Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Innocent ✩ ✩ ✩

Աsually there didn’t need to be so much talking, but a blue moon must have been shining on the old Sanctuary. Pope Ares didn’t mind working in the dark of night, but he would have rather not had to don the mother’s apron. Alone in his chamber with that loyal fool who’d polish a piece of cerulean sea glass b’tween his thumb and forefinger, constantly jumping from deep in thought to alert as if he’d heard his name called.

     He was silent for a trifle too long. Those dark green eyes smoldered into shiny bloodstone as he stared into the basins of fire. Illuminated by the orange flames, a whisper of his shadow swayed smoke lines on the tapestry b’hind Pope Ares’s golden throne. That man’s soul must have played round the rows of Greek columns that lined the grand halls. In the jeweled moonlight from the wide skylight that cooled the royal red carpets trimmed in gold thread. Danced in the stars that drew out their constellations. Dissipated within the air with their breaths and the lull of night. Because he simply wasn’t there. It was wise not to rouse those who stared off into their thoughts, but Pope Ares was wiser.

     “Shura.” The Pope put a bite in it like he were calling a hound.

     And those gemstone irises were swallowed by a growing black pupil when he showed his face. Eyebrows pulled back to reveal the whites of his eyes, stained with tired pink threads. A familiar face he’d make when he ruminated. But not quite the same face from all those years ago when he signed himself away.

     “I saw Aiolia the other day.” He was unbearably slow.

     Standing directly next to Pope Ares’s throne in service was an honor, the hand on his shoulder was enough to make the Capricornus Saint kneel. There was a satisfying clatter of his armor, the gleam of those horns was more than regal, too bad his face told a different tale. Cute as a puppy, Shura, despite being stiff, had a flopsy-ness to him. So, he’d earn the hand on his hair, then maybe a tickle under his chin. The tilt of his head and his attempt towards a confused face was unmistakably begging for a doggie cookie. And maybe a quiet sort of groan when the long nails scratched b’hind his ears. Pope Ares almost let himself laugh.

     “You did such a good job.”

     Those brows pulled back again, but caught a warmer glimmer. The Pope said what he said, but the fool must have heard who’s a good boy? Or maybe he was simply reminded.

     “It was for the good of the Sanctuary. For Athena.” Pope Ares said, trying a lullaby tone.

     “Aiolos.” He pursed his lips to keep from showing the terror in his eyes again. “I did it.”

     “Most of the others wouldn’t. Or wouldn’t be able to.”

     When those thoughts tugged his attention to orbit again, the Pope figured it was time for the clicker and the treat. The suction of the preserve jar lid was enough to make the man at least blink after so much staring. And like a good little drone, he kept his mouth open a hair to watch his master ease the pit out of a shiny purple Kalamata, still slick with the tang of vinegar.

     “Eat.” The Pope said.

     And Shura listened because he always did. A babyish hum came b’fore the pitted olive was rolled b’hind his teeth. Usually, Tamahagane cold with his slow quietness, the Saint of Capricornus almost became demure when he closed his eyes to chew. So delicious it was when he hid himself in shyness—showing his belly like a terrier. It was too bad that Shura, just like the rest would be gone soon.

     “You’re loyal to me, aren’t you?” The Pope said.

     “I am.” After the olive was swallowed, he chewed on his words.

     A master at looking awkward, he had a hesitation in his voice. There he went again, questioning, grasping at innocence in that big empty head of his. And fuzzy in the eyes he must have taken off into his mind, once more bringing the chill. Without that loyal moron’s presence, the room was too cold.

     ‘Neath the crimson mask, Pope Ares didn’t stifle a snarling frown. Both of them were guilty, was it truly such a big deal? Every man was guilty of something, nothing they do, did, or had done in the light or the dark night was truly any different from any other sin. It was only natural.

     “Why do you ruminate so much?” Pope Ares said, trying to be kind, if he was even capable.

     “I don’t.” A steady lie Shura had been Pavlov-ed into telling when he was pushed too far.

     “No. You don’t trust in me. That must be it.”

     “I do.”

     That wasn’t quite good enough. Fully worked up, those dark brows pulled back in distant horror more than a means to placate. The Pope had been fond of a subordinate so obliged and steadfast, not such a terrified rat. Even the caress with the pad of his thumb ‘cross that loyal fool’s cheek, wiping where the single traumatized tear would trail, didn’t do the trick of soothing. What was with those fearful eyes—looking almost as the Pope’s, they were bloodshot and achy.

     Did that man know his god wouldn’t approve? Did he know she would deem them guilty when he wanted so acutely to be innocent in her eyes?

     Damn it all, what a ridiculous idea, the Pope tightened his grip round his pet, the thumb that once was gentle drew dangerously close to the windpipe. It didn’t matter ‘bout guilt or innocence, as the overseer of that Sanctuary, all that mattered was what he wanted. Shura understood that much so far. The flicker of those eyes back to reality, absolutely bloodstone ‘gainst the roaring pyres proved it.

     “Of course, I trust you, Pope Ares.” That’s what he wanted.

     At that time, he could convince himself he wanted that more than the Capricornus Gold Cloth. More than his plan. So acutely did he want it that he took his hand away from where he would have snapped the bell collar and lifted his mask.

     There was a muffled noise the dog made and tried to swallow down. Typical of a frog to start croaking in the face of a swan. Shura had a roughness to him. Not as pretty as the others, he was dowdy as he lacked a certain shine. But he turned fair when those brows loosened and his lip quivered when Saga let his white hair spring up and flow languidly when it was tossed.

     “I trust you, Saga.”

     He relaxed his eyes as if sleep tugged at the lids, and his mouth hung open, betraying speech with pieces of half gasps and sighs escaping. Adoration looked good on those who were so pitiful. But was it really adoration that Saga wanted?

     Darkness of ev’ry kind and proximity of the body could set a man aflame and make a once innocent enough thought drip with black guilt. It wasn’t quite enough to look down and see that man—just like his now master—kink his neck and gaze up at him as if he were The Creation of Adam. Maybe he’d be more tender if the thumb when to his cheek again.

     “I don’t quite like ‘Saga’.” He used to, but as of recent, his sentiment became more true.

     “Pope Ares.”

     “Try armoire.” It had been so long since he whispered that he ran a shiver down both their spines when he leaned in to smell the salt on that man’s neck.

     “Mi amor.”

     That was it. That was what Saga wanted. He took that man’s chin in his hand to turn his face from side-to-side, not quite to look at it, but to ensure those eyes followed him. Without sounding like he was correcting his master’s shoddy Spanish, Shura’s voice was creamy. And he never fussed when he was touched, obedient ‘nuff to hum something of an affirmative when he was brought closer and handled. Shura had become a trusty Great Pyrenees, as valuable as two men. Perhaps it was time to pull on his leash.

     “That’s what I want.”

     “Si tú quieres, yo quiero, amor.”

     There was no need for anymore words after that, Shura was so good at fulfilling wicked whims. So proficient at being led past the curtains, down the long hallways, outside to the balcony with the sprawling mattress dressed in red velvet. So entirely excellent at being upside down and backward, crying to the moon like the dog he was.

     Perhaps the Capricornus Gold Cloth was in Saga’s possession for a small spell. It would be completely his in a little while, but for then, he’d lay with its current owner. Finally distracted from his guilt and worry, he fought sleep. So faithful Shura was, that he did what he was supposed to and whispered little things in his native tongue, one foot in a dream, one leg b’tween his master’s.

     It had been so acutely what Saga wanted.

✩ ✩ ✩ Amor ✩ ✩ ✩

AFTERNOON PLACED THE SUN HIGH IN THE BLUE GREEK SKY. But it was still much too cold without his lap dog to warm him. And much too uncomfortable as Shura had left his guilty stink b’hind, the kind that made the Pope want to pace, and wring his hands. Look over the Sanctuary, to Athena’s Colossus and worry. To pull his eyelids back and think of all the things that used to be.

     So, to relieve the itch and remember who he was, he’d do the thing he typically did and rally one of his pawns.

     Rose essence was sweet enough to calm his nerves when it swam through the room once the great door opened. Pope Ares could always rely on the other Saints to approach him with their pretty chests puffed and bow their heads like the knights they tried to be. But the most beautiful of them all came with a crimson rose in his mouth, easing in with slow and wide steps, and coating the thorns powder pink with his glossed lips.

     Knowing as a mouse, the Pisces Saint would bypass taking the noble knee when he was sure they were alone—and would be for quite a while. Sauntering up to take his place by his master’s side, teasing a try at climbing in his lap with a courtesan’s flirty cut of the eyes and a dancer’s limber gait.

     And when he’d bend his back and put those hands on the Pope’s arm when the armrest of his throne would have done, he could steal breath out of the lungs.

     “I came, just like you said, Pope Ares.” After the rose was plucked from his mouth, those lips came entirely too close to the Pope’s begging neck. “Ain’t that nice of me?”

     “It was expected of you, Aphrodite.”

     “I always meet expectations, don’t I?”

     Mmm, Pope Ares was sure if he had a looking glass, his neck might have been stained carnation on his left side as his most gorgeous pawn switched to his right. That thin model-esque hand unabashedly rubbed a tight circle on his chest. And his Saint was sneaky with his other, grabbing gingerly at the Pope’s darkened hair to bring it to his narrow straight nose.

     “Of course, mi amor.” The Pope said.

     Just as the tales of the god of war and goddess of love, Aphrodite could make Pope Ares say just about anything as he’d been so in love. And anything he did say, as the Saint of Pisces often didn’t meet any expectations. Too much of a wheedling pink smile, a bit of a weakling due to laziness and pride. And he was known to run off to play as well as abscond with his little friend. The fairest Saint was and would be Pope Ares’s prettiest little object, but such was prizes—like the damn Sagittarius Cloth—they had a way of creasing the brow when they evaded their true owners who so acutely wanted them.

     The thought stiffened the Pope’s shoulders and like a regular kitten, Aphrodite kneaded them and purred something sweet. Mi amor? You’re funny, Pope Ares. Proper cajolers had something of a magic touch, the steady massage was naughty enough to relax his top half but excite every muscle in the bottom.

     “So, why’d you call me? Miss me?” Aphrodite said letting his fair hair tickled the Pope’s collarbone when he did his work trying to melt him down.

     Such indignance, Pope Ares tried to scowl to himself, but he felt himself be carried off by the whim of a seraphim. The Pisces Knight had no business asking those airy questions of his master, putting his hands anywhere near him, flipping that bouncy aqua hair and blinking with his cyan tide pool eyes. Building alliances where they needn’t be and being loyal to anyone other than his master. Pope Ares wouldn’t even allow that man to be loyal to his own beautiful self.

     “A little birdie told me you’ve been gallivanting. I had to remind you of where your loyalty lies.” The Pope only assumed.

     “Never. My job being right under you is too important.” Aphrodite said a little too kindly. “Deathmask’s just my acquaintance, promise.”

     Damn liar. Shura would have already been taken over Pope Ares’s knee and flogged if he were to act so cheeky and disloyal. But he couldn’t do that to his beautiful Aphrodite, those round eyes, shiny as mirrors dressed with fluffy dark pageant lashes were nothing but a snare.

     One day he’d have to punish his love to realize his plan. But while the others would be crushed under the Pope’s hand and all the galaxy, he couldn’t let a body as lithe and artisan as Aphrodite’s be ruined. As much as he wanted to send someone so disobedient to another dimension then drop them on the pavement, perhaps he’d let that man wander forever in a time the never was. If that was even what he wanted, Athena help his soul.

     “I miss the old times, Saga.” Aphrodite committed the sin of revealing his master’s face, pulling off the mask with those skinny fingers.

     Never did Saga think his lover could bend space and time as he could. Gaping up at those pouting lips, the charming beauty mark and the hypnotic crystal eyes of a nymph, they were standing on level ground, sent to the past. The place he so acutely wanted to be.

     Was it over so soon? No, that time he would savor it. The feeling of those silken lips on his, the heat of that body, the shape of a perfect Roman marble, in his lap. Aphrodite had given Saga what he wanted, as his Pisces Gold Cloth folded into its box and was placed by his feet as those thin fingers caressed his cheeks. Those lips not letting go of his.

     It would have been so easy to wrap his claws round his Aphrodite’s neck and latch on ‘till the Pisces Gold Cloth was completely his. To open the wormhole to nowhere and let such a perfect flower drift of in the breeze forever. But when they pulled their heads away—the sound of their lips separating delivering the first chill—Saga had been swayed again by the face of an angel.

     He could tell from the heavy inhale and the tightness of his chest, his expression betrayed him. Brows pulled back, he felt the stretch of his eyelids when he begged himself, why. Why would he want to do such a thing to his amor. And before the room got too cold and his mind took him to his reality, his Aphrodite used his own Another Dimension to keep him anchored to the past.

     “I know what you need. What you’ve been wanting.”

     That’s what he wanted. He wanted it so acutely that he followed b’side his angel faced lover, together as Gold Saints instead of master and subordinate. Past the curtains, down the long hallways, to lay ‘mongst the shallow water. Impossibly crystal and tantalizingly hot the two of them did more playing than washing.

     Caught in a nostalgic kind of dream, they laid on top of each other—Saga wasn’t so good at not being suffocating, he found after holding his treasure tight enough to make him complain. And Aphrodite splashed a little water, feisty as a fish, b’fore settling down to comb and treat his lover’s dark hair that finally found its original color as Saga found his original heart. It was just like how he remembered, down to his amor’s voice that turned lazy and syrupy when it was lifted into a singing sort of Oooh.

     It had been so acutely what Saga wanted.

✩ ✩ ✩ Guilty ✩ ✩ ✩

THAT DAMN AIOLIA WAS FINALLY OUT OF HIS HAIR. It was such a shame the golden brat, needed an extra push, he was too much like his brother.

     Pope Ares tried to focus on the sound of his footsteps as he paced ‘cross the marble floors, trying desperately to hide from his reflection in the tiles. The wine didn’t quite help him forget despite making him dizzy, and his sprawling to-do list was locked up in the back of his mind. Had he swallowed the key, his throat bothered him, so. And there was a nervous itch on his side he snapped at himself for scratching.

     He would be successful, he tried to tell himself though anxious whispers to himself in the quiet. He’d write it down on parchment hundreds of times in red ink and slanted script b’fore tossing it all in the fire. He put his hands on either side of his head and grit his teeth when he saw the visions. All of them, even his puppy and his amor, marching under her rule. Damn it, he tried to think of something else, anything else.

     If it wasn’t Aiolos—the bastard—it was Kanon. Torturous laughter climbing over the crashing waves ringing in his ears. You’re evil incarnate. He was guilty.

     When he’d stoop down and struggle he’d always find himself loosing hair in a collection of thin strands. His condition turned it silver and brittle as straw, made his eyes sting with tears that never broke to the surface. He’d have to get what he wanted, that was the only thing that would make it stop.

     Which one would he summon to satisfy the itch? A laugh that felt more like shouting fought its way out of him when he wondered.

     He could wring Shura’s neck, string him up by a prong collar and send him to space with the Galaxian Explosion. Or maybe he would force his Aphrodite under in the bath, then hold him in Another Dimension ‘till the end of time as a beautiful, jeweled fish.

     Pope Ares’s chest heaved when he pulled his eyes open wide as they could get, lip trembling as he tried to keep smiling when his face was nothing but horrified. His stomach seized so much from entertaining that maniacal laughter, he fell to his knees in the direction of Athena’s Colossus. Perhaps his body was trying to ask for salvation, his mind was too far gone.

     It must have been an hour of howling at the moon alone in his chamber as the stars shinned down on him from the skylight. Then those heavy stone carved doors creaked open at the end of his chamber. Had his howls sounded the alarm? He hadn’t the time nor control to send out a proper summoning.

     And like smokey mirages, they were bathed in shadows, only identifiable by the shape of their shining Cloth. Shura and Aphrodite walked with an organized but slow lockstep, steady and quiet, they approached.

     Rearing back and using his arm to shield his body, Pope Ares called their names and watched them pass each basin of fire. Their eyes turned into melting gemstones as they stared through their furrowed brows. No longer was Shura in his mind, reliving his terror, nor Aphrodite languid and easy in expression. They continued forward.

     “Shura. Stop!”

     The Capricornus Knight always heeled to his master. He always listened. He had to, it was what Saga wanted.

     They continued forward.

     “Aphrodite. Please wait!”

     While the Pisces Saint was more than disobedient, he always gave a reassuring flirting smile with those pink lips. He was always in favor of him. He had to be, it was what Saga wanted.

     They continued forward.

     And when they got closer Saga threw the stolen Pope’s mask to the floor so he could scream with eyes painfully wide. Had they really come to stop him? He let himself shrink and tremble when they stepped into the light of the starlit sky, the razor fins and scales of the fish a the horns of the sea goat gleamed ‘neath the light. Their Cloths and their brightened eyes caught the glimmer of a shooting star that headed for Athena’s Colossus. She must have sent them.

     Waaah!

     If Athena really had sent them. The real Athena. Then he supposed that’s what he wanted.

     He wanted it so acutely that he would have surrendered to his amor and the one of innocent heart.

…

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Feelin’ You ✩ ✩ ✩

ᚧamn it. Aiolia pressed a heavy sigh through his teeth. He knew he shouldn’t be rubbing his eyes so much, but they had been burning ever since he visited the Pope’s chamber the other night. What was it that he was talking to him ‘bout? He wrinkled the bridge of his nose to squint and try to remember.

     Maybe some water could help, wouldn’t it be nice if the Old Master was still in the Sanctuary? Surely, he’d have a story told through a smile and some kind of remedy. Was it a warm or cold compress for dry eyes? Spicy peppers for a running nose in the spring of the leaf, garlic oil for ringworm that always showed up come July time, salted sprats for general beauty—as if that actually mattered. The Old Master always knew what was wrong it seemed. He would know, just as Aiolos used to and would have.

