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They had discussed it, once. Then twice. Then thrice. Then more and more, until it became a game between themselves to think of the most ridiculous things that could be done when it happened. It is just natural, after all: the terms of their contract are morbid and neither of them is precisely well-adjusted.
Just banter between friends, one would say, except it involves the situation of one’s death.
‘Kinich, what would you like your last rites to be?’
It is a good question, really, and maybe one that everyone asks themselves every once in a while. What to do with the corpse after death, what to do to honour the dead from then and onwards, how to cope with the pain of losing someone close to you.
They discussed it a lot: Kinich has a whole list, some of the items being serious and some being just jokes. To go with Natlani ceremonies is immediately a no-go, as there will be no body to cremate, after all. They researched the topic for other cultures, both living and otherwise. They picked the one they liked the most. They scratched them out when they didn’t like them anymore. They noted them down again.
In the end, what is more clear in Ajaw’s mind when it does happen, is the last one ever said: just the day before, when Kinich was sweaty and tired and cosy in his arms and Ajaw pretended not to love this man so, so much. It had been a night of passion before a large battle, possibly one of the most important ones but not the last one, just another large and important battle in the midst of war.
Then, Kinich had wrapped his arms around Ajaw’s barely human form, a form that was built from trust and years of being together, half wilderness and half civilization with the vague reminder of Kinich’s self (who was arguably half of those two as well). He had pressed his lips against Ajaw’s own, letting the Dragon take control of the kiss as he always did, moaning softly yet not energetic enough to go another round. Languid, slow, awfully solemn for something they did every day ever since they knew their feelings were reciprocated.
Around them, the lamps flickered with dim lights, making the various trinkets scattered around the room glint in a way that made Ajaw proud. The reflections of light were weak, only bright enough to give his human half some sense of where things were so he could avoid them, but a Dragon’s eyes were better. Ajaw could see, as he did every day, that each strand of light that entered this house —at morning, at night, sun and moon and artificial lights as well— landed exactly in the middle of the room, where the hammock they used to sleep in, and then the small nest of blankets and pillows they used for some other activities in the past year or so, was.
Everything was perfectly positioned to bring attention to his greatest treasure, and Ajaw likes it just like that.
Under these dim lights and the moonlight coming from the window, Ajaw pinned Kinich to their collection of blankets, kissing him like he was the most precious existence. And Kinich, Kinich let it happen, because the day after, he had to go to war, and war will forever be what war is.
‘Ajaw,’ he had said when they broke the kiss for air, bright red, eyes hazy from exhaustion, running his hands up and down Ajaw’s mess of feathers and fur that covered his neck and shoulders. ‘Ajaw. If, tomorrow—‘
‘It won’t happen.’ Maybe in the past he would have liked it to happen, but nowadays he doesn’t think he can live without this man who carved a hole into his heart against his will, this man he shared a life with for so little yet so long, his Kinich. It won’t happen, he won’t let it.
‘If, tomorrow,’ Kinich continued as if he hadn’t heard Ajaw at all; ‘If it so happens that I fall in battle—‘
Ajaw didn’t let him continue, going back to kissing him to keep him busy, ignoring Kinich’s protests and half-uttered words with all the experience he had gained through these years being together and the little more-than-a-year of being together. He won’t let it happen, not yet, not on his watch.
Yet Kinich gained the upper hand once more eventually.
‘I want you to do as you please, as if I was alive,’ he had managed to get out, words that made Ajaw freeze where he was.
He has had Kinich for so long (not enough), now, but the idea never crossed his head. As if he was alive, he said, and lately there is only one thing he wants to do when they are alone and with nothing to do. To hold, to cherish, to love as he never has before, not when he stood on his high throne, not when he was sealed into this insignificant form, not ever in his life.
As he pleases.
He, then, decided to ignore it, shoving the idea into the back of his head and focusing all his attention on Kinich. He didn’t reply to the words, and Kinich never spoke them again, and they kissed as if today was the only day left in the world.
It was, indeed, the last day they had.
Kinich knows he won’t make it.
He won’t make it. In the millisecond he has to make his decision, he knows he won’t come out of this battlefield alive. There will be no Ode of Resurrection for him either, since the Abyss had taken over the Night Realm almost completely, and he himself rejected its blessing the moment he accepted Ajaw’s love —a rather aggressive side effect, but they had been heavily offended by his actions.
Maybe there is a minimal chance, a 0.01% probability that he will survive, but in that second, in that millisecond, he acts as if he won’t make it.
The decision is easy. There are two Abyss-contaminated arrows coming their way, unavoidable from how close they are and the trajectory. It takes him a millisecond for him to figure out his options, weigh them against each other, and make a choice.
The target of the second arrow is Mavuika, who he is fighting along with, as Scions who fight together fight stronger, or so they say. No one fights alone in Natlan and, while he hasn’t been alone in a long while now, at this moment Ajaw is keeping some enemies away from the injured, at his request —Ajaw’s form is better for that, as he is large, strengthened by nature’s phlogiston and by Kinich’s own Dendro, and he can be temporarily sacrificed to give people more time to run or prepare a counterattack.
Ajaw is away, doing his task. Mavuika has not noticed the arrows, too busy trying to not injure the brainwashed tribesmen too much while Il Capitano and his people deal with the Baptist (a rogue Baptist too, literally just here for the fun of it). No one else is in the arrows’ path, he noticed them too late, and they will get him somewhere no matter where he tries to dodge.
Abyssal contamination is bad enough on a good day, but today, when the Abyss and Natlan are almost fused together, it is deadly. Just like poison, quick-acting and torturously painful. No matter where he gets hit, he will die, and so will Mavuika.
It is better to lose one fighter than two. An Abyss-corrupted Mavuika would be impossible to beat, while Kinich could be brought down easily. Kinich’s life has no value next to Mavuika’s.
His choice is clear.
In the back of his head, he can feel Ajaw become aware of what he is planning, a scream telling him to not do something stupid. It is already too late, though: he had one, maybe two seconds to act, and he did all he could in those two seconds.
He shoved Mavuika away. He used all his strength, and more, to break the first layers of the seal keeping Ajaw’s reality-shattering self contained. He offered all he is, his body and soul, for Ajaw to take to strengthen himself so they will win this battle.
