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As a boy, his mother often pressed the incense into his hand as she made him kneel, praying to a god Yamato didn't know or care about. Sunday errands, while everything was boring and nothing had mattered, involved walking up the hill to the nearby shrine, helping to sweep and tidy up, straightening the offerings, and ensuring that no wild animals had gotten in. He would pay his respects, picking lint off his pants as he pretended to incline his head out of devotion, the fabric coarse between his fingers compared to the carpet underneath. Every week, his mother’s droning in his ear - ”if we want good fortune, Yamato-kun, being devout is its own reward, Yamato-kun, no one respects the old ways anymore, Yamato-kun, you’re always such a good boy, Yamato-kun!” and as he smiled and nodded and went through all the rote motions, he would wonder-what’s the point? Is this really all there is?
He didn’t remember exactly what he was thinking the moment he saw Takiishi for the first time. He didn’t remember the day, or the week, or even what happened in the month before he was drawn into his orbit, the moment he saw him illuminated by the moon. Wreathed in light like he had commanded the stars to still for him, to bow to him. But the goosebumps and chills that swept his body, the dip in his gut and ringing in his head, the soul-deep, rock-hard certainty that nothing would ever be the same again-that he remembered. He’d never forget. It was bliss. It was a religious epiphany and an existential realization all at once, the moment he pinpointed,
Oh. That’s why I’m alive. Him.
One shaky breath inhaled, and then he forged forward, blind for the first time and glorying in it.
Despite ending up on his back, again, and again, and again, he looked at the red he was dripping in and decided to bathe in it. Coating himself in the same fire that Takiishi was crowned in, desperate to get just one step closer to the impenetrable void surrounding the boy. A long-forgotten instinct was yawning in him, showing its maw, and Yamato had never felt this hungry before.
Ah, God. If you truly are the reason he exists, then you are worthy of devotion.
Or maybe, he thought, eyes tracing Takiishi above him, untouchable, always out of reach, I should give him my worship instead. My adoration. My obsession. My love.
After that, Sunday visits ground to a halt, new motivation and energy putting a spring into Yamato’s step as he put all his time and effort into his new pastime: following Takiishi around. Between avoiding his fists (sometimes), getting him food, and overall dogging his every step, Yamato had no time for a false god with futile offerings, no patience to light smoke sticks when he could light fireworks instead, and watch the glow illuminate Takiishi’s face as he gazed upward. And maybe, he was desperate for that all-consuming, burning gaze to land on him, but years of praying to an absent god had taught him well.
Years passed, and he was satisfied. He was able to leave a mark on Takiishi, a proof of their connection, black ink proclaiming their existence, and it fed that empty, starving cavern in his heart every time he saw their mark on his shoulder. Takiishi was his to serve, to clear the rocks and dust off the road as he walked, ready and willing to be the stepping stone for Takiishi as he ascended. And if that meant walking into Furin and dragging Umemiya out for Takiishi, if he needed to line the roads with littered unconscious bodies and crumpled Bofurin students, so be it.
And yet, he sat on the roof, dumbstruck, watching as his god was forcibly dragged down to the plane of mortals, harsh fists hiding untold words that lashed as chains, pulling and anchoring Takiishi to reality. To the fragile hope of reciprocation. And as he watched Umemiya do the one thing he never even let himself believe possible, he absentmindedly itched at his tattoo, digging his nails into the flesh of his shoulder.
Why isn’t it me?
Why wasn’t I enough?
In the end, it didn’t matter how much of himself he poured into Takiishi; the minute he was depleted or stopped fucking trying, he would be tossed aside.
Even so, Yamato thought helplessly, staring at Takiishi, I know I’m never going to stop. I don’t ever want to. And if I have to be the hidden support behind every person who gets to be in his world, just to see him this happy, I will.
Turns out, that wasn’t necessary. And as he stumbled forward, working on autopilot even as his whole body flushed, a heat that had nothing to do with the bruises and scrapes littering him rose, and even the rain couldn’t cool him down. Takiishi was silent on his back, but still, Yamato could hear it in his head, echoing until it was all he could think of.
Yamato Endo. Yamato Endo. Yamato Endo.
He said my name.
He said my name.
The grin was spread wide across his face, splitting his muscles and impossible to remove. As he walked out, the Noroshi falling into step behind him, Takiishi warm and real against his back, he knew- this was everything he had never known to pray for.