     Aiolia shielded his eyes from the Sanctuary’s sun as he ventured further into the palatial Leo Temple. He tried not to shake his head when the splash of lukewarm water wet the tips of his bangs. The water almost made his eyes sting more. A tacky pain, the initial jolt b’fore tears came, it nearly felt like when he rubbed his eyes once more.

     “O, Athena. I hope it’s not happening again.” Aiolia said, his head betraying his mind when he turned to look at it.

     A humble training bow was mounted on that quiet wall, b’hind the basin’s privacy screen. Maybe the Leo Saint should have lit the paraffin candles leaning slightly to the side as the red wax flowed like blood wanting to be free. But putting a flame to the wick meant he would have to kneel in front of the faded photograph, yellowed and grainy with a nostalgic dream.

     Every time Aiolia saw that private corner he would convince himself he wouldn’t get worked up. He used to grind his teeth and hitch his breath, put his head in his hands and cry for long ‘nuff. Those days he shook with anger, twisted his face with clenched teeth. The taste was still too bitter.

     But right then, he was still. Looking at his brother’s photograph, he didn’t lurch and begin to feel sick with grief, or get the rush to soothe himself with anger. That damn traitor.

...

HOW LONG WAS HE PAYING HIS RESPECTS? Long ‘nuff to need a break for air. A wincing pain in his eye gave him a headache, but the sound of the leaves might have been the distracting rattle. Even old Sanctuary wasn’t feeling like herself, maybe the Old Master had told a tale ‘bout how the lands spoke the truth better than any man. That’s why Star Hill held all the secrets. How it must have wept from the things its seen.

     What a horrible crunching sound. Rearing his fist back to shoot a flurry of punches, Aiolia only stopped when his sensitive eyes squinted ‘gainst the gleam of Golden armor. Flaxen hair lifting ‘way in the chilling wind might have been what he’d next focus on, if it weren’t for the bright blue eyes, arctic wolf the way they held a stare. Maybe he would be scary if it weren’t for that asinine apple chewed to the brown core.

     “I’m only passing through.” Milo flicked his fingers and threw the apple core in the grass. “Attack me and I’ll be sure to defend myself from a traitor’s brother like you.”

     Bastard. He always said things like that, spat in Aiolia and his brother’s faces. Aiolia would have at least lifted him with a shock, but the wind pacified him into a warning growl.

     “Why throw your trash here?”

     “Maybe a tree will grow.” Milo showed his teeth as he descended the marble stairwell. “Nursing a sapling will do more good for the Sanctuary than you ever have.”

     “Weren’t you just passing through?”

     “Perhaps I was.”

     The Saint of Scorpius pulled his cape from the collar of his Cloth and let it be carried through the air by that freezing wind. He had a nasty habit of smirking once he realized he was frowning too hard.

     “Since you’re so careless, maybe you’d fancy dancing.” Milo said swinging his arms easily when he circled like a vulture.

     It was unlike Aiolia to lean back on his heels and hold his voice when he was being taunted. Too damn proud and arrogant, he figured he didn’t want to tango with Milo, but he more so needed to. The prickly itch in his dry eyes did the trick in jabbing him with the pitchfork, Milo’s creeping round like a regular arachnid gave him reason to lash out. No bug, not a worm or a scorpion could beat a mighty lion.

     Aiolia raised his fists tight to his chest and bounced on his feet best he could. Bending his back shrimp pulled that sadistic smile from his opponent’s white-hot fangs. And Milo mirrored the stance as that blond hair rippled sunbeams b’hind him. His voice was low and bullying once they were in their ballroom shine position.

     “Let’s dance.”

     As if planned, the Scorpius Saint ducked his head to dodge the first punch, a body shot was too predictable, Aiolia would reset and lock in with a sidestep. The both of them threw their bodies into their onslaught of strikes so fast they sounded like a summer storm brewing. And they weren’t afraid to move quick on their feet, tracing a loose circle something like a twirl.

     Holding their arms up to absorb blows and dig in the soil with their heels, they struggled to take the lead for themselves. Sparks of pure energy flew off their Gold Cloths and smoldered on the grass when their dance picked up into hard sparring. Ush! Ush! Tss! Tss! They each made their animal sort of growl when they threw their next punch.

     Sneaky as Milo was, he nearly tickled the chin when he tried a kick, impressively flexible he was as his leg went vertical to the ground. And he showed off, backing Aiolia up in a smooth cha-cha motion with a jump switch kick, a few more came out as that bastard loved to be flashy. And once they both caught their breath, they spun round in something beautifully ballroom and their legs clashed after a twin hook kick to where they met, exhausted, at an Open Promenade position.

     It might not have been wise to lean in and throw his arms round the Scorpius Saint’s waist, but after a good few punches to the cheekbone that radiated up the arm when they hit, Aiolia could savor a laugh when Milo tumbled back with an entire lion in his lap. The natural next step was to straddle the bastard, knees holding his arms to his sides, and beat him into a flower bed. But despite raising his fist above his head, spurring his instinct—and aggravating whatever mood he’d been trapped in—those glass blue eyes turned him to stone.

     “You really are a damn traitor.” It was said with a smirk. “Just like your brother.”

     As if Milo’s body had been aflame, Aiolia jumped ‘way, his eyes pulled back in misty terror.

     “If you mean to kill me, you’ll need to try better than that.” He brushed himself off with a particular bit of disgust. “You’re just like your damn brother.”

     Aiolia clenched his teeth, where did that bastard get off? Surely the Leo Saint had said something back. Anything to put Milo in his place. Even a curse thrown to his back when he walked off with those cocky sweeping steps, the stinger of the Celestial Scorpion taunting as the tip caught the sunlight.

     It was more than cathartic for the Saint of Leo to remain still, looking to his feet when his itchy red eyes couldn’t take looking up to the clouds—where Aiolos used to soar. What his brother did was wrong, but he’d still been Aiolia’s older brother and mentor, someone worth defending.

     Dense breaths built in his chest when he felt he should scream, but couldn’t. Why did he want to drop to his knees, hands on either side of his head to block his ears and wail? Milo was wrong, Aiolia wanted so acutely for him to be. But to not side with Milo, and the Pope and the Sanctuary would make him a traitor just like Aiolos.

✩ ✩ ✩ Fall in Love ✩ ✩ ✩

THE TIPS OF HIS FINGERS AND THE WHITES OF HIS NAILS ended up getting stained more so magenta than the expected red. And the stuff smelled of chemical and mud, but it served its purpose once it was washed out completely. As if he were being reborn, he shivered when the dye, dark as blood ran down his back and he nearly flinched at his reflection.

     Crimson hair, slick to the touch after the moisturizing treatment he desperately needed, matched his eyes. He ran his arm over the lids in a vigorous motion to relieve the itching and try to bring back their original blue color. There were a few curses silently whispered to himself when he watched his reflection in the silver glass mirror, the parts that tarnished with something nacre and black only added to the distortion. It must have been some sort of effect caused by the light from the wall sconces hitting the mirror. Humans didn’t have red eyes, did they? White lab rats did, he knew that—or was it only the mice. If Aiolos was there he would have known. But Aiolia figured his dear brother didn’t have the privilege to know. And looking like a rat was better than looking like a traitor, he wanted so acutely to believe so.

     Being rid of his sandy hair color, a shade too light for brown and too dark for blond, was only the first step to differentiate himself from his brother’s looks. The meandering pain in his red eyes spurred on his obsession when he started to pace. Maybe he’d grow his hair longer, or his nails, paint them with golden varnish, or perhaps another angry red to complete the new look he was building. Bloody red nails, eyes, hair—aura.

     No, that was ridiculous, Aiolia touted himself as different than the others who fancied long nails and hair. Simple but proud, without the frill and turning his nose up to the Cult of Beauty most Saints, blessed to be above Bronze ranking, indulged in. The Leo Saint clenched his fist and pulled it back, threatening his mirror when he thought. His brother, the one who taught him everything he knew, wasn’t like that. Maybe there was one other who didn’t like to play dress up and run through a bottle of shampoo daily.

     Just b’fore Aiolia thought to release his electric punch, he heard it. The sound of plate shoes passing through his temple, the satisfying clattering sound of armor in a marching-like gait. He nearly snarled like an animal, further changing his face in the mirror into something unfamiliar. He’d let his legs get springy as he bounded through the halls to the main palace where the marble columns, and the fireplaces, and the shining golden veins in the Calacatta floors were too bright for his stinging eyes.

     But after he’d done his squinting and eased his eyes open using his hand for cover, out of a misplaced surprise, he had to gape and stare. As if he hadn’t have left the mirror, the man standing still to keep from being pounced on wore Aiolia’s expression. Eyebrows pulled back, all white sides of his eyes showing, pupil constricted to a pinpoint before expanding in something feverish—mouth made so small he could barely speak.

     “Red?” The bastard said.

     “You need to get out.”

     Aiolia loosened his posture, making sure to watch Shura who peered back, still frozen in his thoughts. Looking at him knotted Aiolia’s brow, that man had been what Aiolos wasn’t. The most loyal to the Pope, deserving of accolades and honor. Aiolia so acutely wished that wasn’t true.

     “Your hands look bloody.” Shura said, looking like he was thinking of taking a step forward, but his other thoughts must have kept him still.

     “Your hands are bloody.”

     The Capricornus Knight bowed his head the pink veins in his widened whale eyes getting a little brighter, pushing forward to urge tears. And Aiolia curled his lip wanting so acutely to see Shura for who he was, not so close in spirit to his brother. Silently, the Capricornus Saint shook his head in a weak lull, shut his tired eyes and pressed his lips together like he was saying a prayer. Aiolia knew it wasn’t fair to scoff, but nothing in the Sanctuary was quite fair.

     “What are you thinking about? Doesn’t the Pope decide everything for you?”

     His eyes burned so badly he had to stare through narrowed slits and continue.

     “When to eat? When it’s time for walkies? Your next trip to the groomers?”

     Like a typical mutt who pissed on the rug, Shura kept his head low when Aiolia shoved his nose in it. His voice rattled in his chest when he hissed through his teeth, and a tacky bit of electric static buzzed in his ears as he was poked by whatever ailed him. The tears finally leaked from his eyes and the Leo Saint had to cover his face with his stained hands. Perhaps the infernal burning stopped and was replaced by the constricting suffocation weeping brought. Realizing that he was just like his brother no matter what color his hair was might have been what would break his spell.

     “My brother was honorable. Traitor or not.”

     It took a few awkward seconds for Aiolia to feel his body lock up, and let his stifled sobs bounce off the temple walls and be given to the sky as a prayer.

     “You’re right.” Shura said.

     He was good at being a lapdog as he closed the space between them. The hand on his shoulder—probably the one he used to fell Aiolos—was made soft and genuine, and reverently he leaned in to bow his head and mourn as well.

     “I did it. Not because I wanted to.” He kept his voice hymnal. “I see now.” Shura said as if to correct himself.

     “I understand you were following orders. But I have a feeling about the new Pope.” It was maddening to attempt to speak with the tears and dread rolling down his face.

     “I do too.” The words came after a knowing sigh. “Something will be done. Eventually.”

     Aiolia couldn’t imagine being so close to the Pope, so blindly obedient. What had Shura seen that gave him that terrified expression? Widened eyes, looking up at something that couldn’t be seen, up where Aiolos might have flown.

     “Athena will do something ‘bout the Pope.”

     “The real Athena?” Aiolia spoke in a whisper.

     “Surely.”

     It had been so long since he could lean on someone, if not his brother, then a brother in arms would have to suffice. And his breath was steadied as he stood there with Shura who was wise ‘nuff to make himself gentle and burn a healing sort of green cosmo, never ending as it was pulled from the nourishing Cornucopia. Then once the tears stopped and Aiolia could bring his hands down from his face, they were lifted once more by the Knight of Capricornus. Each finger was tickled by an inspection with those eyes that were finally softened, and hands that could finally drop the holy sword.

     “I can help clean your hands.”

     Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted, but as if Aiolos was reaching out through that man who Aiolia once called such bitter names, he couldn’t deny company. Again, he was in front of the tarnished mirror not so tarnished as Shura polished it with the same solution he soaked Aiolia’s nails in.

     A thick Cherry wood bowl, a sprinkle of borrowed baking soda, and soapberries that bobbed in the kettle warmed water. Shura knew best as he was methodical and careful in preparing the might-as-well-be spa treatment and putting elbow grease into the mirror so Aiolia could see his blue eyes again.

     Working like a mother suited that man. No, he was more like an older brother. Or maybe he was something else when he added a splash of olive oil to the bowl to prevent dry skin and took a rag to massage the cuticle. He had his neat little order to follow, each finger he had to rub obsessively perhaps four or five times with just the right amount of pressure to brew heat in Aiolia’s cheeks and turn them pink.

     After the dye had been pulled out his skin and gone to stain the rag and edges of that bowl, Shura stood b’hind him to comb through his crimson hair with his fingers and hum. He rummaged for a while ‘till he found a smidge of aloe left clinging to the edge of a mislaid jar and styled Aiolia’s hair with it. There wasn’t much he could do with it—or knew how to for that matter—but once it was settled in his usual boyish cut, maybe pushing the fringe to the left, he spared a smile.

     And Aiolia spared one back, relishing in the sound of a warm intimate voice speaking back to him.

     “Ese color de pelo te queda muy bien. The color suits you, it does.” His native language was beautiful if not a manipulation tactic. “A mí sí me gusta. Qué guapo.” He nearly whispered to himself.

     And when Aiolia couldn’t let him go as it had been so long since he hadn’t been left alone, the Saint of Capricornus whispered more things. In the secret night, they laid together, honoring their hearts more so their mantles as their Cloths came apart to sit ‘sides each other and bear witness to their words spoken between kisses.

     “Wow, to be with you,” he kicked himself for showing his inexperience. “Isn’t it wrong?”

     “You’d be surprised in this Sanctuary.” Shura said, making sure to be attentive with his full body’s embraces. “Me gusta estar contigo.” The sound of the purring sent a gasping shiver down the spine.

     Because of that man, Aiola would be laid down and give in as he so acutely wanted to. Wasn’t it forbidden for Saints to lay in each other’s beds? To conspire ‘gainst their Grand Master in the Pope’s chamber?

     Perhaps he was lucid for only a moment, feeling Shura’s steady breath as he snored and hid under the blankets, still looking terrified even in sleep. Maybe Aiolia shifted to touch skin to skin with his bedfellow—maybe he didn’t—but as he closed his eyes again, no longer stinging from subterfuge or tears, he figured whatever they did that night was nothing but the perfect crime.

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ A Secret Kiss for Just Us Two ✩ ✩ ✩

“ℋere I am.” When Aphrodite spoke, he listened for the gasp. “Didn’t I tell you I’d come?’

     It was always a laugh to see that man shrink into himself, hunch his shoulders forward and grumble, as it was time to break his shell.

     “I can’t rely on you.” Deathmask said with a spiky quill in his voice.

     That man must have been settling down after tending to the sacred flame, he kept burning bright and blue in the center of his temple. He lit a rolled cigarette and twisted it b’tween his fingers, only partially subdued by the full moon who ruled him like she ruled the tide—he was so sensitive. And just as nature would have intended, Aphrodite laid himself next to his dear friend and plucked the cigarette from those claws that needed a trim.

     “You’re always being called to see, The Pope.” Deathmask had a broken violin aspect to his voice that made Aphrodite shiver when he took a drag.

     “Not my fault The Pope thinks I’m the Greatest of all Time.” Aphrodite said just as the cigarette was snatched back.

     “Bullshit.” The Cancer Saint sucked on the tobacco like it was lifesaving. “He’s got another G.O.A.T on his mind I think.”

     “Goat? Impossible. Everyone’s always thinking of me, even you.”

     Maybe Aphrodite would have expected a grumble, or a curse, or maybe the mean pout that man was so good at making look cute. But he was allowed the silence.

     The autumnal chill of The Sanctuary’s wind weaved through the columns of that temple and made the scattered death masks on the walls and floor whistle an eerie symphony. It might have been nice to kneel by the sacred fire his dear friend kept, but it was better to be near his body that was surely soft ‘neath that shell. Both of them stared up at the moon that was so generous with her pearly light for a moment.

     Moonlight caught in that man’s eyes and reflected off the tiered pools of water backing the temple, turning them into patinaed silver pieces. The thick ribbons of smoke he breathed out turned into silver harp strings when they climbed up to the heavens and disappeared with the wind. Even their Golden Cloths blessed by Athena—they were so undeserving—had been softened and plated in the moon’s cool silver glow.

     “You’ve been thinking of me?” Aphrodite said, sly ‘nuff to hold up a red rose to glitter in the moon’s gift.

     “You piss me off.”

     That man was never any good at lying about his feelings. Not once did he shiver ‘gainst the wind, despite the coolness, his cheeks were red and warm with a melting heat. He kept his eyes up to his ruler, watched down on by the goddess statues he kept around his temple. Large and looming, he knew he should be grateful as only a mother, goddess, or witch could bestow the psychic powers he held in that heavy head.

     “Do you promise?” Ouch! It was expected to tremble after his petting hand was bit with those pincers.

     “What has The Pope been telling you?” An unexpected question muddled the intimacy.

     “I love you.” Aphrodite said, taking the opportunity to lean in and whisper.

     Those sharp white nails made a tacky noise when they made contact with the chest plate of the Pisces Gold Cloth dyed silver in that Moon temple. The was a struggle to push, a flutter in his dark pinpoint eyes, a hitching in his breath that was once steadied by the cigarette now tossed to the brick floor. A huff of resignation followed when Aphrodite stretched his neck in pursuit. Placing his own hand over top of his dear friend’s to feel the little tremor, the left annularly was directly connected to the heart they used to say. But the sharp gasp gave away his heart skipping a beat.

     “I have a feeling about all this. About Saga and his missions.” Bashfully holding hands, Deathmask softened his voice into something of a mumble. “Rōshi’s been training a meddling brat. And Mu…”

     No, no, that was enough of that, a touch to the soft broiling skin on his arm would loosen his pain and worry—not to mention bring the purr that sounded like a growl. It was a tickle to try a kind voice to call his name and dispel whatever clairvoyant vision he convinced himself of. When it was called Deathmask as sweet as a name like that could be called, Aphrodite earned back Aphro and those eyes full focus, faithful as a puppy.