He feels pain bloom twice in his chest, on his neck, one after the other, and he feels the Abyss spread so fast he only has a second to give Ajaw some last words before his mind fades.
I’m sorry. I love you.
The last thing he knows is a roar that makes the ground tremble beneath their feet, and then—
Then there is just pain, but he isn’t alive enough to feel it.
A roar fills the air, loud and heavy, filled with pain and scalding Pyro, as a creature that has no right to be part of this world manifests out of nowhere. It feels like truth and lies, the real and the spiritual coming together into a wide black hole of something that should not be.
The battlefield freezes. The Abyss itself takes a step back. The rogue Baptist warps away as the Riftwolves fold upon themselves in fear. In front of her, the brainwashed tribesmen come to their senses, and she is only fast enough to block the Claymore aiming to kill them because she sees the moment Kinich becomes part of the Abyss.
It is a horrible sight, Mavuika thinks. Gruesome, even. She has seen it many times before, people being devoured by madness, but she will never get used to it.
For a moment, she thinks that Kinich will fight back, try to take back his body, but then she sees the arrow buried in his heart, the other piercing cleanly through his throat, and she knows then. He is no longer with them.
Ah. Another child lost to war.
Another child. Another soul. Another life.
It doesn’t matter, because she can’t move.
The heavy pressure of that thing, whatever it is, comes down and fills her with dread. Like most of those around her, she struggles to turn her head to see what, exactly, has manifested in her lands, but all she sees in front of her is the haze veil of hot temperatures, mirages showing her visions of better days, and smoke. Two slashes in reality, of glowing light, stand somewhere high above the ground, glowing red and yellow and orange like blazing flames, and she realizes then, she is looking into something’s eyes.
Next to this one, she is nothing. She feels so small, so insignificant, just a speck of dust on the beach or a single pebble on the ground.
Something clatters next to her, and she quickly looks away from the being behind the smoke —smoke of charred grass and stone, pools of lava forming in some places where the heat caught a particularly large rock formation, something like phlogiston and Pyro with a light scent of summer. Kinich, Abyss-corrupted as he is, has fallen to his knees as if someone had cut a puppet’s strings, empty gaze looking at the creature yet not seeing at all.
She thinks, for a moment, about the Ode of Resurrection, but then she remembers that Kinich cannot be brought back. Today, after all this is done, she will have to look at the children’s hopeful faces and shake her head, watch as their expressions crumple beneath disbelief. That, and she can’t even give him proper funerary rites, because another claimed him beyond death.
Mavuika is a brave woman. That doesn’t mean she wants to go against that.
Still, she is the only one who knows of the terms of their contract, thus the only one who will understand. And probably, the only one that understands that the thing wrapped in mirages and smoke is none other than K’uhul Ajaw set (partly?) free from his shackles, and he seems to have only one thing in mind.
The Abyss takes another step back before it flees, like a coward. Kinich’s body falls on its front when it— he is no longer supported by the corruption. His eyes are still open, dull and empty. The wristband he has worn for years flickers with lights. His Claymore seems to age right in front of her eyes, as if time that had been stilled for centuries was finally allowed to flow again.
The heat spreads in waves, so hot even Mavuika has a hard time standing straight, as the creature moves. She can’t see it through the smoke, can only see a large form that looks similar to ancient depictions of the ruler of this land.
She wonders how the rest of the warriors who had been fighting alongside her are doing. Can they withstand the pressure, the heat? Can they understand what is going on?
The cloud of smoke reaches her and she manages to remain standing. The creature inside it reaches out with a single limb, its hand large enough to effortlessly pick up Kinich’s body: Mavuika watches as the hand closes carefully around the human, letting him rest beneath bent claws and atop scales, a small cage to keep him safe. It needs some extra effort to pick up the Claymore with its smallest claw, but it manages.
“Please,” she hears herself say, as she struggles to not fall into reverence for a being that glows and burns like the sun. “At least let us— give him a farewell.”
The creature turns its head, locking eyes with her, and is immobile for a short while. Then, the voice rumbles, like an earthquake, like a volcano, like low whispered words of chaos and destruction.
“No.”
Just like that, the creature spreads its wings and flies away, taking Kinich with it.
A single feather rests where the Saurian Hunter used to be, a feather that means so much yet so little, and Mavuika lets herself weep for yet another child sacrificed to war.
A large creature soars the skies, razing through Natlan’s soil and leaving only destruction behind. At least, the being has enough consideration to not fly too low, so the heat it brings behind damages only at a surface level instead of melting everything below it through its trajectory. Those who are capable of witnessing it will eventually describe it as a cloud of the manifestation of Pyro itself, greater than even phlogiston or the Pyro Archon, and will try very hard to forget what they have seen.
Now partly freed and capable of using part of the body that was once given to him, K’uhul Ajaw flies away from the battlefield, treasure held carefully between his claws. As he does, he observes the land that was once his domain, but there isn’t much change in his previous perception of it: it is still a flawed land that he had once strived to change, though his methods were too rough for the land and the people to tolerate.
They said he had some rather extreme views of the world, and that hasn’t changed. They said he was disagreeable and too dangerous, and that hasn’t changed either. They sealed him away after multiple failed negotiations to try and reach a middle ground, left him alone for millennia and then hoped he wouldn’t destroy them upon freeing himself.
Naïve fools, they all were. His feelings about them haven’t changed either: he still would rather destroy everyone who attempts to make him bow his head than let them be equals.
He never had equals, back then. Not really. He watched the others, others who ruled over their own domains, and never saw them as ‘kin’, never sought out his own kind for conversation or agreements. He never saw them as ‘family’ as that overly positive hurricane of wind and terrible choices wanted them to be. He also never saw them as ‘enemies’, though, not like that iridescent, fluttery one made of snow seemed to think.
He ruled alone from his high throne, and that’s how it should have continued being.
Alas, he was sealed away.
Perhaps it was for the best. His thousands of years of waiting led him to his most precious treasure, a brittle human soul by the name of Kinich, and now he doesn’t quite feel like being alone anymore.
(Kinich has left him, though.)
