two of you. Elevates him from the level of a mere mortal.
You shake your head. It doesn't matter how much you want him to be sorry. How much you think he ought to be. You're wrong. He has no obligation to you. You're supposed to be grateful for anything he'll give you.
"You don't need to be sorry. You have bigger things to worry about."
He snatches a ring out from the pile of charms and holds it out to you while his other hand joins with yours. He doesn't have to elaborate.
"Stolen," you promise, "Off some asshole's hand, actually."
He grins. It hadn't hit you how solemn he looked until now.
"Tell me about that."
He leans toward you and the candles burn brighter. That's not why your face burns warm. That part is all from you soaking up as much of him as you can. You have to, in case he disappears on you again.
You shrug, it hadn't been a big deal, "I dunno. Some guy was being a creep at a bar. It looked like a nice ring. So I thought that if I played along for a moment I could teach him a lesson and get you something nice."
"Who was it?" he looks exactly as intrigued as he was a moment ago, but less happy about the story you're telling. The flames next to you flicker before settling back into their even glow.
"I don't know. I'll probably never see him again, either."
"Good," he frowns, "Don't put yourself in danger to get things for me, love."
His concern flows through your veins until you feel cold for a moment. You don't hesitate in squeezing his hand to reassure him.
"I was safe. I only got close enough to take it, I promise. Just held his hand for a moment so I could slip it off. Then I left right away."
He looks down at both of your hands, studying them.
"This one," you answer for him by lifting the hand that's already in his, "See, you've already fixed it." You spread your fingers to show off the gold that cakes your skin. Truthfully you're more excited to admire his mark than you can imagine him being.
You're so grateful he's here. Happier than you've been in months. You'll stay in this moment forever if you can. Based on how he looks at you, he might let you keep him a while.
"Okay," you reach for his other hand. It sports the ring you'd stolen, now. "I told you a story. Will you tell me one, now?"
He avoids your grasp and places his hand on your jaw instead. It knocks the wind out of you. Leaves you staring into his eyes with wonder.
"What do you want to hear about?" he looks so pleased to have your full attention. It's almost embarrassing. What about you is so worth his time? Does he feel the same sense of joy and pride you do when he focuses on you? He asks the question with such sincerity that for a moment you feel like the special one. He's giving an open offering to you, a vow to tell you any story you desire. Of course, you're certain there's some things he wouldn't tell you, even if you asked. You'd yet to encounter any of those topics, though, in your many long conversations.
"Why weren't you here?" You know he already told you, but you aren't convinced. That's wrong, of course. You should trust him implicitly. You used to. Until a few times where you'd chosen to and had him later laugh in your face and confess he was 'just fucking with you'. So now, you're never afraid to ask twice.
"I wanted to be, love." his thumb brushes your cheek until it meets the corner of your lips.
"I spent so much time trying to see you, Hobie."
"I know." The candles waver again. Golden flecks sparkle in his eyes. It's as close as you've ever seen him to tears, happy or sad.
"So, why?"
"I couldn't. I wasn't able to."
"You had other things you had to do?"
"No," he moves his thumb further until it's pressed against your closed mouth, "I didn't have the power to get here, lovie."
You kiss the pad of his thumb, intensely gratified to have the chance to do so. He moves it once you do, settling it closer to the rest of his fingers on the side of your face. You feel so accomplished each time you correctly guess what he wants from you.
"I don't believe you," you say.
He frowns, "Why not?"
"I don't believe that there's anything you can't do."
"Oh, my love," he squeezes your hand.
"I don't." You insist.
He nods, "I know." He lifts your hand and kisses the back of it. You can't, or maybe just don't, suppress the satisfied hum it prompts. "I won't let it happen again," he says.
You look down at the mark on your hand. A perfect imprint of his lips. The thought that it'll wash off soon enough makes your heart ache. "Do you turn everyone gold?"
He finds where you're looking and joins in your admiration. "I don't remember."
"What does that mean?"
"You're the only person, definitely the only mortal, I've touched in longer than I can remember."
"Oh."
You've never seen the golden dust sparkle quite like this. But as he speaks, you're certain it glows brighter. That's probably in your head. Something you're making up in response to how precious the words are to you.
"My turn for a question."
You look back up at him when you hear his voice. "Okay," you agree.
"It's a big one, is that okay?"
"Well now you've asked me a question already!" You give his hand a squeeze as you grin at him.
He smiles back, "You asked two. I've still got one more."
"Fine, go ahead."
"If I found a way to bring you home with me, would you come?"
You laugh before you realize he's serious. He looks at you wide eyed. Dare you say, vulnerable. You spend a moment working to memorize this version of his face. It's likely you'll never see it again.
"You can't do that, though, can you?"
"You just told me you didn't believe there's anything I can't do."
"Well I didn't think that taking me home with you was something you planned to do."
"Love."
"What?"
"Answer my question."
The answer should be obvious. It should be 'No'. You have a life here, a home, friends. You're not a god. You're not like him. You could never be enough for him. You have to stay here.
"Of course I would go with you."
It's not clear how his nose ends up pressed to your cheek, but you'd die before complaining about any way in which he chose to touch you. You place your empty hand on his chest to steady yourself against him. With the fear that he'll abandon you again soothed, you're able to appreciate how comforting his presence is.
"Then I'll find a way," his lips brush yours as he speaks.
You let your eyes fall shut as he takes his next breath. Your blood warms as his lungs expand. Does he have to breathe at home, or only here? Will you have to breathe there when you go with him? Warm breath fans your face as he exhales. Around you, the rest of the air feels cold. Though your eyes are closed, the room seems darker than it should be.
“Fuck--" his grip on you tightens.
The worry in his tone tells you instantly what's happened. You shoot forward to scramble for your matches, stumbling over Hobie in the process.
"It's okay! I've got it!" It's hard to tell whether you're telling Hobie or yourself. You fumble with the box until you have a match lit. You feel around for him to make sure he really is still there. It's hard to see his wide-eyed expression between the darkness of the room and the rush you're in, but you catch it as you turn to relight the candles. His arms are wrapped around you mere moments after the flames are re-lit. You return the gesture, holding his body tight against your own.
"I'm here." He says it against the crown of your head, you can feel his lips move as he speaks, "I'm not going anywhere."
You needed to hear it. It's not until he says it that you realize you're shaking. "I'm trying to believe you," you whisper.
"I won't leave," he promises, "we'll find more candles. I'll stay as long as you want me here."
Your breath still wavers as you look back at him, taking a bit of distance so that you can look him in the eye, "That's forever, Hobie."
"Then I'll be here forever."