     Maybe when he was pulled closer with a lighter touch at the little hairs on the nape of his neck their gazes were true and still. It was as if they were in a picture book, Aphrodite thought for a moment then forgot when he realized himself and smiled in the face of his dear friend’s pursed lips in a fuss.

     “If he loves you, I’d hope he wouldn’t sacrifice you.”

     When he was in those anxious times, only a hug that was grabbed instead of given would do. And their armor rang out a satisfying clatter when they touched—and once they were completely divested from their begging bodies their forms were transmuted from silver to clay.

     “We’ve sinned, so what.” Aphrodite placed those words on his friend’s neck, just missing the ear. “It’ll be alright in the end.” Those words tried to be protection but were only distraction.

     “We deserve to be dead.”

     Finally, a laugh as little as it was came out.

     “He’d probably wring my neck for being here with you.”

     “That’s why we’re so good at keeping it secret.”

     Because his Deathmask loved being bad, he gave his awful smirk, and Aphrodite offered his terrible one right back. He was no mind reader, but he was sure they were both thinking they’d again gotten away with the perfect crime. They must have been made for each other with how they liked to defy all rules. Perhaps in another dimension or at another time they would be the honorable Saints worthy of Athena’s legion.

     But for then, they’d be together without anyone knowing. Tasting the smooth Turkish tobacco on each other’s lips in a secret kiss for just them two.

✩ ✩ ✩ The Moon and Time are Full ✩ ✩ ✩

“ℐ figured you couldn’t sleep either. Must be the full moon tonight. It makes people crazy.” Camus said from his Bergère seat after asking if he should make decaf.

     Shura denied un déca, despite knowing espresso would hurt him in the morning. The Aquarius Temple always had a lingering coldness as its walls must have been coated with a thin sheet of frost. When the blue moon shone down on them, the icy columns glimmered silver dust, pretty ‘nuff to catch the eye. Too bad, Shura was trapped by his reflection on the deep surface of the hot coffee.

     The Aquarius Saint used a short, bent spoon to measure a few drops of cream that would turn his cup hazelnut and remove all the steam. He took several urbane little sips before Shura could even allow himself to blink. It might have been nice to be in the presence of someone so cold, someone who gave him time to think to himself and not be demanded of. To pray to be forgiven for his transgressions in the quiet where they could both close their eyes and sit there. But the more Shura relived his terror, as quiet as he could make his face, he thought being interrupted was for the best.

     “You’re right to be troubled.” Camus said with his flat affect, lips to the chipped coffee mug, looking no where near disturbed.

     Shura struggled to look at him. That man had unruly eyebrows like a dragon. Why did that, and everything else worry him so.

     “Everyone in The Sanctuary has been acting strange. The Pope too.”

     “Aiolia was summoned.” Shura shook his head without realizing, he thought everyone must have known what he did every time he did it.

     “Milo too.” Camus barely moved when he lifted his eyelids and showed his blue eyes, silvery from the moonlight. “I wouldn’t have invited you to coffee if he weren’t on call.”

     The Capricornus Saint tried not to heave his breath as he watched his compatriot—if even—from the corner of his eye. Camus’ steady ice sculpture glare froze the side of his face when he hummed into his mug.

     “Do you have any idea what The Pope’s plans could be?” The Aquarius Saint said.

     “No.”

     It should have been easy to say with a straight face b’fore a tiny sip. Shura hadn’t yet lifted his mug, let alone looped his pointer through the handle, lest it start clattering ‘gainst the saucer.

     Mm, Camus barely spoke, with his straight back and pursed lips, glossy with all the coffee he was enjoying and Shura wasn’t. The noise should have been ignored, but it wasn’t in the Capricornus Saint’s nature.

     “Do you know what’s going on?”

     A smart reply that earned one that only seemed dumber. Camus stuck his pink tongue out flattening his eyebrows and eyelids into a deadpan and blew raspberries with a shrug. The gesture was enough to convince Shura to fiddle with the sea glass worry stone he kept with him, was he really going mad?

     “The Pope says good things ‘bout you.” Camus’s eyes were on the side of Shura’s face again even when he took a sip. “I didn’t think you had an uncertain heart. I Thought you’d know best.”

     “Me too.” Shura tried a taste of the coffee, but it was much too cold by then.

     “If I’m honest, I don’t think our Grand Master stands with Athena.”

     Camus didn’t need to stare anymore with those dragon eyes, he’d close them and let Shura sit in his mind.

     “I worry for Aiolia.”

     “I worry for Milo.” Shura said, feeling his eyebrows pull back too much at the mention of The wild Saint of Leo.

     Again, they were silent, the thieving wind stole all the words leaving Shura to shutter when goosebumps pricked him, and the cold sweat reminded him of his guilt. His fellow Gold Saint kept up his ice sculpture act, holding still, a bit too righteous looking.

     “They’re both still so young in the mind, aren’t they?” The expression the Aquarius Knight made was almost a smile.

     That time Shura was too caught up in how much Aiolia looked like his brother to respond.

     “They both bicker on and on ‘bout traitors.” That time, Camus looked with a Medusa stare.

     “What do you think of it all?” The room had gotten so cold, Shura had to speak through his clenched teeth as the smell of his stale coffee was blown by the breeze still thrashing.

     “None of us have the full picture. I don’t know what to think.” Camus turned his mug up a little higher for that next sip. “Us Saints of Athena will eventually find out the truth. And we’ll pay for it.”

     What do you mean? would have been so natural of a response. But Shura didn’t want to know what his fellow Gold Saint meant, so he spoke up as a distraction.

     “Just like Aiolos did.”

     The words were frozen in the air by the cold, but not yet taken ‘way by the autumn wind. Camus did what he was best at and sank into the quiet, face half illuminated in a snowy silver mask from the moonlight that spared The Capricornus Saint for a moment. And that man closed his eyes to glitter as he was too icy. Shura simply was too frightened to follow suit, he’d been too scared to brave the dark alone.

     He should have been drinking his coffee just as Camus did. The only noises in the Aquarius Temple were whispers of espresso being enjoyed. But Shura could only hear Aiolos’ screams, oddly enough they sounded similar to his handsome brother’s and everything like The Pope’s episodes.

     Only when Camus’s cup went back on its saucer, and he started to speak did the bitter wind come back and jolt Shura back to life.

     “I’m done now, and I don’t quite like you. So, you should go.”

     Time being up was both a blessing and a curse. Shura wouldn’t yet be devoured by a dragon, but he’d have to face night alone again without accepting his uncertain heart.

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Shall We Dance? ✩ ✩ ✩

∀nother time. Another place. Anything would have been better than dealing with two impetuous brats surely ready to begin another battle. But The Pope supposed all his “coming aparts”—as Aphrodite so lovingly called them—were the result of too much fun.

     The both of them entered his chamber. Up and up the stairway they went, walking in lockstep, more like divas than soldiers. They coordinated their performance, making sure to be extra done up, Milo with an even more prideful gait, and Aiolia with that dramatic red hair. Exchanging nasty glares, stiff with their breaths they at the very least tried not to tug on their leads like territorial hounds and kept a reasonable pace. They barked at each other with curled lips and sharpened fangs, Aiolia, Milo. Watching them scrap might have been entertaining, but The Pope’s splendid voice would be the spray bottle to the snarling mongrel’s faces.

     “You both must know the Sagittarius Cloth is not in The Sanctuary.”

     Milo bowed his head when he kneeled, just like Shura would have. The Scorpius Saint wanted his gold star for listening to the teacher, but only so he could rub it in Aiolia’s face. Athena knew the Leo Saint liked speaking more than listening.

     “My brother’s Cloth.” He said.

     Shut the hell up. Milo dotted it with a smirk.

     The Pope didn’t mind watching them glare at each other with their arrogant snarls and candy eyes—Aiolia’s were a little more blue than they should have been when the silver moonlight hit them. As they stood up to draw circles on the floor like the pair of animals they were, The Pope thought to get them back on their leashes. Aiolia! Milo! It was more than difficult to tame those ferals, if only Shura were there, they’d both have a common enemy, no doubt.

     “I called you both here,” The Pope paused to let them kneel again—and waited the extra second it took for them to break their intense eye contact. “To tell you that I’m sending one of you to Japan to retrieve Aiolos’s Cloth.”

     “The traitor.” It slunk out Milo’s mouth more so than slipped out.

     Shut the hell up. Aiolia took it back brazenly.

     That prickly red cosmo surged with a heavy wave and those two mutts stared each other down through their eyebrows yet again. Chomping at each other’s necks with mere looks, surely their claws would come next. Aiolia’s armored fist pulled back and caught Zeus’s crackling lightning, and that scarlet stinger aimed for his heart. The Pope felt the tickle of a chuckle he had to swallow down to preserve the cold silence, wouldn’t it be grand if those two destroyed each other? So enthralled in a battle that they rang The Pope’s gong and fell from the heights of his chamber with a hop and a step.

     The Scarlet Needle, bleeding with a drop of glittering poison, was sheathed for a moment b’fore Milo unleashed his smirk and held open his palm.

     “Shall we dance?”

     “Bastard.”

     Despite calling to them again, The Pope knew they’d already escaped their choke chains and yanked the stakes that bound them out the ground.

     “How about it? Together right here.”

     And Milo beckoned with the wave of his hand, a ferocious come hither that burned a fire on their heels bringing a heat to the cold silver room. Awful gusts of wind and twangy squeaks were released from their clashing. Ush! Ush! Tss! Tss! Both of them neglected the courtesy of mindful sparring and laid their bodies into their attacks, traveling faster than they should have in front of their Grand Master. Twirl, twirl, twirl, twirling, they might have spun the world backwards if not made The Pope dizzy with what mimicked drunkenness. They tied their hands and legs up in a violent Foxtrot with their wild punches and hurricane kicks. And once it was time for them to break ‘way in the Shine position to Samba, they both drew their arms back and charged.

     Ligh-te-ningu—

     Scarletto—

     Ugh, the barking, screaming with all their might. Where was the rolled-up newspaper? One more smack on the nose for the both of them had to do.

     “That’s quite enough.” It was almost a shame, but they couldn’t be destroyed just yet.

     While Aiolia gnashed his teeth, Milo carried on. “Is it though?”

     The pair of curs finally took their bows, kindergarteners would have taken less time to sit the hell down and listen.

     “Aiolia.” When The Pope spoke, the Saint of Leo was eager to lift his head and beg when he heard his name. “I know you would want to go and retrieve your brother’s Cloth.”

     “Yes, Pope Ares.” There was a thieving tremble biting at him to growl at his rival who might have whispered traitor, but the Leo Saint attempted to be the good boy his brother couldn’t be.

     “But I’m sending Milo.” The brat snarled and showed his teeth daring to threaten a bite to his master. “It’s important that you know, because I have plans for you.”

     A solemn chuckle filled the space when the Knight of Scorpius nodded, it escaped Aiolia’s still tight lips. Was he really wanting to laugh, or wanting to cry? Was he angry or embarrassed? The Pope couldn’t think too hard ‘bout it, lest he have to see that man’s pitiful gaze again. The one that should have been all his to control.

     “Retrieve the Cloth and get rid of the woman who pretends to be Athena and her so called Bronze Saints.”

     “When I bring it back here, it will finally be out of traitor hands.” Milo collected his gold star and spat the words on Aiolia’s head when he stood.

     As if cross-tied, Aiolia turned on his heels to face his rival’s back, but looked over his shoulder at The Pope, hesitant on who to attack. Hounds were too simple. That one needed a little push.

     Perhaps anyone sane would think it would be easier to deal with that brat once his rival had vanished to do his job, but the moron never could shut up and keep his nose out of trouble. Claws out, he approached The Pope’s throne, exciting a sneaking bite of fear that traveled up the neck. Looking just like his brother despite the stupid red hair. Acting out the scene, he’d relive on those cold, lonely nights when he was dizzy from whatever turned his hair white.

     “Why not me?”

     “Get back!”

     Pope Ares shouldn’t have reared back himself—If only he had a bullwhip like the normal lion tamers had. It took a few seconds and an asinine look of questioning b’fore he put his head down and bided his anger, nearly turning his entire face crimson in his frustration.

     “Your brother was a traitor.” It wasn’t meant to be said kindly, it just came out that way.

     “He was honorable. I don’t like everyone calling him a traitor, especially not—”

     “Milo, I know.”

     “You.”

     It was uncouth to gasp and clutch his chest, but he couldn’t stop seeing it. Aiolos’ stare. His forward marching. His knowing blue eyes. To keep from screaming The Pope drew his fist back. His plan for Aiolia would be simple for then, he prayed to drive him mad ‘nuff to fall from The Sanctuary, eyes red and dizzied in a haze.

✩ ✩ ✩ Hop ✩ ✩ ✩

DAMN IT, HIS HEAD MUST HAVE BEEN SPLIT OPEN. And the scent of prickly roses stung his nose when he finally came to… was that ammonia?

     In a twist of fate, Milo found himself cradled by the gatekeeper, Aphrodite’s, overgrown roses, tangled together with his face to the damn traitor’s brother’s freshly dyed hair. Both of them leaked with blood either from the nose or mouth.

     Once a traitor, always a traitor, Aiolia jumped down the steps to steal him ‘way from his duty and attack from behind. Milo would have bent his neck to check how many holes he put in the bastard, but he didn’t have the strength after taking one too many of those punches. Secretly he thought a short few words of praise for the brat, he never quite did punch so hard.

     Autumn winds got more powerful the higher they were allowed to climb, and at such a height they beat ‘gainst Milo’s bloodied armor yielding more than a shiver when they touched his arm. But being in nuzzling distance with that idiot who got his traitor blood all over Milo’s front, kept him reasonably warm. As the air was cooled round them, Aiolia’s limp body carried a ghostly white aura of his sweat and open wounds releasing steam as if he were molten on the inside. Milo remembered, even his eyes were red-hot when he delivered the first traitorous punch.

     Where the hell was Aphrodite to scrape them off the ground. The moon was high ‘nuff in the sky letting all of The Sanctuary know it was long o’ver time to fall asleep for the night—the perfect time for that smug Saint of Pisces to visit The Pope in a sparkling red dress. Night after night. Everyone knew.

     The Saint of Scorpius closed his eyes to release a growling sigh when he heard the footsteps rustling the roses, making them leak their petals. He would have pushed ‘gainst Aiolia, but he was too focused on canning his embarrassment.

     “Did The Pope order you two to fight to the death?” The flat remark had more bite in it as it came with the exhale of cigarette smoke.

     “What, this?” Milo dragged his eye up, unable to move his head yet. “We just stumbled during a dance battle.”

     “Allez hop.”

     Camus held the cigarette in his mouth as he hoisted Milo up to hang on his shoulder. While the filter clung to his cold lips it was soon stolen with a less than quick pluck. His dear friend was trustworthy, but always had a cold touch, tobacco would be a better substitute for that brat’s pyre.

     “How did it go with The Pope?”

     “You had coffee, without me?” The stale taste lingered on the end of the Camel.

     “That good, huh?”

     “Get me out of here. There’s nothing good here.”

     Milo tried to kick that brat’s side, but what was the point in repeating all those foolish dance moves.

     Noble as he was, Camus took a moment too damn long to stare down at Aiolia, groaning and unconsciously coughing up blood, spotlighted by the silver moon. He prayed Athena would keep him down as an example, just like Aiolos.

     “I think you’re right.” Camus was too sensitive.

     “Yes. Thank Athena I’ll be going to Japan.”

     The pain stung in his legs and ached in his core when he was guided by his friend. It always struck Milo as a little cute when those forked eyebrows lifted and the, Mm, came. Camus did too much thinking and not enough talking, it really was a shame.

     “I’m bringing back the traitor’s Cloth, and culling the rest of them.”

     Mm.

     “The ones who are against The Sanctuary and Athena.”

     Mm. Again he did it, so deep in thought he walked with his eyes closed.

     “Wish I could start with that bastard, Aiolia. The Pope couldn’t send a traitor’s brother on this mission.”

     The whistling of the wind lulled him into a daze, and the cold slowed time. Camus had repeated his Mm, noise several times when Milo found the sense to ignore him and steady his breath with smoking that should have been easier than it was. Once the tobacco was pulled down to the filter and flicked to dirty the pristine flowers, Camus spoke.

     “Do you think there’s another reason The Pope couldn’t send him?”

     “His hair is ridiculous.” Milo would always be proud to make his friend laugh, even if it was small.

     “I think Aiolia would be a better choice than you.”

     It was Milo’s turn to try a Mm. He couldn’t do it without growling.

     “He’d be obsessed with finding out the truth.”

     Tsk, What the hell was he ever talking ‘bout and why couldn’t Milo ever understand. “Truth or the Sagittarius Cloth, that idiot could search and search and never find it.”

     Again, another little laugh should have boosted the ego, but it didn’t.

     “You will be gone for a while.” Camus said with a smile that fizzled out too quickly. He was serious.

     “Japan could be farther.”

     “Why don’t you sleep off your injuries in my temple tonight?”

     It was Milo’s turn to raise his eyebrows and act surprised to hide his sneaking smile.

     “I feel like I won’t get to see you again.”

     “I’ll bring back the traitor's Cloth soon. The world won’t end.”

     “I said I feel like…”

     Any other time, Milo might have brushed something like that off. But with the traitor’s brother on his heels and Camus acting apocalyptic, maybe Milo was walking into his world’s end.

✩ ✩ ✩ Step ✩ ✩ ✩

WHAT A LOVELY VIEW! With his leather jacket and Cloth Box on his back, Milo had been in the heart of a city dappled with more neon signs than there were constellations in the sky. Where businessmen in dapper suits zipped from point A to point B, prim people walked proudly in the new fashions, and anime girls lit up the buildings lined in wide LED screens. Cute petite women in skirts a tad too short tried to shake his hand, and pet his hair or give him flyers he couldn’t begin to understand.