When he reaches their home, secluded and distant just like the two of them always were, are, will be, he has already lowered his existence into something the Surface of Teyvat could support. He compresses his body at will, not like other times when he had to dissipate parts of himself as there was not enough phlogiston or Elemental energy around for him to be his true self, and compresses his presence as well so as to not scare away the natural fauna that lingers near their home. Kinich will get mad, if he chases the Yumkasaurs away, since he needs them to clear out the ripe Flamegranates that he never has the time to deal with himself.
Leaving them alone for too long makes them explode. They only have one house.
He doesn’t quite manage the ‘not scaring the Yumkasaurs’ away task, but he does manage the ‘be small enough you don’t crush the house’ one. He lands in a whirlwind of smoke and Pyro and phlogiston, Kinich in his arms in a bridal carry, the Fang held in his hands. As he is still a little too big to fit inside, he leans the Fang on the wall and lowers himself some more, finally reaching a balance of human and Dragon that suits himself for now.
“You stupid servant,” he says to Kinich as he switches his hold, rummaging inside the satchel for their keys. “I told you we should have stolen that phlogiston lock, but no, noooh! It is an ancient treasure and should be given to the researchers, bah, as if they could understand even a little of Yours Truly’s people’s creations.”
He has to bend oddly and practically fold himself in half to get inside the house, and then it is another trial to lay Kinich down in their hammock without breaking the thing. He can’t get any smaller than this, though, even if he wanted to, so he has to get on his knees and wrap his tail around himself before he can assess the damage.
Abyssal corruption aside, Kinich looks like shit.
Well, he usually looks like death warmed over after work or a battle, mostly because he is dumb and refuses to rest when he should. Ajaw keeps a calendar in his wristband to remind him of when he should start nagging Kinich to let the body rest, just once a week though it should be more. Kinich has years of piled-up exhaustion on his body and every day it just grows worse, and maybe Ajaw is at fault for some of that, but it is still too much for a human body to handle.
“Stupid, moronic, idiotic,” he mumbles out every insult and curse he knows, both in Traditional Natlani and Hebdomad Common (or whatever they call it) and also in some ancient tongues he knows from being alive for far too long.
As he does that, he continues inspecting Kinich. He is very obviously dead not alive, the two arrows piercing his heart and throat an obvious giveaway, but there are also some wounds from before that, from the battle, wounds he got while they were still fighting together and Ajaw hadn’t yet been relayed to guard duty. His clothes are torn here and there, his hair matted with blood from a hit that gave him a concussion and had to be dealt with rather haphazardly by that one Hydro healer that shouldn’t be a healer at all, for Saurians or otherwise, but at least it was enough to let Kinich come back to his senses and the fight.
They were supposed to get proper healing later, when Kinich could swap out at the frontlines with someone else, but guess that is not going to happen, now.
Ajaw’s hands are a little too big for what he has to do, but he will just deal with it. He breaks the arrow at the neck, takes both halves out and incinerates them. The other arrow didn’t pierce through, but it was close enough so he pushes it until the tip pierces through the back, and then breaks it as he did before. After incinerating that one as well, he focuses on the rushed work at the back of Kinich’s head, though there isn’t much to do there. It isn’t swollen, it isn’t bleeding, it is just dirty.
Kinich hides it well, but he hates it when his hair gets dirty, and so does Ajaw.
It is difficult to move when he is this big in this tiny house, but he somehow manages to fill a bowl with water and warm it by blowing on it. He apologizes to Kinich for ripping his clothes, but they are already a mess and he needs something to clean him up with, and he isn’t going to use something that can have a longer life when he has perfectly serviceable cloth right here. The first thing he does, though, is clean Kinich’s hair with the help of water and a (gold) comb he found in his hoard.
He removes the beads. He undoes the braids. He washes the hair until it is as pristine as it can be without the use of hair care products (bought by Ajaw, with Kinich’s money). He then removes the earrings, the necklaces and the bracelets, both the visible ones and those that are usually hidden beneath clothing, and puts them away carefully somewhere he can find them later.
Ajaw does everything… very slowly. Ritualistic, almost. Slowly, with care, because this may be his body now but Kinich deserves to be given a proper farewell, even if Ajaw is the only one here. Maybe he is being possessive, as he always is, but he prefers to do things on his own instead of with someone else’s help, just his private little moment with Kinich before he has to accept that he is no longer alive with him.
Ajaw has never been the one to undress Kinich —a painful reminder of the limitations of his phlogiston self— and it is odd, that this is the only time when he is the one doing so. Well, he is mostly ripping away the already torn clothing so it isn’t really undressing, but the end result is the same: Kinich, naked. And this time, he is naked and injured, and looks like he weighs less than he did this morning, and like he has shrunk at least two sizes, and like he is so fragile even the smallest breeze could break him.
“Damn it.” Ajaw rubs at his eyes —he isn’t crying, he just has something in them— before going to find needle and thread to at least close the worst of the wounds left behind. The body isn’t alive functional anymore, but he is going to be wearing it eventually, and for that he needs to treat all wounds as if Kinich was alive aware of what he is doing.
But maybe, Kinich is somewhat aware of everything, right now.
Something blinks, on and off, atop the pile of Kinich’s torn clothing. The Vision, as if unwilling to let go of its wielder, or as if not realizing what has happened, struggles to remain lit. It will be bright green for a few seconds, then flicker into the dull state of a dead Vision, then come alight once more even brighter. Ajaw just watches it in confusion, picks it up with one claw and puts it on his other palm, and the Vision lights up so bright it feels like Kinich when he sees Mora entering his pouch.
“You are also not ready to let go, uh?” Instead of putting the Vision back where it was, he puts it atop Kinich’s chest, where it remains in its flickering state. Maybe it is the Abyssal contamination doing something to it. “I know we never see eye to eye, but just for now…”
Kinich’s odd Vision aside, Ajaw’s task is awfully dull. He cleans, he applies ointments, he bandages. He sews shut the holes in Kinich’s throat and chest and wraps them tighter than the other wounds, reminding himself to check them daily. He looks around for anything else that could be wrong, but apart from the remnants of the Abyss still plaguing Kinich’s body, which will fade away with some days of rest, nothing else is wrong.
There lays Kinich, dead looking as if he was sleeping. Sleeping while heavily injured, yes, maybe he got hit badly when fighting a Saurian, or even a human after his head, but that’s all it is. Sleeping.
That his body is cold and getting colder just means that Ajaw needs to warm him up. And, well, what better way to warm him up than…
“Do as you please, as if I was alive, huh.” Ajaw has always known that Kinich is a degenerate, but he wonders what it says about himself, that he is seriously considering it. He has permission for it, after all.
Without thinking much of it, he leans in for a kiss, their lips slotting perfectly with one another as they always do. Kinich is cold, but a hint of warmth still lingers in him, a beat going thump, thump as a blinding flame struggles to remain in place. At least he isn’t stiffening, the small fragment of soul Ajaw left in there while signing their contract keeping the body in stasis until he can take over, so it isn’t too difficult to pick him up.
Pick Kinich up. Put the Vision, still flickering, somewhere he can find later. Fix his posture, because even on his knees he is still too big to fit in this house. Murmur some soothing words to the light of life burning inside, Kinich’s soul as blinding as always even now, make sure it stays where it is instead of fading away —Ajaw is not going to let Kinich die, even if the connection between body and self has been severed.
It isn’t difficult. They have their contract of endless small print clauses, and one of them claims Kinich as Ajaw’s (and Ajaw as Kinich’s). If Kinich belongs to Ajaw, he cannot belong to the Night Kingdom, or the Wayob, or to the Abyss, or Celestia, or even Death. He will be forever stuck in this world, unable to see his own reincarnation, but he will be with Ajaw.
Kinich agreed to it, just as he agreed with what Ajaw is planning to do now.
He gently places Kinich down on their miniature nest of blankets and pillows, a nest that was originally meant for an egg they found in the wilderness and then, when that child returned to nature, meant for other, more pleasurable activities once they realized their feelings. He gently places Kinich down on the softest blanket, carefully moves his head atop the pillow so he is comfortable, gets himself comfortable (and gets rid of some clothing layers at the same time: this body takes some inspiration from Kinich and the amount of clothes this man wears is ridiculous when considering the heat of Natlan) and arranges Kinich’s legs around his own hips (a difficult task) before he takes a moment to appreciate his lover.
Lover, huh.
It is funny in a way. Long ago, if there was one thing Ajaw agreed with most of his kin, it was that falling in love with mortals was simply… not done. The difference in lifespans and experiences was just too great, even with the longest-lived mortals, and there was no good reason, to go through the heartbreak of losing a loved one.
They know all about it, what heartbreak looks like, for one of them, or at least Ajaw does. He doesn’t know if the others are around or how much they remember from before everything, how much they forced themselves to forget, but Ajaw remembers, even if a large part of his memories is still sealed away. He remembers when that bird made of lightning fell in love with a mortal —or rather, with his singing— and was so very happy for the first time in her life —and he also remembers, when it all ended with a civilization destroyed under her claws and talons. He remembers it well, and lately the memory has been more present than ever before.
Every day, he looks at Kinich and sees a reason to destroy the world and himself for. Every day, he thinks back on the bird’s mournful screeches and wonders, how would he react?
Ajaw is different from the bird. Ajaw is different from who Ajaw was in the past, as well, even if that Ajaw comes through in his person at times.
Ajaw is not Kinich’s Ajaw, those times. Ajaw thinks of the end and he is K’uhul Ajaw, watching everything from far away, from a place so high everything else looks like specks of dust. K’uhul Ajaw is the Sun at day, Death at night, and Rebirth at all times. K’uhul Ajaw is the one whose warriors will one day come to destroy all. K’uhul Ajaw is divinity that burns until it is not and comes ablaze once more, a lord over the realm beyond life, and war all in one.
(Or at least, he should be. He rightfully is, no matter who tries to deny his claim.)
K’uhul Ajaw would never have fallen for a human.
Ajaw, however, would. He committed the greatest offence his own kin thought as banned, and he—
He doesn’t care.
He knows what heartbreak looks like, and this is not quite it. Heartbreak is thunderous screeches and lightning-fast sobs, tears that fall unending and a land cursed beyond hope. Heartbreak is not breathing life into a body and getting possessiveness back, some leftover of Kinich trying to cling on to the mortal realm by latching on to Ajaw and never letting go.
It may take years for Kinich’s soul to be cognizant of the world once more, but he isn’t gone. He might have been severed from his body but he isn’t gone. And Ajaw, or rather, K’uhul Ajaw, is exactly the person needed to bring him back in due time.
His Kinich can be positive at times, he probably is expecting Ajaw to break some laws of nature for him.
Well, things to think about later. Right now he is… pretending Kinich is asleep, and not stuck in an unreachable-as-of-yet place as a mass of feelings that consist mainly of overprotectiveness, a dark-tinted love, and impatience.
Impatience for what, exactly, Ajaw doesn’t know, but he knows what to do about the other two.
As large as he is in this form, he can’t go any ‘lower’ without collapsing. He isn’t unsealed, Kinich simply managed to break the uppermost layers of his long-time nemesis, which puts him a little closer to K’uhul Ajaw without letting him go past half of his true self. He doesn’t have full control of his shapeshifting, nor does he have control over the full extent of his abilities, but he can keep Kinich warm. It isn’t like this is the first time he has used this appearance, for what he is planning on doing.
Kinich looks as if he is sleeping. He is just sleeping. That’s all.
Since Kinich is sleeping, and Ajaw has permission to do anything so long as it doesn’t hinder tomorrow’s work, he leans down to take what he craves. He licks a strip of wet warmth from Kinich’s collarbone to his neck, planning on leaving a dark mark on the hollow of his throat, on top of the Wayob’s blessing that doesn’t work anymore and that he hates so much— but he ends up getting a mouthful of bandages as a reward.
Right, Kinich is injured. Ajaw braces himself with his forearms at each side of Kinich’s head and hums thoughtfully. His favourite spots to play with, Kinich’s pretty and annoyingly branded throat and his left nipple —more sensitive than the right one because it has a scar, one from years before Ajaw—, are covered with bandages, so it is pointless to go after them. The second spots… are available, because Ajaw took all the earrings out, so Kinich’s ears are naked and free for the taking.
They never did get that extra piercing.
Maybe later.