     All of it was big ‘nuff to sit in his mind where Aiolia liked to insert himself, but he’d soon be reminded of his mission, then of the traitor by proxy. There were high powered trains that could take him in the direction he needed to go. If only he could find them.

     The bustle and the people weaving round him, wanting to take his picture, and staring with their eyes made him maddeningly dizzy. Perhaps he should have taken up an offer for a free drink at Hotel Gorgeous to steady his mind, he wondered where they all got their cigarettes from before he wondered why they all seemed to be menthol.

     Growing up with a pastoral upbringing didn’t prepare him for all the colors, sights, and people. And surely not the music. All sorts of beats and sounds, bubbly and high pitched played from every angle through speakers unseen. Maybe if he walked further, it would get quieter.

     It was pointless to crane his head to the countless blaring signs, visible from space they were as they felt like they were burning his corneas. But he couldn’t look ‘way. He wondered what they all said, particularly that great big one in the central square, dressed with a victor’s crown and decorated with flames of red and green. He stopped to look at it b’fore he felt a jolt from too much silence instead of too much noise.

     An ominous creaking of an electric guitar and the reverb of a microphone giving feedback quieted the crowds for only a second b’fore they carried on. It was a rock band dressed in what looked like masks and Chinese clothes—if it wasn’t so revealing—prepared their instruments.

     He had to look for Aiolia… No! The Sagittarius Cloth. But one song wouldn’t hurt, he thought, gawking at the group who let their sound hang in the air. One of the band members had pinkish hair that illuminated bloody red ‘neath the glaring signs. Just like Aiolia. And what big energy… cosmo. Just like Aiolia’s when he attacked back in the Sanctuary. Damn it, why was he thinking so much of that brat? Was he really going mad? Was his world really going to end?

     “Nothing is good here at all” Milo muttered urging himself to move on.

     Just as his mind was quieting, he jumped at the sound of the band playing with a fervor to the tune of everyone round him screaming that distinct shrill apocalyptic scream that spelled disaster.

     Snapping round fast ‘nuff saved him from the wild blow that knit lightning through the air and popped the bulbs of several neon signs. His forearms creaked when he shielded himself from the barrage of punches trying to hammer him in the ground, as he was the nail that stuck up. After that slippery punch to the cheek and the body shot the Scorpius Cloth picked him up when he slammed into the jewelry store display window.

     Despite the streets clearing and the blaring of alarms and sirens, the rock band kept playing an oscillating electronica song, offering the two Gold Saints the perfect dancehall. Aiolia hopped on his feet, staring like a wolf, nearly licking his chops when Milo stepped forward to complete the ballroom Shine position.

     “May I have this dance, traitor.”

     “Let’s do the—” He came at lightspeed. “One, two!” He counted his punches that pushed Milo back on his heels and encouraged the screeching guitar solo higher.

     They whipped a cyclone onto the empty brick laid street, yanking the roots of the manicured trees up and bending the lamp posts. They grappled with each other, pulling apart several times, loudly like they were trying to pull limbs off and rip flesh from bone. Round and round, and round and round ‘til Milo leapt up to the flat roofs of those high rises to get away for a moment. His body flipped, backed by the face of the moon, once silver, now gold signaling the time to collect and harvest b’fore winter stopped the world.

     Why wasn’t it easier for him to keep his balance on the slick hood of that bullet train. Milo had landed atop the blue West line after being lifted by lightning and roundhouse kicked several kilometers it felt like. He was going in the right direction, but it almost felt wrong to let the traitor keep his head and terrorize the city folk, just as the Nemean Lion did back in the Time of Legends.

     Luckily the red East line ran parallel to the West line, just catching up with that brat aboard. They faced each other in Shine, for only a second b’fore they started throwing each other around, scuffing the top of the train and shaking the carriage. They hopped to the red line after Milo couldn’t evade yet another bolt of lightning, and they stepped back to the blue line when he managed to put a hole in the bastard.

     “I’m not a traitor. I’m nothing like he was.” Hop.

     “What do you call this? Why don’t you search for the truth.” Step.

     “It is true. I’ll prove it.” Pop!

     That time when he swung his fist too fast to read, the golden lightning crackled a song where the lion’s roar was the vocals. And once Milo landed on his back, still dutiful to his mission on the blue line, those trains would part with a sharp turn ahead. So, Aiolia jumped, and nothing changed.

     He sat on Milo’s body, straddling him with his knees pushing down his arms. Then the beating came. It wasn’t long b’fore the Saint of Scorpius felt his eyes swell, the constant tack of an electric shock, the heat of burning coals, all of it forced him into a daze.

     Time was running out, maybe the train was stopping, his spine had been electrified by the dense metal holding the current Aiolia created. Instead of the slight screech that it should have made, the train car groaned and jerked twisting laterally to hang and nearly capsize from the bastard’s rage. But he kept going, puffing white clouds of steam from his clenched teeth and completely red mask he called a face.

     Once the train completely stopped, saving the passengers, they slid. How long would it be b’fore they touched the ground? B’fore their world ended?

     “Farewell, Milo. So long. Goodbye to this dancehall.”

     He shouted it, and maybe above his voice, and the screams, and the bending of metal he still heard music. Someone singing, something. And a warm cosmo that turned an autumn night into a summer morning. It wasn’t the end.

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Love ✩ ✩ ✩

ℛed. White and Black. All the colors for his roses to wear in their Waltz of Death. It was almost a shame how each of his fragrant demon roses would be trampled when his compatriots would make their ascent to see that man. Back when they were only a little younger, Saga used to be so careful. When he was his true self, he was careful with everything and everyone.

     The red dress with the fish scale sequins might have been what Aphrodite wanted to wear after he was done playing with his Deathmask. But over those past few nights and being mussed by such a heavy hand, several of the pretty mirror scales popped off—probably still littering the floor of The Pope’s chamber. While it was being repaired, he’d try the little black silk with the romantic scalloped neckline, the color being a cheap imitation of the black of the Piranha Rose he held in his teeth, and nowhere near The Sanctuary night.

     Bright red, sweet and hot, was Saga’s favorite. Made him a fool, if he could be anymore of one. But dressing in funeral attire, something painted completely black might remind him—or wake him from the dead.

     Sure, the red dress would have been fixed in less than a night if he had even the opportunity to get on his hands and knees and beg the missing Mū for help. But the one who threaded the Scarlet Needle with floss of the truest red color without imitation would do the best job. Entrusting Milo with his alterations was the best and most poetic option.

     Where the hell was he? He should have been back by then, the moon was too high, the night too soft and sultry. Aphrodite twisted his lip, painted with a darker gloss, and worried if Saga might have taken a shine to that unrivaled shade of scarlet. But when the Pisces Saint ventured further, he may have gotten his answer as to what the Saint of Scorpius had been doing.

     New shades of red laid with his roses, mottling their true color with drab variants, not even close to Aphrodite’s signature shade of carmine rose. He had to kneel by the rough spot and try to scrape it up.

     “Who told you to put such an ugly color in your hair.” He laughed a tease. “Oh wait, that’s just blood.”

     Damn he was heavy, must have been all those thoughts in his head.

     “My my, they match your hair.”

     Aiolia’s sheer body heat might have thinned the silk when he was lifted up. Aphrodite strained from the hotness of the Leo Cloth, holding back a gasp when steam rose from his sweat still rolling.

     “Where’s Milo?” He said it with a growl and a dry swallow followed after like he was thirsty for blood.

     “I thought he was with you.”

     There was a tangy little bite that came from the Pisces Saint as he unleashed his decerning eye. He could tell those two loved to dance. Bared their fangs for a bite when they didn’t know how to soften their lips for a kiss. Again, they got it wrong, blackening the stairwell of roses as it had turned into a dance site of darkness.

     “I can’t let him go.” Aiolia said, yanking ‘way in a soap opera fashion, nearly scuffing Aphrodite’s suede pointed-toe heels.

     “Aww, I bet you both had too much fun at The Pope’s chamber, huh.”

     “The Pope made a grave error.”

     “Did he?”

     Those red eyes flittered round for only a second then focused down the steps, imitating Saga’s thousand-yard stare. It wasn’t as guilty, Aphrodite thought to himself b’fore it was gone and Aiolia left a trail of steam b’hind him. Smoking as if he were on fire to chase his stolen heart. Damn brat. Shura should get rid of that one too.

...

     B’fore his disappearance, his hair used to have a decent thick color and shine. All it needed was to be combed, maybe pet for a little while. Oh but, how many egg yolk treatments would it take to be able to feel that texture again? Maybe Aphrodite would try a spoonful of honey the next time, if he had any Irish butter it would go nicely with a few drops of rose oil and a scalp massage. Anything to bring back his real lover, he was sick of looking at that man’s photo negative. Tired of a white-haired imitation. After letting his hand taste the brittle texture for long ‘nuff, he wondered who did Aiolia’s hair? It certainly couldn’t have been done all by himself.

     “Mi amor.” The Pope said, silvery moonlight drawing bands of tears down his mask as he let out his fussy huff. “Use your pretty words. I need to be distracted from that damn—”

     He clutched his forehead, voice bottled up in his chest to keep it from boiling ov’r.

     “Those two gave you trouble?” Aphrodite running his hand up and down The Pope’s chest while sitting in his lap was a self soothe if anything else.

     “The runt’s still sore ‘bout his brother dearest.”

     “Damn traitor.” Aphrodite giggled knowing the words tickled his lover’s spine.

     Oh, yes. Yes. The Pope mumbled, mewled like a kitten when he stroked Aphrodite’s hair, down his neck and back. He palmed at the black silk, struggling to keep from letting out anymore noises. He held himself back from who he truly was again, as always, Aphrodite would fish his heart out of all the blackness it swam in.

     Sprawling out in his lap in something wholly Pekinese brought out the hungry twitch, but his lover wouldn’t eat. With his hands suspended over The Pisces Saint’s skin where his shoulder begged for the moonlight and the straps of the dress crept down his bicep, The Pope could only look—if he even had been looking and not zoning off into space. Stiffened by his thoughts, that man let the moonlight wash his crimson mask with light so Aphrodite could see him struggle to come back to life. But almost as if Saga’s true self had died, rigor mortis held him painfully still.

     Then he was too silent. The horrible loss of sound painted the chamber completely black with guilt. So, Aphrodite would twist the Piranha Rose and try to exorcise whatever took the life out of his lover.

     “What an ugly shade of red for Aiolia.”

     “Yes. Truly a hideous hair color.” The Pope said, shaking his head ‘no’ despite agreeing as warm as he could that night.

     “Well, I was actually talking ‘bout those eyes.”

     The Pope held his breath loudly to imitate silence.

     “Aren’t they so unflattering on him?”

     “Everything is unflattering on him these days, the brat.” The Pope was loosened by Aphrodite’s giggle enough to stroke his cheek and give into their forbidden love. “He doesn’t listen so well, you must know.”

     “Aww, he just loves his traitor brother.”

     The bodice of the silk dress shrugged ‘way from his body when he lifted his hands to The Pope’s mask—only an imitation of a crying face in the moonlight.

     “He’s only showing off ‘cause he misses Aiolos.”

     Aphrodite offered a smile to the face he missed so dearly, only to turn his head and watch The so-called Pope sidelong as that face was merely an imitation. Never was his lover so weak and paralyzed to stare with eyes sore from the sting of tears and sorrow. His long, gorgeous hair wasn’t meant to gray and shed as if plucked from all the stress so soon. Those days his strong voice, warm and prophetic, had been swapped with an irritated growl of an animal powerful yet caged.

     On what day was it, Aphrodite wondered to himself. When was it when Apollo brought the sun ‘cross the sky and took dear Saga with the night b’fore?

     “I love you, mi amor.” He said it, just as he always did.

     “I miss you.”

     For a moment the silence dyed the air a dizzying black and the only thing they could focus on was their eyes. If only they were his real eyes.

     Then Saga stuck his neck out in remembrance. Both the real and fake Sagas asked for it, pleaded with a trailing hum, and every time Aphrodite gave in to bring his lips together and kiss the same spot. Pressed with a mark that never quite went away, that man’s body never forgot who he was.

      So, Aphrodite would embrace him ‘neath the moonlight in search of who he really loved. And maybe the black silk and the Piranha rose got lost in the darkness when they dropped to the floor. And the bath they took was more than relaxing and hot in that private bathhouse where the usually crystal water was tinted inky by the night and the moon placed little diamonds on the surface when she was allowed to peak past the columns.

     When they were dry by the steady fireplace, lounging on the regal crimson linen, there were a few things said in a tone quiet ‘nuff to ease the redness of Saga’s eyes and rejuvenate the spring in his hair. Maybe Aphrodite noticed too late to enjoy or celebrate as he’d been in his own lull by loving and being loved so deeply. Being held tightly and strongly by no mere imitation, he whispered.

     I will be thinking of you every day. Before this sensation melts and fades away. I’ll meet you again and again, Saga.

     He couldn’t fall asleep there, it wasn’t safe. And despite being sure in his intuition that he’d be caught, he couldn’t resist fading into that blackened night with his true lover, as he might not be able to ever again.

✩ ✩ ✩ Be Loved ✩ ✩ ✩

     BLOWING ON THE CORNER A FEW TIMES STOPPED THE BURNING. He didn’t need to shake it so furiously, but he seized with panic at the thought of losing the only photograph he had of that man—it being enveloped in black ash and fading away would bring up the memory in even more vivid detail.

     The Temple of the Mountain Goat was decorated all over with silver candelabras, faithfully dripping with red wax as they’d all been extinguished ‘cept that one. Not the one so close to his bed, teased by a patchwork quilt, but the one by his special place. There was a bookcase with several novels he had never opened, and a simple armchair upholstered with canvas cloth, under the cushion was where he kept it.

     It had been aged yellow, crumbled, and then burned by time but never destroyed. Simply an imitation of how Shura remembered the one he used to call a friend—he daren’t ever call him that again lest he be sent even further into Tartarus than he would have once his time came.

     If Aiolos would have gotten the chance to go on living like the rest of them, would he have put on the same amount of pillowy muscle as his brother did? Would he have grown into a handsome jawline? Gained those tired sort of dark circles from responsibility and age? Dyed his hair something outlandish, like completely black, to give his younger brother a shred more of individuality? He was always so bright, Aiolia would have never stepped out of his shadow. And neither would Saga.

     5 whole inches. Shura remembered being a stupid child and stewing over their height difference the day the photograph was taken. While rucking supplies—embarrassingly lagging b’hind his rival’s lead—a traveler offered to take a Polaroid and measure them with a canary tailor’s tape of all things.

     24 in waist. That’s small, but not bad, Shura. When he was allowed to be himself, Aiolos would talk like he knew everything.

     Not bad for girls.

     Don’t worry, you’ll catch up to me eventually. But first you’ll have to beat me in a race, and we all know how you struggle.

     One day, I’ll catch you.

     Shura wished he had smiled despite figuring it would only make him feel worse. If he had smiled he would be imitating such a radiant expression. It was no wonder everyone loved him b’fore he disappeared. Was made to disappear, rather.

     He tightened his fist when he recalled how it felt all those years ago, to lift his holy sword and swing it ‘cross his rival’s back. The space inside his chest froze and melted into blackness when his heart pounded. No matter how long he strained to inhale and fill his lungs his heart would never be filled. And staring in the swaying red flame hurt with his eyebrows pulled back in tortured guilt. He hoped the heat from the candle might scorch his eyes black, so he didn’t have to look at himself. An imitation of what a Gold Saint was supposed to be.

     Damn it, it was time for him to lay down for the night, but insomnia ate at him. It wasn’t the black coffee that did it, or the blackened photograph, but his guilt stained his thoughts completely ebony and chained him up.

     The least he could do was blow out the candles to sit in the darkness ‘till the moon hypnotized him and he passed out. Or maybe it would be the sun that woke him up. But all he could do was listen to Aiolos’ screams replay in his head, if Shura wasn’t so terrified that he would see his rival’s spirit when the candles were out, he might have moved. Strength leaked from all his limbs as even the Excalibur evaded him to throw itself in the bottom of some lake waiting for a true hero to wield it. Aiolos’ struggle climbed higher, ringing in his ears and through his temple he was so sure he could hear him weeping. Or even worse, seething. Ready to march into the House of Capricornus to take back what he’d lost.

     Maybe for a moment, Shura lifted his head to bray at the moon and join in the symphony of terror, ‘till the vermillion flames of his candelabra jolted in irritation.

     Grra!

     No! He’s here!

     There wasn’t enough time to put the photograph away, it flittered to the floor like the entire candelabra that more so fell and put itself out on the woven mat. A marble bust broke, and an end table was pushed to the floor. In his hurry he pulled down a tapestry, ripping the delicate fibers and tripping all over them in the dark ‘till he stumbled into the main hall, arm raised above his head to call forth Excalibur.

     Only a sliver of moonlight could push past the tall columns to show the intruder’s face, blackened with blood and shadow. And Shura hunched his back when he saw, bending his elbow to shield his face, following the moon who hid b’hind a gray cloud shamefully.

     “You’re bloody.” Shura didn’t think he had said anything.

     “Where’s Milo? Didn’t he come back through.” What a horrible imitation of Aiolia’s real voice.

     “No.” Shura took a step closer, noting how The Saint of Leo looked so much more like him than his older brother in that moment. “Did the Pope tell you something?”

     “What the hell do you mean, no. I can’t let him go.”

     Several holes were punched in that man’s Cloth, bleeding with scarlet blood and venom, the sight of him clutching his side and forcing himself forward took Shura back in time yet again.

     “You got rid of Aiolos, but you left the Sagittarius Cloth. It’s my job to bring it back, not Milo’s.” Aiolia had the same pout in his voice Shura remembered using when he was young and ‘gainst his rival.

     “I’m sorry. Aiolos...” It was a reflex, something he wanted to say at a different time. “It’s best to listen to The Pope’s orders.” The Pope in The Sanctuary would never be as splendid as Aiolos would have been.