As he tugs at an earlobe with his fangs, the tip getting annoyingly caught in the pierced skin as always, he thumbs at Kinich’s right nipple, the not-as-fun one, and reaches with an arm towards his waist. He doesn’t need permission, but he still taps Kinich’s side twelve times in a pattern he has long memorized. It is just an extra step in their play, but one he has followed dutifully because the one time he didn’t Kinich locked him up in the wristband for a few hours.
If Kinich was alive awake, this is where he would roll his eyes with a huff and shuffle his hips closer to Ajaw, trying to get comfortable on his lap. This is also when Ajaw would look down at his hand, at Kinich’s waist, and be amazed at how small his Kinich is: Ajaw’s hands can wrap around his waist completely and still have all his fingers free. He would marvel for a bit, for a while, until Kinich’s chest flushed red in embarrassment and he would start goading Ajaw on to continue.
Ajaw is big in this form, he knows this, Kinich knows it: he is easily twice the size of an average human —not even an average Natlani human, who are slightly shorter on average than others, but just a regular human. He is too large, and currently he feels even larger. Today, Ajaw prefers not to raise his head to look down, not to confront the fact that his Kinich looks even smaller now than he usually is. Smaller, more breakable, fragile like glass and still so very pretty.
‘Little Kinich’ fits him better now than it ever did before.
He leaves the earlobe alone and kisses the side of Kinich’s head, then his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips once more, breathing our warmth to feel that spark of life again. Kinich is still there, bright and blinding. Ajaw murmurs to him some more words before moving on, bending awkwardly to mouth at Kinich’s chest, taking his nipple into his mouth and nibbling at it.
Give Ajaw two nipples and he can be entertained for hours, really. He has done so before, both when Kinich was asleep and when he was awake, and it always ended up with him getting distracted from whatever else he was planning on doing. They are just so cute, these human organs: he has teased them with his mouth, and claws and fangs, scales and fur and feathers, for his own fun and also to watch Kinich slowly lose himself in desperation.
Kinich hated it, or so he claimed. He would always end up a quivering mess, facing away from Ajaw and covering his face with his arms, almost sobbing as he begged Ajaw to move on with a broken voice, if he was awake. At times he would even come just from it, and then be embarrassed for days after. It is adorable and one of the main reasons Ajaw likes playing with them.
Today he moves on quickly, though: there is no quivering Kinich holding back his moans and cries, no feet either kicking at his sides or toeing at his length as Kinich’s breathing gets heavier, no heated gazes from underneath the flimsy cover of Kinich’s own arms or the blankets, not anything. There is also no chance Kinich will wake up, so Ajaw quickly lets go, wraps an arm around Kinich and brings him up, letting him lean heavily on Ajaw with his head resting on his shoulder.
There will also not be any bite marks left on Ajaw’s shoulders and neck, no scratch marks on his back, no feathers getting plucked out by hands tightening unconsciously, nothing at all.
Ajaw holds Kinich close with an arm wrapped around his waist, his other hand resting on his lover’s hip so he can reach down, down to where he is always soft and pliant for Ajaw, a warm invitation to come home or ruin all of Kinich’s chances with the Wayob, one or the other. It is usually both, as Kinich latches on to Ajaw so lovely it is difficult to resist.
He presses a finger in, not worrying about lubrication. Then another. Then a third one, all without resistance. His inhumanly long fingers reach deep inside and he knows Kinich’s body like it is his own —which it is—, so it isn’t difficult to find the bundle of nerves that can make his Kinich go crazy energetic, partially aggressive, or become a limp doll for Ajaw’s pleasure.
He doesn’t know what triggers which response, but he does know any of them usually end up the same: Kinich, writhing on the pillows and blankets, hands often ripping anything unfortunate enough to be what they latch on to, back arching prettily (like everything Kinich is and does, really) and neck bared for Ajaw to mark and ruin as always. Be it he is begging and screaming himself raw, muffling his voice by biting on fabric, or just staring almost emptily to the side with the occasional adorable gasp or tiny moan, it is almost always the same.
At times, when he is slightly more composed, he will have his arms around Ajaw, whispering into his ear with a dark and low voice that sends shivers down Ajaw’s spine. At times he will be more desperate, nails or teeth digging into Ajaw’s shoulders or back or neck and scratching until blood comes out as he pleads and pleads, almost as if begging for his life.
(At times, a few times at most and always after he barely escaped death as it swung down on his head leaving a nick behind on his neck, he would throw away their usual dynamic of letting Ajaw toy with him endlessly. Those times, he would skip this one step and shove Ajaw back on their nest almost right after they came home, barely waiting for him to shapeshift and get comfortable before he took matters into his own hands, lining himself up with Ajaw’s length before sinking down painstakingly slow.
He would be even more beautiful than usual, those times: the moonlight coming in from the window made him look ethereal, the reflections of light from each of Ajaw’s trinkets casting him under a mosaic of colours that Ajaw, and only Ajaw out of everyone in this wide world, could perceive. Kinich would throw himself into his own little rare role and act of a tease, taking his time even though he always said he lived in a race of adrenaline and danger, setting up a pace that made Ajaw feel like screaming in frustration and switching their positions to take back control.
He never did, though. Those few times he allowed Kinich to take full control, carving into his memories the sight in front of him: Kinich, seated on his lap rolling his hips to seek his own pleasure or lifting himself on his knees before sinking back down at a torturous pace, wreathed in flames and pleasure and love, no haste or hurry to his movements. Ajaw would take in Kinich’s trembling arms supporting him on Ajaw’s chest, his fluttering eyelashes and Ajaw’s name falling from his lips like thick ichor whenever he managed a particularly tricky angle, the way his stomach would ripple with the strain of each controlled movement. He would take in Kinich’s voice, his sweet moans or quiet whimpers or small gasps, the dark and possessive whispers and moans of ‘Ajaw’ and ‘mine’, the quivering ‘please’s’, the almost unintelligible and lingering declarations of ‘I love you’, all coming out freely without even a hint of Kinich trying to silence himself as he usually did.
Ajaw would take it all in: the slow pace, the weak tremble of Kinich’s legs at his sides, the sounds, the words, the way Kinich looked at him as if he was the world and even more with eyes that were completely focused instead of half-lost in a daze of not-being-quite-present as they always were when at home, the thump thump of Kinich’s heart beating stronger than usual, the unshed tears. He would take it all in and hold it in his overflowing heart, not knowing what to do with everything Kinich offered him willingly nor how to give it back, watching in worry and fear and desperation and proud satisfaction as Kinich used pleasure to slowly put everything that made him ‘Saurian Hunter’ and ‘Scion of the Canopy’ and ‘Hero of Natlan’ and even ‘Malipo Kinich’ on Ajaw’s hands to do as he pleased, feeling how Kinich became only ‘Ajaw’s Lover’ and ‘K’uhul Ajaw’s Ah K’in’ and ‘sacrifice’ and being unable to get rid of the last one.
Ajaw carved the sights and the sounds and the feelings and the vaguely salty taste of Kinich’s kisses all in his memories and held on to everything Kinich laid out for him like offerings on an altar, waiting for the day when Kinich would ask for his identity and his reasons for living beyond the war back. He waited, and tried to return them, only for Kinich to do the same when death almost claimed him once again, and then Ajaw waited again for Kinich to be in a better state of mind so he could take back his everything, but Kinich would always put his whole being in Ajaw’s possession, down at Ajaw’s feet, and he would always refuse to take it back.
Ajaw knew that, past all the confidence and nonchalance he put on for the sake of others, Kinich didn’t see much worth to himself nor his actions, surviving only because it was what was expected of him, being unable to slow down because when he did the weight of his own feelings would drown him. Ajaw knew that Kinich only saw value in life so long as he could get some benefit out of it, knew that Kinich only stayed where he was because he had a reason to be there and someone keeping him in place, that being Ajaw himself. Ajaw knew that Kinich valued himself below the others, low enough for him to die for them, a cruel exchange of prices and rewards that never considered ‘Kinich being alive’ as a valid outcome.
Ajaw knows, and has known for a while, that if not for Ajaw’s existence and curiosity, Kinich would never have left those ruins alive. He knows, and has known for a while, that if not for Ajaw, Kinich would have had no plans to survive past the war that has been his ‘fate’ and ‘duty’ since birth. Ajaw knows, and has known for a while, that Kinich simply doesn’t care and that the adrenaline of exposing himself to danger time and time again only to come out alive is the one thing that keeps him moving and getting up each morning.
Ajaw knows, and has known for far too little time, that ever since Ajaw claimed Kinich as ‘his’, Kinich began respecting his life a little more, simply because it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Ajaw knew, knows all this, yet he still went to fight away from Kinich at his request —because the idea of not doing what Kinich asks is simply unbearable when they share everything they are, even if the idea of being away from Kinich became painful years ago—, leaving Kinich defenceless to make stupid choices that could have been avoided if Ajaw had been just a little closer, if he had realized a second sooner, if he had pushed himself to his limits to beat the enemies faster and returned to Kinich’s side that he should never have left.
Ajaw knows all of this, and for that he hates himself.)
Ajaw blinks quickly, trying to get rid of the wetness behind his eyelids, and he notices everything has become a blurry mess. Ah, this is so embarrassing: his fingers are still inside Kinich, Kinich is still in his arms, he can still feel the light of a lingering soul burning brightly inside the body, yet here he is, crying. Crying for no reason, too, since, well, didn’t he get what he wanted?
Of course not.
He isn’t dense like his dumb servant. He has been aware of his feelings for years now, but he never expected Kinich to reciprocate them. He has been aware because he is a Dragon and he is possessive of his things and Kinich has always been his, maybe since millennia ago and until today and even further beyond. Kinich belongs to Ajaw. Ajaw belongs to Kinich. Those are just facts.
Ajaw is careful to not let Kinich fall back as he tilts his head for a kiss, short and sweet as it should be had Kinich been alive awake, because at times the realization of how much he loves this man crashes on his head and heart all at once and Ajaw has always done as he pleases. Lips, cheeks, each lock of hair he can take between his fingers without endangering Kinich’s precarious position, then lips again and again and again, whispering the words he always does when they are together like this.
He twists his fingers inside Kinich, but there is no response. Today, Kinich is limp in Ajaw’s arms, so Ajaw lets the man rest his head on his shoulder as he stretches him some more. Ajaw is not small, not in length or width, and it is always endearing to watch Kinich glow bright red, eyes slightly unfocused, as he touches Ajaw with almost hypnotized motions: no matter how many times he sees them, Kinich will always let out a small sound of amazement and mild fear at the sight.
His body might be always willing, with walls that part easily and cling to Ajaw like a vice, but his mind can’t quite comprehend the size and shape and… everything else. He was especially cute their first time, when he helped Ajaw coat himself in lotion, hands curious like a child with a brand new toy or Kinich when he sees ancient mechanisms in ruins, lips half parted with the occasional whimper breaking out. Adorable, really. He always is.
Even now, limp and injured as he is, he is adorable. Small, fitting between Ajaw’s arms like he was something Ajaw had always been missing, small and beautiful and so very still and Ajaw’s most precious treasure. Just the sight of him, naked and defenceless, makes Ajaw hard, a conditioned response to seeing his lover in the ambience of their room and their nest.
He pulls his fingers out after a short time and strokes his hard lengths a few times each, spreading the precum to make things easier —he doesn’t want to move to get the lotion/oil bottle that is… somewhere in this mess (Kinich is the one with object permanence, not him; if it isn’t in plain sight, it doesn’t exist to Ajaw). He gets off his knees because they are almost numb now and instead uses his legs as Kinich’s support while he tries to figure out how to do this. He has taken Kinich while he was sleeping before, but he unconsciously clings to Ajaw, which he isn’t going to do today, so maybe he should put him down on his back again?
Or just figure it out as it happens, whatever.
He gives Kinich another kiss, rubbing their tongues against one another, sucking lightly on Kinich’s tongue before nibbling on his lower lip, all as he grabs Kinich by the hip and brings him down on his lower cock —as always, being inside feels like coming to a cosy home, where someone waits with a warm fire, a blanket and food… Except today, the warmth isn’t there today, just the tightness. Ajaw sighs, partly in relief, partly in disappointment, but he makes sure Kinich is well supported by his legs before raising him slightly and bringing him down again.