     “Damn him, and Aiolos, and Milo. I’m going to Japan.”

     When he reached his hand out, it had been swiped ‘way and left with a bleeding scratch on the left annularly, the finger connected to the heart. Shura knew he bled red just like every other sinful mortal, but when he looked down at his hand blackened by the night, he figured his black dark blood meant he was rotten.

     Locking eyes with that beast—that imitation of the Gold Saint—lifted the breath and the soul. He couldn’t help rearing back and flattening his hand to draw the sword, eyebrows pulled back like in fear of something worse than a fight. Eerily and uncanny, those red eyes stared unmoving, frowning ugly shapes on that face that he once called so attractive, half illuminated by silver moonlight and clinging to rigorousness.

     “You’re just as crazy as The Pope.” Shura wondered if he should have said his Grand Master’s name—if he said it three times would it have broken the spell.

     “You don’t’ think he should have sent me too, do you?” Like a caged lion Aiolia paced, but he murmured like a cub, still too young.

     “I think all of this is a mistake.”

     That time his monstrous eyes might have looked sweet when he rolled them round to think and twist his lip. It was too bad they looked so tired and glowed in the night like a hunting cat’s. Sick with a consuming disease, that man had become infernal, stooping to hell with how much he leaked with rage.

     “Your hair is messed up.” Shura said with his hands out in front of him when he approached. “After I fixed it up for you.”

     The Knight of Capricornus could remember how that man’s older brother would mother hen him when they thought they were alone. As if to ask for Aiolos’ spirit back, he tried invoking it by reaching his hand up to taste the little bit of frizz left b’hind from the hair dye and the fight.

     “Don’t baby me.” Despite getting another swat, those eyes softened to accept the scrap of love he must have been starving for.

     “Lo siento, mi amor. I'm sorry.” He had to at least try as Shura was hungry too.

     And after the glare, the Saint of Leo opened his mouth to eat—he’d simply die if he didn’t. For a moment he held Shura’s hand with his volcanic warmth, unafraid of palming the blade that felled his only brother. Then came the sweet and hot kiss round the finger to lick the blood, completely ebony, in the light of that man, it would flow with a healthy scarlet.

     Maybe Shura wanted to jump up, or pull him close to embrace that man tightly and strongly like he should have done Aiolos, a true hero. But the kiss was allowed to linger, while Aiolia lapped up his blood dotingly, but also greedy.

     Thirsty for blood, but hungry for love, the ritual continued with a maddening give and take. Shura had to shut his eyes so he didn’t have to bare witness to The Pope’s split personality manifesting in more places than one.

     As much as he wanted to wrap his arms around the Saint of Leo, take him to bed as it was much too late, dowse him in flowery whispers, mmm, que rico, he let some slip out, he felt his hand tug back. After tasting each other’s lips, and blood, they were surely bonded, whether under The Pope’s subterfuge or not.

     Shura would follow Aiolos’s example and do what was right. Gently, he pulled his hand away to feel the sting of the wound on the cold air and let it drip and paint his finger black. If Aiolia wasn’t allowed to be himself in love and life, Shura would temporarily let go of his hand. After Athena would strike their Grand Master so he could fall from his seat, they might be able to hold each other again.

     Just as the Knight of Capricornus thought he could lower his shoulders and celebrate a good deed, he was haunted again.

     “Was it very easy for you to strike down my brother, Aiolos?” He always spoke of Aiolos like Shura didn’t know who he was.

     “No. He was fast and strong.” Oh, Athena, help him draw breath.

     “But was it easy?”

     When Shura turned his head ‘way, the Saint of Leo showed his teeth.

     “Once I bring back Milo’s head, I’ll at least be proud.”

     Then he faded into the darkness to find his rival and dance partner, just as Shura did that night so many years ago. Watching Aiolia’s back slowly evade the glow of the moon, felt like a vision of déjà vu. An imitation of the night they all lost Aiolos.  

✩ ✩ ✩ Imitation ✩ ✩ ✩

     “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

     Aphrodite could hear his lover iron out his subordinate. His voice was crunchy with the type of red-eyed grogginess that might have sounded like rage if he didn’t bite back that yawn. The resonate sound of a Gold Cloth clattering must have been his compatriot kneeling as he was supposed to. So, Aphrodite would yank the blanket from his sore legs and do the same. He held his black silk to his bare chest, still heaving a bit from wanting, and press his ear to the wall for a listen.

     “I didn’t call you.” The Pope went on firmly, but exasperated, like he was scolding a little puppy. “I’m surprised Aphrodite even let you through.” What a charming little lie, he’d have to be something of a pretender as he couldn’t even be himself anymore.

     “I seek your audience.” A quiet rasping voice might have belonged to a few Saints. “About Aiolo— Aiolia.” Definitely Shura.

     “You don’t get to call me. ‘Specially not ‘bout that damn—”

     Aphrodite sucked his teeth, when whoever was b’hind the mask imitated his lover, he had a habit of coming apart. Releasing that awful aura that drenched everything black. Instead of staying back, he heard Shura stand to his feet, heeling to their Pope, silent and dutiful like a guide dog.

     “Saga, your hair.” That voice turned buttery and golden, quirking Aphrodite’s eyebrow. “Mi amor, tranquila.”

     The Saint of Pisces slapped his hand over his mouth, merely imitating the sound of discipline that rang out through the corridors and down his spine.

     “Don’t call me that.”

     The heavy pants that grabbed for air tried to imitate silence but filled the room with a completely black energy. Aphrodite put his hand on the wall when he felt the tremble of the stone ‘neath him. There was a hollow sort of thud, someone shoved on their back. The clatter of a helm or mask tittering on the floor, running like a mouse to get away from the fray. And the throne squeaked ‘gainst the floor tiles when it might have been kicked. That chalice of Zinfandel, Aphrodite found himself drinking from more than his lover did that night, jumped off the seat where it was laid to splatter more than splash from sound alone.

     “I saw Aiolia.” Shura sounded congested, like he was laying on his back to cheat his voice into sounding more gentle.

     The Saint of Pisces tugged his little black number over his head when he heard the struggling turn into fighting for breath. Desperate coughs and whispers, a defiant hiss clawed its way up to be heard. Aphrodite had to peer from b’hind a corner like a rat and try not to react as he wouldn’t be caught in flogged as well.

     His so called lover sat on the Saint of Capricornus’s body, pressing his thick thumbs, that were so good at stroking a pink cheek, deep into Shura’s windpipe. Shaking with a tremor no amount of wind chill could replicate, that healthy dark hair turned white while his voice blackened.

     “You will not call me that.”

     He lifted his subordinate by latching onto his neck with razor claws then slammed him back down. A squeak came out triggering Saga’s beastly prey drive as he continued to shatter the marble floor tiles with Shura’s crown. The Knight of Capricornus hugged the curb, fingernails digging into his Grand Master’s hands but not hard ‘nuff to draw blood, he was too obedient. Ready to accept the brat, Aiolia’s, punishment in his place. Aphrodite could finally blink when his lover’s imitation couldn’t move anymore.

     “Mi amor.” The sound was still so sweet despite it coming out in broken pieces.

     And once the green of that man’s eyes started to fade and disappear to the back of his head, Saga peeled his hands ‘way and supported his knight’s head as he gasped for the air that seemed to be evading him.

     “Why corrupt Aiolia?”

     Aphrodite turned his head when his lover’s eyes turned pink and bloodshot with imitation tears. A hungry kiss followed, and they hugged each other tightly and strongly, locking their arms and bristling as if they were trying to avoid each other slipping away. From fading into black.

     “Please teach me the answer.”

     “He’s not like you. He doesn’t listen.”

     Emmm. Shura made the noise imitating a hound while licking his lips and showing his belly. Aphrodite wanted to chuckle but found it wouldn’t come out when he frowned.

     “Don’t tell me he’s your friend now?”

     “Aiolos was my friend.” Those eyes caught whatever pure moonlight was left after she hid her pale face b’hind the clouds. “I loved him.” He said it as fear of the dark paralyzed him.

     “You love me, now.” Saga said, digging his nails in, unable to even temporarily let go of those hands that were so tender and still.

     “Athena, help you.”

     Driven mad by his need to be loved, Aphrodite watched whoever that man was who imitated his lover dwindle and melt into the black of night. Like a lion claiming its prey, Saga clutched at the Capricornus Saint’s throat again, not b’fore attempting to deliver the kiss of death.

     Tightly and strongly, Saga wrapped himself around the Knight of Capricornus who could barely muster a wriggle. What a terrible ebony world it must have been for both of them to lay down and die.

…

     The Pisces Saint didn’t mind stripping naked again, to swim the length of that sprawling bathhouse to reach the private outlook. But instead of laying helplessly on the wide mattress to cuddle in the regal blankets and pick off the wild grapes, b’fore enjoying his lover, he would wring his hair dry and climb up one of those columns to rest on the sloped roof and wait.

     The land had a dreadful sort of quiet when night was allowed to drag on for long ‘nuff that all fire scones, and lanterns, and anything else that tried to imitate the moon had gone out. If the gods hadn’t promised them the sun everyday, anyone would have figured a late night was the end of the world.

     But b’fore the sky would lighten with the coming of Apollo’s chariot, Aphrodite saw the gleam of something still holding hope in that black world. Once he jumped down, he realized his dress was on backwards revealing an unsightly light colored stain, and his hair was tangled at the back of his head, but when he saw the state of his compatriot, he didn’t worry.

     Shura’s hair was damp with what might have been sweat, eyes heavy with black circles, and neck red and raw with those claw and kiss marks that wouldn’t go away so easily.

     “You went to see The Pope without my permission?”

     Aphrodite prodded with a smirk to see if the Capricornus Saint would play ball. He was good at being a brat when he absolutely needed to be. Pursing his lips and pushing past his compatriot with his helm close to his side. Those horns must have been plenty with secrets.

     “You look terrible.” Aphrodite said, plucking a demon rose from the ground to sniff and twist b’tween his fingers.

     “You should have seen the Pope.” Shura offered it, polite ‘nuff to stop, but rude ‘nuff to keep his back turned and cast a black shadow on all the red roses.

     “Athena help him, huh?”  

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Just Being With You ✩ ✩ ✩

“Ⱥll of Athena’s Saints have wings. Or so I’ve heard.” Aiolos said staring to the sky where he belonged.

     “Well, I don’t.”

     “I’m sure you could still fly.” He said it so easily.

     They had been spending more time together those days as the weather was easing up and young Aiolia was vying for his independence. Sometimes they took hikes up the mountains with sand filled rucksacks on their backs. Sometimes they’d practice pole vault by the abandoned Olympic stadium—it wasn’t always fair since Aiolos was the one who could actually soar. And sometimes they would do nothing. Thank Athena, it was one of those days.

     The both of them sat on their special rock, nearing the training grounds to taste the wind and share stories. Athena knew they were too busy to lounge during that season, everyone seemed to vanish during the day, what they did escaped Shura. He hoped their Grand Master would accept them pairing off to do what their hearts wanted to for even a moment. Every person needed it.

     The glaring sun washed the rocks white and kissed their cheeks with the reflected rays. Aiolos was quiet for once, giving Shura the chance to think. He knew his dear friend liked to go on and on with his face to the soaring clouds. More so belting a tune than talking, he had so many things to say.

     Aiolia is doing well, he’ll be a fine Saint. Maybe you’ll understand my happiness when you get to be a mentor. I can tell you’ve been training hard. 30 in waist, that’s much more proportional than 24 in, don’t you think? Maybe you should try eating more to build your biceps like mine.

     He loved to sing his own praises, and the Capricornus Saint couldn’t deny it made him happy when they were allowed easy conversation. The sound of his voice wasn’t an ear sore even though his gloating might have been. There was a scoff Shura had to bite back when he thought of how he tried to contribute to their conversations, back when he tried too hard.

     I saw a stray cat the other day. I tried to take it in, but it died. Oh, and I found a really cool rock the other day, but I lost it. It looked like…well it had…It was one of those ones with the… Oh never mind, forget it.

     He guessed he wasn’t made to sing to the heavens or fly like an angel. Just being with his friend might have filled his heart with an imitation of what it could be like. Not as exceptional as the glorious Saint of Sagittarius, Shura found he would fade into the background, not quite understanding ‘till he was taught of his short comings by a literal seraph.

     And since the day they became friends, The young Saint of Capricornus would strive, training his legs—that still weren’t as long or majestic—so maybe he could jump high ‘nuff to fly. So he could be seen and praised, recognized for his strength and loyalty to their goddess Athena.

     The both of them stared to the horizon, dancing with a heat distortion as if something were approaching slowly, Shura tried to find a song inside him.

     “Wanna go skip stones?”

     “No, you’re too good at that. You’ll make me jealous.” Aiolos laughed after he said it, causing those angel wings to clatter a little chime. If only he knew.

     “What do you want to do?” Shura said trying to savor the smile that came as a pathetic self soothe when he figured he was at least better at jumping stones than his friend.

     “Be here with you.”

     The words made Shura’s heart flutter despite his frowning.

     “The Pope asked me and Saga to see him.”

     Another honor Shura couldn’t begin to understand how it must have felt.

     “It must be important. You and Saga are the most respected.”

     Shura said it while closing his eyes trying not to clench his teeth. He knew the splendid Saint of Gemini was revered by every soul in The Sanctuary, unable to do any wrong as he was wiser and older. It only made sense that someone like Aiolos would get to stand by his side and kneel b’fore The Pope in service. When would it be Shura’s turn?

     Those wings stretched and painted golden rays of light on the rocks b’low when the sun was drawn to them. The wind caught under them and he had to sit up completely straight to fight the breeze. Or maybe he was allowing himself to be lifted up instead.

     “I have a bad feeling about the summoning.”

     “Don’t feel bad. It’s an honor.” Shura enjoyed giving something of a command, he wouldn’t have been able to smile if he didn’t.

     His friend then flapped those wings, kicking pebbles off the ledge, looking towards the sun, probably able to fly up and grab it if he really wanted.

     “I wish I could be there with you.”

     “I would rather you be there than Saga.”

     “You jealous of him?” Shura swallowed a hmph that had no business in his mouth.

     “I’ve been praying to Athena.” Hadn’t they all been? “I have a bad feeling about the Gemini Saint, too.”

     A breeze picked up and his friend’s wings shivered a delicate song. And that messy hair, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown, swayed and rusted in the sun. Shura wanted to tell him it was time to style it again, he should look nice for his meeting with The Pope—Shura knew he would if he was ever summoned. B’fore he could open his mouth to even try to suggest running a comb through that mop, that electric angel sang again.

     “Let’s burn some time while I wait.” Aiolos shook his head when he usually nodded.

     “So, we can go to the Tigris and skip stones?” Shura felt his back bend as if he were to sprout wings himself at the idea.

     “Why don’t I show you how to fly?”

     And his back then slouched at the mere thought of being another one of Aiolos’ students. Again, his friend wanted to rub it in. One day Shura would show him.

     “I know you can. You might catch up to me one day.”

✩ ✩ ✩ Will My Heart Take Flight? ✩ ✩ ✩

IT WAS WEIRD TO HOLD HANDS EVERY TIME HE FELL. Each time he’d been grabbed it was as if he never had fallen. Like his heart took flight and kept him afloat. He tried not to let his legs wobble too much as he was pulled from the ravine and set back on the ledge for probably the one hundredth time that day. Being yelled to with that loud voice wasn’t making his head spin any less.

     “C’mon, Shura. You’ve got to burn your cosmo hotter.” It was embarrassing when he coached with such fire. “It’s like you’re not even trying.”

     Shura attempted to convince himself he was still trying. He didn’t mind their little dance with a hop and a step and the clasping of hands—Aiolos’s were warm with the tack of sleeping lightning, like every electric angel’s must have been.

     “Even my little brother can do this, and he’s still a runt just like you were.”

     There was the surge in his cosmo.  

     “Think of it like skipping a stone. Burn your cosmo to skip through the air.” Aiolos said propelling himself forward a few times to zip round like a ball of static electricity—damn show off. “Fly to me and I’ll catch you if you fall again.”

     He made it look so easy. How come Shura couldn’t spread his wings and play in the sky? He’d never catch up to his splendid friend if he couldn’t fly.

     That time, Shura would jump higher, using every shred of muscle in his legs. It was true Aiolos was a good teacher, and an even better trainer. For a moment, Shura felt his body take flight with his cosmo burning for love and his heart lifting him up to meet his dear friend, but when he began to sink like a rock maybe he would reach out.

     It was too easy to grab that hand and be rescued again, he almost reached for it simply out of habit. But he narrowed his eyes in focus when he started to free fall. Shura would surge his cosmo brightly to make his splendid friend proud. To maybe catch up with him one day.

     He shot up, missing Aiolos’s hand but hooking onto him some other way, he wasn’t quite sure as the jolt of energy made him lightheaded. When the gasp seized him and they both started to fall, he stared down at the sprawling ravine b’low, feet straight out, holding his friend from under his armpits making it more than uncomfortable to fly.

     Aiolos’ scream and wriggle shocked Shura’s heart with just enough electricity to propel him higher. It was too bad he could only go upwards and ring his friend’s cries through the sky.

     “Stop it, Shura!” If he wasn’t bracing himself ‘gainst the wind, Shura might have found the screaming more than pleasing to his fluttering jealous heart. “Keep going and we’ll both need rescuing!”

     His fear melted into a smoldering fire in his belly. Finally, he’d be the one to rescue Aiolos after all those years. Maybe if he leaned forward, or backwards. Lifted his chest, or maybe his leg… Damn it, he couldn’t think when Aiolos belted that high note to pierce the clouds where the rest of the angels sang.

     Shura clenched his core and did a corkscrew backflip, nursing a thought in the back of his mind, ‘bout how he hoped it looked cool while also hoping it did the trick of saving his friend. By the grace of Athena, he was able to grab the ledge and crawl to the earth so he could kiss the dirt.

     The sound of those golden feathers clattering together and that man’s back scraping ‘cross the ground and rock was one Shura never thought he would hear. When he turned round to watch his dear friend tremble and try to stand to his feet, he tried not to make that little smile.

     After taking a while to get to the other ledge and help Aiolos up with his shoulder, they both sat on one of those sun bleached rocks to pant

     “That was something else. You really could have done me in with something like that.”

     “Oh really?” He didn’t know why he was laughing. “I could feel my cosmo surging. You were light as a skipping stone.”

     “Maybe you should call it that. Skip-pp-ingu Sto-one!” Aiolos punched the air, saying the name he proposed with a little rasp in his excited voice.

     “I don’t think I skipped you. I more so, jumped you.” Shura tried not to sound too proud despite puffing out his chest.

     There was a scoff of a laugh. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

     “Jumping Stone.” There was a little spiteful sneer that tried to come out when he crossed his arms. “That’s what I want to call it.”

     It wasn’t always that they both exchanged warm smiles like that. Looked in each other’s eyes then held out their fists to bump them together when they really wanted to hug. In time maybe they would wrap their arms around each other, but for then, Shura thought he would need to wait. Just being there with his friend made his heart tremble too much.

     “First we have to get rid of this thing.” Shura said.

     The headband was always drenched in sweat, grabbing onto Aiolos’ forehead when that miserable knot was untied and pulled at the hair on the back of his head. The Knight of Capricornus tossed it in a bowl of cold water and whatever powdered detergent he could get his hands on that day. Sure, the crumbly white kind ate at all kinds of fabrics, but anything that could leach out all the grime would be their best bet.

     He leaned his dear friend’s head back into a wooden bucket of river water and soapberries. He always swore by taking a bucket full from the Tigris, the soft sort of water brought out the natural curl of Aiolos’s hair, it was too bad he shivered so badly—whether it was from the cold water, or the scalp massage, Shura was too shy to ask.

     Much like a dog who hated baths, Aiolos clenched his teeth to bare getting his hair washed. He held a pencil, chewed on the end, that he was once using to write notes on the back of some card he kept with him. It was something Shura noticed he did when he was away, scrounging for something that would tame that mop of his.

     You give me peace of mind. The Saint of Sagittarius would say with a random philosophical tone, a little too quietly almost like a ballad. Shura figured his friend hated being alone, he kept himself busy enough, his secret of being scared of the dark would be safe in Shura’s fluttering heart.

     “It’s cold today.” Aiolos said again b’fore the terrycloth was thrown over his head.

     “You’re just complaining.” Shura really dug his nails in to make sure it was all dry.

     “Mmm, never.” And a little hum came as his dear friend didn’t mind being handled roughly some of those times.

     The pretty carved whalebone comb would be best for wet coarse hair. Shura stole it from Aphrodite when he wasn’t looking one day when they were younger, and he would never hear the end of it.

     “You’re using the stolen comb.” Like clockwork it came out of that fool’s mouth.

     “I always use it.”

     “You should really give it back.” Aiolos looked up at himself in the tarnished silver glass mirror of the Sagittarius Temple, barely catching Shura’s obscured reflection b’hind his. “Stealing is wrong, Gold Saints shouldn’t do it.”

     The comb had a hard time going through its first pass, so he’d have to grease his fingers with olive oil. “Even if it’s from Aphrodite?”

     “Yes.” Aiolos twisted his lip like he had something else to say—he always did. “It’s evil.”

     “You think I’m evil? It’s not wise to insult the person who is doing your hair, y’know.” Those dull tailor’s scissors were in arms reach.

     “No, I don’t think you’re evil. I just have a bad feeling.”

     He’d been yapping ‘bout bad feelings all day, and the days leading up. For someone who could send Shura’s heart a flutter, he was surely being a downer. Maybe the Knight of Capricornus would have to try harder to take flight.

     “Enough feeling bad. Try to look at your reflection.” Shura twisted his oiled finger round a piece of hair by the back of his friend’s neck yielding another shiver. “I’m gonna make sure you look good for when you see The Pope.”

     “You don’t have to do this.” What a funny way of saying ‘Thank you’. He was so full of himself, or maybe Shura was full of him.

     “I want to.” Then it was his turn to purse his lips and have something else to say. “If I were to be summoned by The Pope, I would want to look my best.”

     There was a quiet moment where Aiolos looked at himself in that mirror with his pretty blue eyes that were big and bright, much unlike Shura’s. And there were several other moments when he peered at the Capricornus Knight, squinting a little to find his friend’s real reflection ‘mongst the tarnished silver. Those hero’s eyes softened with a gentle drop when he must have found it.

     “I wonder if Saga is getting his hair done too?” It sounded like a question a child would ask, but came out with an adult bitterness.

     “He has a lot of it.”

     “Mhmm.” A dismissive little pout he tried to hide.

     Something had to be done with that cowlick, the one by his crown that stuck up over his head like a very fitting question mark. The olive oil weighted it down enough to droop, so Shura would lick his hand to taste the rich oil and earthy essence of freshly washed hair and smooth it down.

     “He has glowing skin.” Aiolos was still lost in thought, a place he never was unless he felt alone.

     “It must be all the attention he gets. He’s the most respected out of all of us.” Shura wondered what it was like as he moved on to taming those bangs.

     “He has an aura about him sometimes.”

     “His cosmo is as expansive as the galaxy.”

     “It’s not quite cosmo.”

     Shura used the slim wooden comb with the tiny teeth to pull down his friend’s sideburns while he waited for the rest of the thought to come out.

     “Athena forbid, he’s…” There was nothing else for more than a minute.

     “You could just say you’re jealous of him.” Shura didn’t want to plead, but he had to.

     “Why would I be jealous of him? I have so many things. I have the best little brother.” That smile raised the temperature in the room. “The best friend anyone could have in the entire Sanctuary.”

     Caught wholly off guard, Shura curved his shoulders inward and shied ‘way like a bashful maiden. He hoped he didn’t blush when he cleared his throat and laid Aiolos’s bangs down perfectly over his nose. It took him a little longer than it would have, it was hard to get unruly hair to behave when his heart was taking flight with the angels and the clouds.

     “I value our friendship, Shura. You’ve always been so loyal to me.” His singing voice dropped low and somber.

     “Shut up.” He was almost done, and he surely couldn’t work under those conditions.

     “I mean it. I love you.”

     Aiolos dragged his eye ‘cross the mirror to meet Shura’s, the contact was broken by the glare of the light, and the black of the silver tarnish.

     “You sound like you’re going to do something insane. Talking so dramatically like that.” The Knight of Capricornus could barely say it, his heart was jumping in his chest.

     “Something insane might happen in The Pope’s chamber, you never know.”

     “Again, I beg you to shut up.” Shura wondered something dark for a moment as he curled the last strand of Aiolos’s hair with his finger. “You’ll be fine, and you’ll look fine too.”

     He mussed his friend’s hair to fluff it then wrung out that headband so he could hang it to dry. It was unfortunate that his friend would surely tie it tight around his forehead once it was dry, ruining all his hard work. But such was someone like Aiolos to be untamed and go ‘gainst the grain only to become more triumphant in the process. Wouldn’t it be grand to be half the person he was? To be an electric angel?

     “There, now you’ll present yourself well to The Pope.” Shura nodded as his friend took only a second to admire himself, then looked at him in the dark mirror again. “A mí sí me gusta. Qué guapo. It looks good.”

     “I love your voice when you speak Spanish. It sounds like you’re singing a song.” He said it with a relaxed smile and those low eyes. Was his heart fluttering too?

     “Gracias. Thank you.” Surely his cheeks turned a pink when he was yet again at a loss for what to say.

     “Don’t be so formal.” His little chuckle swept Shura’s heart away with a gale force of wind.

     “Te quiero mucho.” He didn’t want to say it, not even quietly like he did.

     “What’s that mean?”

     Shura shook his head and started to clean up the space.     

✩ ✩ ✩ My Heart Trembles ✩ ✩ ✩

IT WAS HARD TO SLEEP THAT NIGHT, THE SANCTUARY MUST HAVE BEEN WEEPING. Shura turned on his side to think in the dark. Growing up, he hadn’t been one of those children who was scared of the dark. The ones with the overactive imaginations, who saw things jumping around, and monsters that wanted to grab them. But that night he felt someone was coming for him.

     Maybe he should pay his dear friend a visit, it would soothe both of them to be together he hoped. Aiolos had been acting strange those days as well.

     Holing himself up, going off on his own to train and accept the fact that he had to be alone every once in a while. His hair was looking so disheveled recently, he wouldn’t even comb it with his fingers. And those eyes grew tired with what could have been stress, but could probably be narrowed down to worry.

     Camus had a French Press they could borrow if they asked nicely and maybe gave him a drachma. And Deathmask always had the best quality Turkish tobacco with the slow burning rolling papers. It wouldn’t take long to grind some Arabica beans or gather a few sprigs of dried mint to infuse their cigarettes. Maybe he had a small piece of turrón duro wrapped in wafer paper with the honey seeping through that they could share. A sobremesa was just what his friend needed, Athena knew he never took a siesta those days. Shura would even take his friend to the sea to listen to the calming waves. Or to their favorite sun bleached rock that had been given back to nature those days, they were always left empty in the afternoon. Wouldn’t it be grand to spend the dark hours flying round with the bats to try and grab the moon.

     B’fore Shura could lift himself up and start to skitter round like a wife, he heard it.

     “You’re awake.”

     When the candles were finally lit, his friend wasted no time reaching out for a hug that choked an embarrassing whimper out of him. He locked his arms around Shura’s body, and smelled alarmingly of sweat—the colder kind, which came with an almost virulent tacky scent. His forehead was damp with it as it leaked through that headband.

     ¿Qué pasó? wanted to come out, but that would have made the moment too sweet, he just bent his eyebrows instead. The jumping light of the candles made them look like wax sculptures, as the flame was the only thing that moved for the longest while.

     “I don’t have a lot of time, but I wanted to see you tonight.” Aiolos said with a deafening whisper.

     Again, Shura shook his head, cocking it to the side, hoping if he acted even a little bit like a dog, he would get a smile. He didn’t.

     “It’s okay if you don’t understand, but I love you.” The both of them had gone several months without saying that to each other, regardless, it shouldn’t have sounded so intimate then.

     The Knight of Capricornus tried to move his lips to say something, I, jumped out awkwardly. But his beloved friend came to his rescue after fishing something out of his pocket.

     Slick with a bright plastic-y glare from the candlelight, the photograph was almost too pristine, handled with care its entire life it only bended a hair at the corner where Aiolos gripped it. It had been taken during a time Shura almost tried to forget, when they were so small, had there ever been a time? The memory of his little voice fussing lit up his brain and flushed his face instantly when he looked at the both of them side by side in the photo.

     “5 whole inches shorter than you.” The two of them could spare a chuckle. “I was so mad at you.”

     “I remember. Aiolia’s the same way with the others in training.”

     “The amazing Sagittarius Saint’s younger brother? No way.”

     “Way. Who knew I’d have to deal with two runts in my lifetime.” Their conversation almost felt easy, Shura wanted to smile b’fore his friend spoke up again. “It will be the last time.”

     The Northern Wind must have been knocking, as a chill seeped into the Temple of the Mountain Goat and the silence left the place without any heat. The well-maintained photo was extended to Shura’s hand with a slow tight motion, only begetting of something that matched. When his fingers grasped the opposite corner, he tried to be tender with it, as the tacky paper grabbed at his thumbprint, feeling like he was getting fingerprints taken.

     They exchanged their looks again, being turned to stone by the frozen air and each other’s stares.

     “I can’t believe you kept this photo from so long ago?” Shura said, scrunching his nose when he looked at it in the dark. “I don’t know if I can look at it for too long. I really was a runt.” He could barely say it as his heart beat a song in his throat.

     “I need you to take it.”  O, Athena, why did he look so dire? Almost able to speak without barely moving an inch.

     “Eres un amor.” It came out as he needed to see the smile.

     And it pushed itself forth when it was being held back so strongly. And silly as it was, they grinned at each other as if they were standing in a better time. Then maybe for a moment, Shura’s heart was filled b’fore the silence and the frown.

     “What’s going on?” That wasn’t enough. “Where are you going?” He was always going somewhere those days.

     “That doesn’t matter. I know you’re an honorable Saint. I know you too will do what’s right for the Sanctuary.”

     Those words should have made Shura smile. He had waited to hear something like that for longer than he wanted to think about, and from someone as gallant as the Knight of Sagittarius it should have felt good and warm in his heart. But all he could do was gape and feel the tremble of worry.

     “I’m going on a mission for the truth. For Athena.”

     There he went again with the lofty bullshit. “Don’t you want to stay for sobremesa first? It’s late.” Shura prayed it wasn’t too late.

     “Yes. I want to stay.”

     “Great.”

     “I’ll be back, eventually.”

     The Saint of Capricornus felt a smile tease the corner of his lips, but when he was pulled into a needing hug again it was canned. His dear friend’s body was a blaze, and his touch staticky with a piece of lightning that could restart one hundred hearts. As he pressed his chest ‘gainst his beloved friend’s, he could feel the beat. The rolling drum of a heart tight with nerves, sometimes skipping like it was trying to fly out of him. Shura wondered if their separate heart beats had become one when they stood there, mirroring each other’s rhythm in comradery and affection. Hopefully, they’d both remain that way for the rest of their lifetimes.

…

     Had he ridden on Aiolos’s quantum jumping wind that night? Maybe he had stood in The Pope’s chamber once b’fore. Where the columns were tall and thick, beaming white with the palatial marble floor tiles that showed the reflection of the fire basins and Shura’s face when he knelt. The plush running carpet felt luxurious ‘neath his feet, and the red color almost hurt his eyes it was so royal. So above him.

     And his Grand Master’s roaring voice—slightly raspy with a bit of mystery—did less than sooth him, but more to excite.

     “Yes, Pope Ares.” When he bowed his head, Shura tried to can an asinine smile, the one he was saving for his dear friend. “Sí señor.” He was tickled by his superior’s laugh.

     Perhaps he could congratulate himself for soaring to Aiolos’s level. To kneel by The Pope’s throne dressed in gold and glamour to sing his praises for him. To take his order and have his heart set aflutter by that hand that pet his hair and scratched his chin for one of those quiet moments. Maybe it wasn’t quite right, but anything that made his heart take flight would do.

     “There are other Saints more talented than you, but you show promise.”

     Oh, thank you, Pope Ares. The glorious Pope with his flowing white hair took only a moment to sit up high on his pedestal. But Shura didn’t mind when he stood to pace, to lift his head high to Athena’s colossus, hitching his breath only a little as if he were holding back tears. Something was surely befalling The Sanctuary, but Shura couldn’t be rid of the tingly feeling. He had a quiet moment to himself to wonder.

     “Why choose me over Aiolos, and Saga?”

     The speedy head turn caused the Knight of Capricornus’s heart to leap more than flutter.

     “You’ve chosen them before.”

     “Perhaps.” That man’s nails were perfect when they teased Shura’s hair and got a little slick with aloe gel. “But I need you now.”

     He couldn’t wait to tell Aiolos, maybe some good news would make him come around. Finally being able to fly in the same jet stream as that electric angel milked a purr out of Shura’s chest. Or maybe it was just the attention of his Grand Master.

     “Aiolos is your friend, isn’t he? I can tell you did his hair the same night we were—” The Pope sucked his teeth. “The night I called him. And Saga.” His voice trailed, Aiolos really was that magnificent wasn’t he.

     “He’s important to me.” That was all Shura wanted to say, it would have been too much to say he loved his dear friend.

     “Your friend’s a traitor.” The words came out as he tickled under the chin as gentle as he might a cat.

     Shura almost wanted to laugh, but his mind was swept ‘way.

     “Pope Ares, that doesn’t make any sense.”

     “He’s fleeing the Sanctuary with the Sagittarius Cloth, trying to assassinate Athena.”

     The flames in the basins and wall sconces flickered as if taking a gasp themselves. And The Pope put his hands on either side of his head for a moment to grumble something to himself and push his mask further onto his face. To think there was a traitor ‘mongst The Sanctuary, one who was once so gallant and strong. Even Shura dropped his head in a weeping way, to pray it wasn’t true.

     “He’s on the run now.” When The Pope’s voice evened out to the usual simmer, that’s when Shura could lift his head again.

     “I don’t quite believe it.” The words almost got stuck in his throat when the hand came again, to pet his cheek that time. “He would never.”

     Maybe the Capricornus Saint was angry at his dear friend, maybe his jealousy was coming back to gnaw at him. But his heart was sent aflutter with the need to chase after him.

     “I,” The Pope straightened his back to do his looming. “Your Grand Master… saw the traitor with my own eyes. He has no right to serve under Athena and I anymore.”

     The sound of the wind howling made it through the high columns of The Pope’s chamber, twisting b’tween them and ringing a hollow howl in Shura’s ears when he stood still. There was no way.

     “No. I know Aiolos. He has no reason to do such a thing.”

     “He did it.” The Pope returned to his throne to sit and twitch his fingers, balling them into fists. “B’sides, I know you. You’re the most loyal to Athena, aren’t you?”

     Maybe that scrap of praise would have made him smile or feel just a tad lighter, but he’d been too distracted to hear it.

     “I’m giving you the opportunity to take an order from me and prove yourself.” Why would The Pope be chuckling at a time like that. “Take the honor and accolades that your old friend forsook.”

     “He’s a more than honorable Saint.”

     “He was. So, I’m sending you to destroy him and bring peace back to The Sanctuary. Hum-hum?”

     The chuckling, braying of the wind and the thought of his very best friend was enough to force Shura’s eyes shut. Maybe for a moment he trembled and thought back to the times they had been so close. Sitting on the sun bleached rocks, in the Temple of the Centaur with all the hair supplies and the river water, skipping stones and laughing. Why was the only laughing he was hearing so evil? Why was he twisting his lip and considering, recalling the conception of his Jumping Stone and contemplating actually having to use it.

     “Why don’t you send Saga.”