The friction is the same, but it is also not. His upper cock rubs nicely against Kinich’s crotch, as always, but it isn’t as fun with Kinich being soft as he is. Even their kisses, which lean on either extreme between slow and lazy and heated and aggressive even when Kinich is asleep, aren’t the same without feeling Kinich’s breathing growing unsteady and harsh.
Conclusion: nothing is as fun as it would be if Kinich was alive awake.
He sets up a slow pace, moving Kinich up and down as if he had all the time in the world, which he does. Slow. Steady. There is no need for haste, there is no urgency, and there is nothing outside this house that could harm them. Slow. Steady. Kinich’s head falls forward once and Ajaw doesn’t like that, so he changes their positions so Kinich can lean on his shoulder again. Slow. Steady.
There is no need to hurry. Kinich isn’t alive awake to complain, and Ajaw is a Dragon: he can be at this for hours, maybe even a day if he wanted —though lately he never has done so, because he is unable to resist Kinich—, and he is planning on doing exactly that. He will make sure Kinich can feel everything even in that unreachable place he has been forced into, everything from the slow drag of Ajaw pulling out, to the slower pressure of him thrusting inside, to the strain of his hips from wanting to move faster, to… everything else.
He sets a brutally slow pace, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
It feels like no time has passed at all when his legs get tired, so he changes their positions, holding Kinich close to his front so his back meets Ajaw’s chest. Like this, he has a hand less to help him move Kinich up and down, but he has an extra hand to explore his chest. It isn’t as nice as he hoped it would be, considering so much of it is covered in bandages and patches of gauze, but if Kinich was alive awake he would absolutely hate it, so Ajaw keeps them in this position for some time.
Kinich likes seeing Ajaw (something about reassurance), so they rarely do it like this unless Ajaw promises to give in to whatever weird whim Kinich gets when he sees baby Saurians. Ajaw absolutely hates sharing his Kinich with baby Saurians so he doesn’t agree often, but at times it is nice, to be able to hold Kinich from this angle.
Like this, Kinich feels immensely smaller than ever before, nestled safely between Ajaw’s arms, knees tucked to his chest as if he was getting ready to sleep for a whole day —something he did at times, when Ajaw told him to, when he would wrap himself inside a few soft blankets a fetal position and not move for hours. Like this, Ajaw is free to lay endless kisses on every inch of Kinich’s uncovered skin, his shoulders, part of his neck, his back, bending his own back uncomfortably to be able to reach everywhere he can. Like this, it is very clear who Kinich belongs to, who can keep him safest, against whatever his supposed friends always claimed.
His lover, his Kinich. Here, in their house, in their nest, and his arms.
(He failed, though.)
He continues with his slow, slow pace, changing their positions every once in a while. He rests on his side and holds Kinich’s leg up, murmuring sweet nothings and other rougher words. He pins Kinich down on their nest, bracing his arms at each side of his head and ignoring the wet, salty drops staining Kinich’s cheeks. He holds him impossibly close and kisses him, kisses him again and again and again, and once more.
Kinich loves him. He said so at the end.
Ajaw loves him back, and for that reason he will not allow Kinich to ever find rest.
Now, if Kinich was alive sleeping, he would long have woken up from Ajaw’s actions. He would wake up, stirring slowly before he became aware of Ajaw’s thrusts. His expression might slip into annoyance for a few seconds and then he would just accept what Ajaw is doing with a sigh and cling closer to him.
A sigh, a moan, a breathless and pointless complaint; he would call Ajaw’s name either sweetly or groggily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while trying to hide his face, and Ajaw would grab his arms so he couldn’t hide anything ever again. Kinich would take what Ajaw gives him even while half-asleep, half-aware of what is happening and partly confused, but he would take it. He would give himself to Ajaw time and time again, only worrying about things like time and work when the wristband would beep in the remainder of some or other thing they had to do.
Only then would he beg with that sweet voice of his, he would begin growing desperate, eager to return to his race of a life barely worth living if Ajaw hadn’t been there —Ajaw isn’t being haughty, this is just what Kinich had said before. Kinich would offer Ajaw the world to be allowed to come, to come so they can return to their usual way of life, and Ajaw would accept, but only once he has drawn out a promise from Kinich to take care of himself, to not overdo it, to take care of the life that doesn’t belong to just him anymore.
Said promises take longer to get at times, and Ajaw would not stop until Kinich was tearful and sobbing, barely able to speak. Of course, the reason why Kinich isn’t able to voice his promise is because of Ajaw, so in the end, both of them fall for whatever Ajaw wants to do.
But eventually, he would accept, accept the world offered, the words and the gifts of a soul willingly shared, the tears and blood and sweat that Kinich uses to paint designs on Ajaw’s horns and chest and face, accept everything Kinich proudly is and shamefully refuses to be. He would accept, because he has known all there is about Kinich for ages, as happens when one shares everything with another, as happens when one can rip open another’s chest and take out what makes them them and slowly untangle the mess of threads inside until the other knows nothing but love and care.
At times, even after accepting everything, when Ajaw felt more desperate, more needy, he would hold on to Kinich tightly, and his fingers would wrap around the base of his cock to keep him from coming as he continued his wild thrusts. He would receive a wail for his actions, possibly be berated for breaking the contract if Kinich was coherent enough to think, but all he would do is continue with his sweet torture, making sure Kinich could feel everything and be aware of nothing but him.
Only Ajaw.
Always Ajaw.
And only Kinich can make him reach that level of ruthless devotion. Maybe Kinich has been the only one ever since Ajaw came to awareness—
But, well, that would only happen if Kinich was alive awake, woken by Ajaw’s ministrations and selfish actions. Which he isn’t right now, so Ajaw can continue with his slow love-making for however long he wants.
For however long, and even further along.
Ajaw becomes one with Kinich, and Kinich becomes one with Ajaw, and even in death and life and mourning he lets his mind fade.
The world that greets him is dark and black and iridescent blue, the sky swirling with colours he hasn’t been allowed to see in a long time. Nature and Fire bend to his will, for he is K’uhul Ajaw, and he is the Sun and Death and Rebirth all in one. He, who was once made to be from a simple desire to exist, he who should have protected this land from birth to unexplainable demise, he stands in this world that has not belonged to him in a long while now.