     The Pope made a tiger noise, something of a warning growl that caused Shura’s heart to hammer.

     “I chose you.” He barked it out, but his voice softened seconds later when he stood to approach again. “You’re just as capable.”

     Perhaps it was an awful manipulation tactic of his Grand Master to swirl his fingers round Shura’s dark hair, or use his pointer to lift his chin. The Saint of Capricornus couldn’t deny it steadied his trembling heart.

     “You’re just as splendid.” Those red eyes on The Pope’s mask caught a warlike gleam of the fire basins, signaling a call to arms. “And you wouldn’t disobey your Grand Master. Would you?”

     The question was trailed by another warning growl, so Shura would shake his head and do what he could to ease his commander. “No señor.”

     The growl burned up and became a tittering laugh. And the Capricornus Knight took a quiet moment to look at The Pope’s darkened mask, illuminated hot-red by the flames. And for a second he could see his own eyes in the reflection, and a smiling triumphant face. But he simply couldn’t hide the terror.

     “Go, Shura.” With the snap of his fingers, The Pope did the trick of unfurling Shura’s wings.

     He’d never forgotten how to fly after he was taught by his dear friend—he hoped he could still call Aiolos such a thing, a space in his soaring heart would be kept for him even after that night ended. As he turned on his heels and sprinted off, he tried to focus on his breath, but the sound of The Pope letting out crazed laughs distracted him for a moment. Or maybe they were sobs. All of the Sanctuary would sob that night, Shura thought and prayed it wasn’t true.  

     Traveling at Mach speeds wasn’t enough for such an important pursuit. He would leap on the white rocks, blackened by the deepening night, and propel himself forward with tiny surges of cosmo. He soared ‘cross The Sanctuary like a skipping stone to peer down from a seraph’s view, snarling like a hound who would please his master one way or another.

     For a private moment to himself, he wondered if he looked as majestic as Aiolos always looked. Without wings to spread wide, or golden hair that shined like ore in the light, Shura must have paled in comparison. It was more than a shame that he couldn’t fly next to his dear friend anymore. An awful tremor ran down his spine when he caught the opposing current pushing on him as he advanced. Who would be his very best friend once Aiolos was dealt with? Who would guide his younger brother? Surely, he’d hate Shura’s every being or maybe turn into a traitor himself. After forcing out the breath he was holding, Shura told himself he would focus on the good of the Sanctuary. On following The Pope’s orders.

     No longer glittering like an electric angel, he caught his tawny appearance skittering like a rat chased by the lesser Saints all just like Shura and vying for The Pope’s favor. He indulged in a small rest on the high cliffside to watch.

     With quick sweeping motions, Aiolos landed punches on each foot soldier, still with the Sagittarius Cloth on his back. And something in his arms.

     Once the miserable foot soldiers were down and buried into the stone of the cliffside, Aiolos heaved his breaths. His hair was visibly mussed and dripping with sweat. That disgusting headband of his was probably completely saturated, it would have taken three or four times in the bucket to get his hair all clean again. Shura bit his lips to try and stop thinking of something so domestic, but unfortunately the action only aggravated the thought.

     The mewling and giggling of an infant brought him back to the task at hand. Aiolos lifted the white cloth over the swaddled baby to check on her in something maiden and fair. Cute pink pompoms and a fat happy face surely was a rarity in the Sanctuary, it was obvious that both Aiolos and Shura looked upon such a face with mercy. There was no way they couldn’t.

     When the Saint of Sagittarius finished his rest and turned to go down his path, the words of The Pope prodded at Shura’s back. Then would be the only time he could face the brilliant Sagittarius knight. The time when he could fulfill his duty to The Pope and to Athena. So, he grit his teeth to taste the bitter words he’d speak next.

     “Aiolos.”  

     Maybe there was a smile for a second when his dear old friend looked up to him, but then the terror came.

     “You’ve been labeled a traitor, and you can’t run.” Shura overextended his fingers straight and flat to painfully unsheathe the Excalibur.

     “I’m not a traitor.” His voice housed a little mouse’s squeak from the fear.

     “You’ve been labeled as one.”

     In disbelief Aiolos shook his head, those damp bangs sticking to his headband.

     “I wish I could take care of your hair b’fore I do this.” Shura let out a sigh and lifted his arm above his head.

     “You don’t want me to explain myself?”

     Of course he wanted an explanation, but his answer would have to be, no. Shura dragged his hand down to cut through the air with the holy blade of Excalibur. His fluttering heart tugged on his arm each time he levied a blow with his signature attack.

     That one was too slow, the next one too out of the way, the two that followed were a complete miss. And Aiolos used his skill to leap out of the way every time, even without wings he could glide easy as a falcon. When he placed the baby ‘gainst a safe cove and lifted his head, Shura knew they couldn’t play around for much longer.

     “I’m right here, Shura.” He lifted his lyrical voice to start the chorus. “I’m with you.”

     “I hear your voice.” He loved it.

     And when his old friend, now opponent jumped forward, burning his cosmo to soar and outstretch talons like an eagle, Shura pulled his eyelids back in terror. He turned his head to try and shield himself from the swing of his Excalibur that would cut that seraph in half and lift him with a virulent current.

     Even when he was screaming, he sounded like he was singing. When he was carried ‘way to collide with the cliffside and kiss the ground his voice was stretched into an arc that sent Shura’s heart to bursting.

     He looked down on his old friend, trembling in the dirt where all traitors belonged. But Shura, and the Sanctuary, and the Sagittarius Gold Cloth knew that wasn’t Aiolos’s place. So, he started to glow.

     His Gold Cloth that should have rejected him, clasped around his trim body, fitting him with the glittering wings of an electric angel. The shine and glimmer of stardust and golden cosmo was too bright for Shura’s widened eyes. He squinted and stepped down, knowing in his heart he’d always be in Aiolos’ shadow.

     “Ikuzo!” The seraph pulled his fist back and raised his voice for the crescendo. “Atomic—”

     Shura couldn’t jump in time. He was too blinded by a holy song and light.

     “Thunda-boltto!”

     Despite not being singed by the lightning, his breath was stolen with those white rocks were broken into rubble and he was pushed back to crash land. Shame on him for thinking he could ever fly like an angel.

     For a moment, they both sat in the silence. Aiolos might have done what Shura didn’t and had been merciful ‘nuff to spare him, it was so quiet. So light and warm. Maybe there was even laughter.

     “Oh?” Shura said when he found the strength to lift himself up and welcome the baby crawling towards him. She was too sweet and gentle to ignore. And she reminded him of his mission from The Pope b’fore the holy chorus could.

     “Stop it!” Aiolos knew just as well as Shura did.

     “Are you ready to use your real power?”

     They stood in the ballroom Shine position, and Shura lifted his arm again as the shall I have this dance, b’fore Aiolos lifted his voice.

     The Excalibur cut a deep vein in the ground causing it to bleed cosmo and gravel ‘neath Aiolos’s feet. And when he shouted that high note, that would be the moment he delivered the killing blow. When he was launched into the air, wings clipped, backed by the watchful moon. Another swing of the Excalibur to the neck would finish the job and make The Pope proud. But as Shura watched with eyebrows pulled back in terror, all he wanted was to fly by his dear friend’s side.

     “Jum-ppingu Stone!”

     He did what he was supposed to and what he wanted to. Flying by his dear friend’s side for only a second b’fore sending him back to the heavens where he belonged. Aiolos dropped down into the ravine, singing his swan song as he went.

     There was a deep enough river at the bottom of that particular chasm, wasn’t there? Shura couldn’t bare to look and make sure. But the baby did her due diligence.

     Maybe he would return to his Grand Master’s side to be praised and pet like a Shih Tzu. But maybe he would need to wash his hair first, or maybe his hands, or his tear-stained face. Maybe he would need to look at that photograph as it was all he had to mourn his loss. Or maybe not.    

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ On This Dance Floor in the Dark ✩ ✩ ✩

Ø Athena, he hoped he wasn’t dead. That night there was a musky scent and a humidity that caused his hair to frizz. It had been quite some time b’fore he realized it had rained. He only came to the realization when the rushing sound of water droplets crashing into the earth over and over stopped. It was quiet ‘nuff for him to think. To speak to her.

     After stopping a bullet train and falling from an impossible height to press a crater in a lonely parking deck level by level, Aiolia absconded the dance floor. Leaving Milo to rot as merely a piece of roadkill.

     The smell of his blood hung in Aiolia’s nose like the stench of something virulent and full of venom. The sound of his body yielding on the concrete, maybe the pop of his collar bone or his entire spine would stiffen his back when he recalled it for the hundredth time that night.

     There were a quiet few moments when he took off into the forests to evade the city lights, where he might have thought he was proud to have usurped the honor of going on Milo’s solo mission. But disappearing into the dark night ‘neath the cold moon that pinned him down with her gaze, made him feel the dread.

     I did it. He couldn’t stop murmuring it like a prayer, hoping someone would congratulate him, or scold him in the nothingness. Why wasn’t it so easy to strike down Milo.

     Damn, why were his eyes so itchy? He rubbed at them, irritating the skin on the bridge of his nose every time. Maybe retiring to that open mouthed cave for a break from the cold helped the dry pain. Maybe it was the crying that soothed him.

     Maybe it was lifting his head and feeling that cosmo, warm and huge it must have traveled ‘cross the entire world with how it expanded. It stopped the biting cold and was the bosom for him to cry into, the lap for him to lay his head in and wail for what he’d done. Dry red eyes pulled back in terror, he thought of Shura and his very own brother who was much too honorable to look down on him with anything other than disgust.

     “Athena, please forgive me.” He barely said it as he couldn’t speak it calmly anymore.

     And he raised his chin to the judging moon, with her light so golden and strong it marked him as a traitor with a helicopter’s painful Night Sun. Head in his hands, he sobbed and heaved his entire body, strong ‘nuff to make him want to vomit. He’d returned to it just as any other dog would, one too many times. But no matter how much the temperature dropped with the rain’s memory caught in the trees and earth, or how brightly the moon was in search of him, that cosmo kept him through the night.

     “Athena, I’m sorry.” The words twirled on his lips when he shivered and whispered them out. “I’d do anything for you to bring me back.” Back to the dance site.

     So Aiolia curled himself up, trembling with dread on the verge of falling apart in the wake of that merciful cosmo. When he had a stray moment of peace after overloading his mind and allowing himself to be rocked by that motherly energy, he questioned who it really was. His dear brother Aiolos, spreading his wings and falling from the heavens like an electric angel. Maybe Shura had sent his essence to meld with his brother’s and dance the moon’s waltz all over Japan for Aiolia’s sake. Maybe Milo’s spirit rose from the dead to spin and haunt him with grace as he was what a true Gold Saint should have been—it was a wonder that the Gold Cloth of Leo didn’t just leave him there to freeze.

     “Why Athena? Why me?” That must have been it.

     His god, Athena, without imitation, in The Old Sanctuary. She was watching over him, despite being so far away. It would only be a dream for her to still have faith in him.

     He figured the night would never end as he’d already initiated his world’s end with a hop and a step. Perhaps he would be able to dance with Milo again in the depths of Tartarus. But for that time, he would lay on the dancefloor in the dark hoping he could draw his dance partner near as they were pulled apart.

✩ ✩ ✩ We Dance Until the End ✩ ✩ ✩

IT WAS ALMOST POETIC TO BE AWAKENED BY A MURDER OF CROWS. They screeched in a black duet with the bats that rested above Aiolia’s head as both species flew ‘way in a dance. Her loving cosmo had still been there to hold him and direct his eye up to the moon that grew hotter and wider, sitting romantically fairytale so low in the sky. The Night Sun beam she cast on Aiolia’s traitorous form might have been obstructed when he took a moment to scratch the skin round his eyes with his rough rubbing again.

     And Athena’s cosmo touched his chin, lifting it up to answer his prayers. Looking down upon the earth from what must have been the surface of the moon, all Aiolia’s thoughts faded ‘way when he felt those hunter eyes. Weak and squinting, the brave Saint of Scorpius hunched over, gripping his chest with one hand and extending his scarlet stinger with the other, letting it drip a deadly ruby of venom that glittered in the moonlight. The hand turned palm up to invite Aiolia onto the dance floor.

     When he stood, he became aware of his hair, trying to smooth it down in an acceptable ballroom style. Both of their mops had been disheveled, a few strands clinging onto fallen autumn leaves and beetles after being lost in despair and the forest.

     Maybe they weren’t even in the forest anymore, Aiolia couldn’t look around as his gaze yearned for his long-lost dance partner. All the scenery faded as the slick leaf litter that caught the light of the moon would become the shimmering floor tiles. The trees turned into the regal columns, Victorian banisters, and draping curtains, their tops ignited by that moon were the chandeliers for the grand ballroom. Finally, his prayer was answered yet he struggled to move to his dance partner. Hadn’t he realized?

     Becoming one with the chilly air, the two of them floated towards each other listlessly. Or so it seemed, for those who took up space in each other’s hearts needn’t even try to reach each other’s body.

     “May I have this dance?” It came out with a gravelly hiss b’fore the spitting of blood.

     “Let’s do the—” One! Two! Aiolia didn’t resist when he was leapt on.

     Straddled with his arms pinned to his side by those enticingly muscley thighs, burned on his stomach by the heat that collected b’tween them, he got two strikes to his face, one for each infernal itching eye. His dance partner had the restraint to stop and wrap his hands round the neck, digging a violent scratch on the side. Then when they were stood again, Aiolia shoved back on his heels in something cha-cha.

     With his fists up, he brimmed with an electric static that popped tacky little screeches in his ears when his hair stood on end. Tired and broken as he was, Milo did his own peacocking swing, extending that finger, threaded with a needle dripping in venom.

     Once in ballroom Shine, they watched each other both intensely and blankly as part of their routine. The mystic Yama Inu’s yapped and howled the playing of crystal ice violins, and the wind that picked up rustled the trees so the creaking branches could be the electric guitars and the harps. And the moon watched from b’hind a screen of wispy clouds to cry another night shower that pattered a delicate backbeat and rolling drum on their heads. Maybe Aiolia shivered and let his breath freeze in the night, but he was kept in a comfortable dancing spirit by that loving golden cosmo.

     “Do you feel it?”

     “I damn sure don’t feel your puny cosmo.”

     The both of them dragged their legs in slow prowls as they walked a circle onto the earth, painting it with the fallen leaves, they were careful to mirror each other’s gait. Completely in sync, they would continue ‘till they were lulled by that cosmo.

     “She doesn’t want us to fight.” Aiolia held a serious frown.

     “That’s too damn bad.”

     “Let’s dance instead.”

     Milo bent his back in a gentlemanly bow and maybe Aiolia offered the curtsey when he hunched down to protect his body with his fists. But not so accustomed to cancan dancing, he was caught unaware by an eye high kick to his jaw. If he bit his tongue how would he truly talk to Athena.

     After spitting the blood and a stray tooth like jewelry being ripped out from a rigorous turn, Aiolia would try his punches b’fore charging Milo’s waist trying to wrestle him to the ground by digging the balls of his feet into the slippery forest floor. What would he do first? Flip his dance partner over his shoulder? Step on his feet when trying to dance close ‘nuff for a body shot? Maybe he’d whip him around the dancehall b’fore letting him slam in the ground and be dragged off stage.

     “You really expected me to carry on as if nothing ever happened and let the night pass?” Milo let out an Ush! Ush! As he took his hop and his step to kick at Aiolia’s punching arm, connecting with a gust of wind that bound them in the darling open position. The rain caught in their ears and raked Aiolia’s crimson hair over his eyes, further forcing his body to move as he would have to just listen to the music.

     You’re still alive. At the very least I’d want you to forget this stupid fight and never look back.”

     “Bastard.” Milo opened his stance, holding his arms out in front of him. A searching scorpion’s pincers he tried to capture his dance partner with his Restriction. What a maddening tremor up the spine, almost as bad as getting lifted by lightning, Aiolia winced and clenched his teeth together to bear the agony of losing his dancing shoes.  A scorpion hid in those loafers, leaning forward on one leg with the trained balance of an Olympian, Milo lifted his leg b’hind his head to strike with the tip and ring a stinging pain to the forehead causing anyone to lay on the floor for a twirling dip. Once he fell, he was only able to look up at Milo in asking of forgiveness.

     There must have been a knot or an exceptionally dark mark when Aiolia was muddied by Milo’s kick. He stood there recalling the memory of feeling so small and defeated. And again, his opponent looked from his throne, at the top of the world he must have thought, and he pressed his foot on the Saint of Leo’s chest, kicking him with a series of Mamba movements that sounded the band’s triangle as their armor clattered when the Flamenco stomping wouldn’t stop.  

     Grabbing at that leg to be yanked and slide ‘cross the stage provided the perfect momentum so Aiolia could perform the body weight trick and pull himself up to stand with their chests together in promenade position.

     Sharing heartbeats wasn’t enough, neither was dancing in twirling royal ball waltz style. He would hug Milo tight as a cat gripping its prey, then maybe he’d drop him in the cage of Tartarus. Even if Athena had been telling him, no, the idea of body slamming him and taking the lead in that awful ball pricked his crimson eyes, making them sting with even more trailing tears.  

     When they had grown used to dancing their flurry of punches and dodges, Aiolia would throw himself into that man’s waist to pin him. And when he leaned his weight into his dance partner—arms locked around his waist in something more like a hug than an attack—they were back to their floor routine. The Saint of Leo landed in his rival’s lap so they could knock heads and muck up their Gold Cloths by sliding in the leaf litter disgracefully.

     An exasperated gasp touting itself as a squeak was forced out of Milo so strongly that his head laid limp struggling to fill his lungs again. Aiolia offered his still body to shield him from the rain as they reset for the next song.

     Cheek-to-cheek, they tried to Foxtrot, heaving their chests to the beat the night played. And when they wriggled like worms, Milo found the strength to point the Scarlet Needle at Aiolia’s callow heart. That broiling cosmo of love begged of him to continue the dance with a warmth that brought a smile—or a snarl—to his lips. The dance site could crumble and fade in their daze leaving only the black of the forest ‘neath them and the white of the moon above them. But they couldn’t take their final bow just then.