All is stolen by the Usurper, even the very nature of the being. What he used to be he cannot be anymore, for there is someone else claiming this realm as theirs, and he is not strong enough yet to reclaim his rightful throne.
One day.
One day he will be K’uhul Ajaw once more, the Divine Lord whose warriors will one day come to destroy all so he —or rather, another fool, one who fell in love with humanity as a whole, one who is rivers and lakes and fountains in Celestia and mirrors in the Abyss— can remake it all. One day he will be K’uhul Ajaw once more, and together with his cohort of Dragonkin who unwarrantedly dug a place into his heart as, get this, friends, together they will put the world to rights once more.
One who became a single rock, watching from a burial not of his own making. One who became a single breeze of laughter and songs and sorrowful tears. One who came to love a mortal and became spilt blood and dispersed lightning, unable to reform once more. One who yet lives in anger and righteous hatred, the only one he knows holds their true nature. One fool who loved his own creations too much, and one fool who had too many emotions to be contained.
Finally, K’uhul Ajaw, ruler over Death.
(Or well, ruler over the afterlife, the realm of souls; it is all the same in the end.)
This is not his realm anymore, though. That doesn’t change the fact that it reflects what he wants to see at the moment, his Ah K’in proudly waiting for him, breathing and existing and looking and feeling lighter than he ever did in life.
“I do not regret it,” K’iinich, dressed like an offering to be sacrificed, says from where he sits atop a black slab of obsidian. “And you should not either.”
“Bah, regret?” Ajaw clicks his tongue and reaches to wrap his arms around his K’iinich, kissing the crown of his head and his temples and his cheeks before he claims his lips. “I stopped feeling that long ago.”
K’iinich accepts his kisses with a warm hum, his own arms coming around Ajaw’s neck, the chains around his wrists jingling in a damning tune. He looks flawless and uninjured, unlike his physical body, but Ajaw will make sure the body reflects this reality soon —maybe without the chains, though.
Most importantly, he looks beautiful, as he has always done, and if Ajaw regrets one thing, it is not realizing his feelings sooner.
“You are in charge now,” K’iinich says against his lips, shaping the words purposely even if he doesn’t speak them out loud.
“When have I ever been not?” Ajaw doesn’t care, though, pinning his Ah K’in down on his sacrificial altar and mouthing at his neck. He gets a soft moan for his troubles, so he nibbles at the skin to get an even louder sound in response.
He doesn’t get to hear it, as his K’iinich pushes him away ever so slightly.
“Right, you have always been in charge.”
Ajaw pulls back, away, looking down at his lovely belonging without an ounce of sorrow in his eyes. He is here, waiting, and he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He is here, no wounds in sight, hair haloing his head in a rare state without beads or braids, beautiful and perfect and solely Ajaw’s.
“Win,” K’iinich says, eyes half-lidded with love and wonder, a small smile on his lips and hands clenched and unclenching on Ajaw’s shoulders. “Win, for me.”
“Of course.” He wasn’t planning on doing anything else.
“For Natlan?”
“No,” he admits, leaning down to kiss his Ah K’in’s lips once more. “Only for you.”
K’iinich laughs, clear and light and unburdened by his cruel fate, and Ajaw—
Ajaw can only smile.
Ajaw wakes up. It is the cruel truth of life: after sleep, one wakes up, no matter how pleasant one’s dreams are or how much one wants to remain asleep, to live in a world of fantasy where the loved one is still at his side.
Unfortunately, one must wake up, and go fight wars in the name of the loved one.
Ajaw wakes up with his length still inside Kinich, just as he has done many times in the past, just as he went to sleep. The fact that Kinich isn’t alive awake alive is irrelevant, because he is still there, somewhere, and so Ajaw will take care of him as if he were still around. That’s just how things are meant to work: the body is theirs, not just Kinich’s, not just Ajaw’s, and it will be treasured the way they do each other.
As he does every day, Ajaw kisses Kinich, slow and careful to not wake him up, and then pulls out of him with a hiss. Maybe he overdid it —no, he definitely overdid it, he is sore all over and he can feel his body fading into phlogiston no matter how much of his seal has come undone. A pity, but something of every other day, just the cruel reality of having his body destroyed all those millennia ago.
He retrieves the water basin and the rags to clean Kinich again, then checks on the wounds and cleans them, again, and redresses them, again, so his Kinich’s will look at least alive enough for him to bear with it. Makeup might be a need from now on if Kinich will continue looking so pale, though his blood is still flowing through, sluggishly from the piece of Ajaw’s soul in the body. Makeup, maybe a change in clothes…
Maybe he needs to speak with Mavuika about his new identity or something. Things to think about later.
He brushes some feathers off Kinich’s hair —he has no idea how they got there, they will vanish along with the rest of his current body either way, but he also doesn’t want Kinich’s hair to get burnt from his demanifestation. Feathers, feathers… bits of fur he shed around, a scale that fell off from his hand, ouch, how did he miss that…?
He watches the fake blood with disinterest and then just shakes his hand to get rid of the feeling. Not like this is a real body…
Kinich’s body is real, though.
Ajaw does a quick maintenance run on his wristband, going in to check the seal: partially undone, flickering at the edges, one day soon it will be completely gone. He checks on Kinich’s notes for the day, as he does every day, though there isn’t much planned from yesterday and towards the rest of the week: partly-scheduled battle against the Abyss, scheduled supply run if we survive. Get fruit for Ajaw, go hunt for some meat, there is a deerskin he was working on, some runs for Michica as every day, visit Xilonen or Citlali for the issue with his Ancient Name; all pointless things now that Kinich is no longer wearing the body.
He connects his wristband to Kinich and hops into the body, but soon realizes it was a terrible idea.
“Ow my life hurts…!”
Yeah, the body hurts everywhere. He isn’t leaving, though, he earned his right to be here.
His movements are a little stiff and he feels a little cold, but it is not a problem for now. He quickly throws on the loosest clothes they own, tries to braid his hair only to give up partways, picks up the Vision that is finally done flickering and decided to stay lit, and then lays down on the hammock pretending everything is alright.
Inside him, next to his heart, he can feel Kinich’s soul brightening in cruel amusement, just a little at the payback for spending a whole night, and more, fucking a dead body.
Yeah, they are going to be alright.
They will be just fine.