     “Don’t move.” Aiolia clenched his teeth snarling like a dog ready to bite.

     “I’ll put a hole in you.” With his other weak arm, Milo pushed on his rival’s chest.

     “Stop it.” It came out with a bite.

     “Get off.” It was returned with a snarl.

     “Milo.” He said it with too much force and had to relax his face in exhaustion.

     “Aiolia.” It sounded more like a whisper as he didn’t have the air in his lungs to yell.

     And on that dancefloor in the dark, they promised to dance ‘till the end. When they grabbed hands, interlocking their fingers so Milo’s stinger was disengaged and Aiolia’s static charge dissipated, they might have tried to meet each other. Struggling to lift their heads only a few inches to nuzzle each other like the beasts they were. For a moment, The Leo Saint let his lips drag ‘cross his rival’s red oozing skin, the scent of dried blood and earth filling his nose spurring him on to try and lick his dear dance partner’s wounds.

     For a moment they were caught in an eternal dream, lulling their heads with slack jaws, one foot in sleep. ‘Till they found each other’s lips and tasted each other’s pain reveling in it rather than suffering in the mutual harm. Then the Saint of Scorpius kicked his legs struggling to divest his Cloth and yank at the collar of his dance partner’s faithful armor. Stripping off the lies, as they were no longer Gold Saints, but leopards locked in that forbidden tango.

     Shuttering from the frigid rainfall was the price they had to pay for their deceit. They’d pay in honor at the very end of their dance.

     When the clattering of their armor got too loud their glittering Cloths divested and laid together as the two giant marauding creatures from the ancient tales, finding common ground. And they could lay with each other chest to heaving chest, leaking with blood from their waltz. Their fingers got tacky and stained with it when they pressed handprints ‘cross each other’s skin.

     At that moment everything other than that man’s presence became hard to perceive. When Aiolia gasped for a breath he thought he could speak a hissing whisper b’fore he’d been kissed again.

     “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from the misery I caused.”

     “I still live on, bastard.” It was given under a low hum as his lips worked. “What’s the meaning in apologizing.”

     Despite being locked together, Milo used his hands to push on the shoulders then lovingly on the chest. And perhaps after Aiolia dragged his lips to that bleeding neck for a quelling bite, the Saint of Scorpius thought yanking out tufts of his red hair to be better at inflicting the spiteful sting of pain that cut the pleasure. Athena’s warm cosmo radiating above anything else in that damn forest, only further darkened the dance floor reminding them of true love.

     If it was love she wanted them to show, then it would have to come in pieces. Aiolia was not done with tearing his opponent to shreds, but both of them knew their duty. Between every hurting embrace and snarling kiss-bite they let Athena’s aura draw out what really laid in their heart.

     “To be here with you alone right now.” Aiolia couldn’t finish his sentence as he’d been distracted by his eyes rolling back in his head.

     “From the very start all those years ago.” Milo finally stopped using his teeth to bite and softened his lips to kiss.

     “We won’t fall apart.”

     “Us two have always been strong.”

     “We’re the single hope.”

     “Us Gold Saints all as one.”

     “In this cowardly world.”

     “You and I cannot stand alone.”

     On that dance floor in the dark the both of them remained, transported into another dimension where they could float and be locked in a tango, side by side, ‘till the break of dawn. ‘Till the very end. Aiolia mumbled it when his bloody hands trailed glyphs down Milo’s body and vice versa, tugging at each other’s clothes so they could finish the blood bonding ritual.

     Their voices carried high with the crows and the bats, painting the stars with an extra coat of milky glitter. And their faces became obscured with all types of life blood, both real and imagined, their eyes dark and dizzied from dancing in circles. They managed to be sustained by her loving aura wherever she was. She may have been unapproving if she could see, but she’d need to be the beacon, the sun ray, that would keep them together when The Sanctuary and the world were so divided.

     After the heaving and the hoarse sighs from overworked throats, they started again. Only giving each other love in those small words after trying to destroy each other with their bodies, aggressively and intimately.

     “It looks like I’m attached to you, but we have no connection, Milo.” It felt like a lie being said to the soft skin on that man’s neck.

     “Trust me, that doesn’t make me sad or afraid, Aiolia.” Why did his whisper drive a tingle down his spine.

     “After what we did.” His face broiled with more of that embarrassing heat. “I’ll never forget this side of you.”

     “We laid together.” He was slick ‘nuff to say it so easily. “Let’s make our next actions a testament to Athena’s grace.”

     And the curtain pulled shut on that dancefloor when everything was silent and all the animals and sounds quieted for a night’s rest. Athena’s grand cosmo was there to rock them as their dance tired them into a toddler-like state. And her will would be there with them when the sun brightened the land, dissipating the dance site with the coming of all those unfamiliar sounds of a country that wasn’t their own.

     But when Aiolia rose up and Milo didn’t, still too exhausted, he knew wherever Athena was, was their sanctuary.  

Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Have You Met the Goddess? ✩ ✩ ✩

₳thena knows someone like that damn Seiya didn’t deserve to don the Cloth. It was simply impossible for a group of them to be blessed by Athena. The real Athena.

     Knights like her would bring the Goddess honor. Milo and Aiolia, and the mighty Saga, the true Greeks of The Sanctuary. Shaina indulged in a smile she had to hide ‘neath her mask.

     That man, a ray of golden light, Milo was too just, too gallant not to sneak her ‘long. She never had to switch her hips or clasp her hands in front of him. Never had to ask too terribly nicely. I have some unfinished business, I need to restore my honor. And she was allowed to go with him ‘cross the ocean.

     Sure, she had a hard time blending into the neon city—that golden Greek surely had an even worse jaunt—but when she entered the forests, she did what she did best. Tracking to the sound of the birds chiming bells, and her footsteps striking the war drums in her mind.

     Autumn in Japan had more teeth than it did in Greece. A biting wind nipped at her ankles when it ran through her. The cold front used its claws to yank her hair, trying to drag her back to where she really belonged, in The Sanctuary with her student and all the other underlings. But it was her honor that warmed her.

     Bright and twinkling, it must have been the real Athena, singing in The old Sanctuary. Wings wide and gold, a horsehair crest atop her head, as she looked down on her warriors. Lyttie, tu-liatua. She outstretched her glowing cosmo in protection of her true Saints, pushing Shaina forward to defend her goddess and everything she stood for. While it was what a true Amazon was supposed to do, fighting for Athena made her feel better about herself and what she really wanted to do.

     Damn those front desk women, the cute nurses with the shill frightened voices at the site of anyone who wasn’t meek or ill. Athena’s solar cosmo poked her side, and lit her heart to find a new way in. She always varnished her nails in iron powder and after being buffed with lightning, they were strong ‘nuff to crack any glass pane. After laying into it with her shoulder, she could scurry into a vent, to leave screams b’hind her.

     It was a big hospital, towering over any makeshift infirmary around The Sanctuary, but she didn’t have to prowl for long. His particular cosmo would be sniffed out, how could she forget his stench. The one that made her sigh.

     He looked like a rat, swaddled in the sickly white hospital sheets. The glare of those modern fluorescent lights, catching on her silver mask, marked his throat. That’s where she would dig her nails in.

     “Damn you, Seiya!”

     When she raked her claws down, her vision left her so her strength could exceed itself. Once she clenched her fist to grab the windpipe and yank, the heat on her palm was cooled by the feeling of goose down. It was no secret, he was well trained, that damn Marin touted herself as a splendid Amazon, always keeping her head down to work in the quiet and cover her answers.

     That fool turned on his side to evade Shaina’s strike and when the paper-thin blanket was pulled to the floor and trampled, he wriggled to face her and shout her name. He had no right to speak it. Joy, he was tied up in a bow, ripping him open would be the perfect present. Her Thunder Claws ­­pierced the rope releasing him like the slipp’ry rat he was. She had to chase him around the room.

     The furniture was toppled by the pursuit, that sickly pastoral painting crashed to the linoleum to shatter, and the vase of roses he bitched ‘bout leaked earthy smelling water when it was pelted at his head.

     “I’m getting sick of you chasing me over something so small.”

     Perhaps he did his rat squeaking, trying to reason as he evaded like a coward who couldn’t throw a punch. The only thing she could hear were the bells, her goddess’s war drums, her womanly cosmo reverberating in the ears. Shaina would follow her Lady and teach that brat ‘bout divine Sanctuary law. Revenge for her and her Silver compatriot’s honor would be nothing but mercy.

     He'd caught her off guard after a swing that was too wild, and he broke the room’s solitary window to abscond like he was so good at doing.

     “You can’t escape!” Her shout pushed through her mask, if she wasn’t wearing it like on that day, maybe she would have spit from anger.

     Not one for quaint little rooms, Shaina felt herself more so sneer, than smile when she cornered him in her favored terrain. Where the trees grew together densely and tangled their boughs in familial hugs, she would show him how splendid of an Amazon she was. How much he disrespected her, and how much he would pay.

     It was pathetic how he nearly limped ‘way from her, how dare he not take her seriously. Using all her training and the will of her goddess to spring up. She’d cut straight through his body with her dive kick, she was so sure. But once she landed on the grass, she raked her nails ‘cross the turf to sharpen them and opened her stance.

     Despite it being dampened, she felt his cosmo, polished bronze, it was sturdy as it radiated off him in a gentlemanly lull. Warm, affectionate and triumphant it was unleashed in a complimentary vibration to Athena’s own aura. She was within him, just as she was every other true Saint. Damn it.

     “Why won’t you fight me?” She said, holding back the tears stinging her eyes.

     “I can’t raise my fists to a woman. It goes against everything I stand for. My job is to protect Athena.”

     “Have you even met our goddess?” She said. How dare he.

     “I have. Have you?” Damn rat.

     The true Athena was fair and just, full of wisdom and love. Her unrelenting cosmo that peppered the air softened to bestow her affection onto them. And Shaina had to lower her claws as the human-like goddess removed her fangs with that pang of love.

     “If you have, then you should know the rules of The Sanctuary.” Finally, he stood down to listen if only for a second. “Amazons of Athena are meant to wear the mask to relinquish their femininity. Seeing one without it is a major offence, you should know that, idiot.” It felt good to let him know, and even better to insult him, for that small moment at the very least.

     “So.”

     “You really are a fool.” She tried not to suck her teeth when she felt slighted by his immaturity and ignorance. “Don’t you remember what you did, Seiya? Five years ago.”

     They both were silent, facing off, bathed in the warmth of their goddess’s cosmo, beating on the ominous drums of her callow heart. And when she took off her mask painfully slow, offering herself a peek b’hind it b’fore it was taken off completely, she felt her lips, cheeks, and eyelids tremble when they were revealed.

     Perhaps Athena swelled her cosmo so they could sit and remember in her deafening quiet. Nothing happened on accident, there was no such thing as a simple mishap. The gods, and even their goddess brought them together that day when they were so young. There had been too many nights where Shaina laid her head on the marble and prayed, why? As that sparkling cosmo fell over them like powdered snow and sounded the bells and triangles, she thought maybe she sent her Pegasus to show Shaina there was kindness in the hearts of men and soldiers who knew Athena.

     “The rule still stands.” Shaina said, letting her binding mask drop so she could be free. “When a man sees an Amazon’s face, she must either fell him, or love him.”

     There was a try at saying her name in attempts to comfort the both of them, no doubt—Seiya was too simple. But Shaina dug her heels in and lunged at him, claws out to continue the dance of war with a hop and a step. She pushed him deeper into the forest where the twigs poked at their ankles like mad dogs, and the birds fleeing rustled the branches above to drop more litter on their heads, and the animals howled and snorted trying to get ‘way from the chaos they created. Still that bastard wouldn’t raise his fists.

     “Damn it, why!?” Why won’t he… Why her… Why him… Why did she feel…

     Her praying voice rose through the dark of the forest freezing them in the ballroom Shine position for that little moment. And when she tried to raise her claws again to fight, the glimmering bells of Athena’s grand cosmo steadied her while they waited. When Athena? When will you answer my prayer? Shaina plead in the blackness of her mind trying to listen for her goddess’s voice singing to her.

     And after the lull she heard it, as a blackened imitation.

     “What is that energy? That heavy cosmo?” Seiya stood down and craned his neck all round.

     “No!” Shaina reached out for him, realizing that her goddess heard her and felt it right to answer her at that time. “This cosmo is too powerful.”

     O Athena bless him, he was so foolish. Telling him to run wouldn’t help either of them, telling him anything never helped anyone. So Shaina turned to shield him with her body as Athena sang higher and that feral roaring cosmo that stood b’side hers threaded a tacky sting through the air. Shaina’s hair stood on end, b’fore her entire body was picked up by an invisible force along with Seiya’s. And once they were flung and shocked by growling lightning, she saw it.

     An agent of her goddess. Approaching on the wave of Athena’s dazzling wings that could slice through the wind and the tree trunks. A Gold Knight, one of the ones who would lead the way to freedom and a future of Athena’s creation.

     Lady Saori. Maybe she heard it muttered on Seiya’s breath when he struggled to stand.

     O, Goddess Athena. Shaina had to muster the strength to stand with the one she wanted to cut down so badly. She had to know why. She had to be a part of Athena’s plan, or all those nights staring out ‘cross the mountain ranges to her colossus would be in vain. Athena, the one who held liberation, freedom, and Nike of victory in her hand would lead them, without a backward glance.

     Why, Athena? Why couldn’t she get up?

✩ ✩ ✩ Unleashed Systina ✩ ✩ ✩

ATHENA BLESS HIM. Aiolia couldn’t help making a face to himself, still ashamed for what he did to his compatriot. After his stinger was clipped, Milo was sent back to The Sanctuary not without a speech, the proud bastard. I didn’t want to go anyways. Fighting such weak opponents is against my honor. Did he ever stop preaching?

     Lyttie, tu-liatua. His goddess’ song and motherly cosmo would be the hand on his back as he pushed through the dense forest, cutting down the thick branches in his hurry. Damn it, he was nearly there, he had to keep saying it to himself to calm his impatience. She would pardon his history so he could be the hopeful star that cleared the way of any other traitors. No longer could he be in his brother’s shadow and bare his blackened family name, he would be successful and lead the way to a free and prosperous future for The Sanctuary. Traitor or not, that would make his brother proud.

     There wasn’t supposed to be a Silver, let alone an Amazon. There was one he remembered who showed great prowess. No, two. He left Marin back in The Sanctuary where she belonged, but catching a glimpse of her rival conspiring with the Bronze, no doubt, forced his teeth to grit together. She was a woman so cruel and wicked, and a little sister type to Milo—he’d seen on those extra quiet days. It wouldn’t hurt to pick her up and put her down as well.

     His cosmo spilled out of him when he was able to face them, and he approached helm in hand to his goddess’ sleepless song belted ‘cross the endless sky above that forest floor, once a darkened dance site. He nearly winced when those pitiful lesser knights were bloodied by his attack. One of them looked injured already, not so light on his feet he struggled to stand in Aiolia’s wake.

     That was the target, the one who once slain, would bring him honor and allow his goddess to throw the rusted chains off his name and pardon him. But, O Goddess Athena, he barely muttered it when he was staring at the Bronze’s face. She was within him. Dressing in white when he should have been leaking red with blood, glowing with her golden unrelenting cosmo. Using the fire in his eyes to strike with a sword not yet brandished. He couldn’t shake the thought that his goddess led him to a hopeful star.

     “Tell me where’s the Sagittarius Cloth.” He tried not to swallow nervously. “And the rest of you traitors, and I won’t take your life.”

     “You must be a damn fool if you think I’d…” Wah, wah, wah! Ugh, why couldn’t he focus? It was rat screeching anyways. Aiolia squinted to fight that itch in his eyes again, that time he had to protect them from such a blinding light.

     “Ligh-te-ningu Prazma!” O, Goddess Athena forgive me.

     “I’ll protect Lady Saori!”

     The roaring of the discharge filled his ears as he braced ‘gainst the flurry of earth and light spinning around. A line of thick firs fell and weaved their trunks together. Surely he couldn’t hear anything else but wreckage, so why was that feeling dragging down his spine. The whisper of his goddess only getting stronger as everything quieted, and he could pull his fist back and lock it to his side where it belonged.

     The light dimmed into something more mystic, allowing him to see his target again. In front of him, standing like a fastened avatar of her. That Bronze nested her image within his golden heart. And that woman, inside her rampant spirt as she laid on the ground in the dirt and rubble when she belonged in the skies as all true Saints did. So Aiolia would drop to the ground.

     “Shaina!” Any other time, he would have snapped at the Bronze for his annoying voice that sounded so much like his own at that age. “How could you.”

     “I didn’t mean to.” It was terribly funny how he started to sound like a child. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I have to take her back to The Sanctuary.”

     Maybe Aiolia would attempt to flutter his wings and carry his fellow Saint, imbued with Athena’s light, who had fallen but was strong ‘nuff to not be felled. He couldn’t even attempt to do so without catching those hero’s eyes glaring a curse at him. Looking so much like Aiolos’s gaze when he was much younger, in need of a scolding then and now. But that irritating voice didn’t have the time to rise, three others would climb over the damaged forest.

     Silver Saints of forgettable stars, a hunting dog, a searching fly, and a brute who couldn’t live up to his constellation’s name. They muddied the air with their chaotic cosmo, snarling when they took their steps closer, boxing in the Bronze.

     “More Silvers.” Seiya said while putting his fists up.

     “Damn right. We’re gonna get back at you for what you did to Misty.” The dog who was the ringleader did his spitting, but offered Aiolia his eye as it rolled ‘cross the battlefield.

     “Pope Ares sent us to make sure Scorpius Milo’s mission was finished.” The big one nodded when he spoke.

     “He warned us you might be here, Leo Aiolia. Misty’s mentor gave him the tip” The fly bared his teeth. Aphrodite no doubt.

     “Your brother was a traitor. The Pope worried you might become one as well.” The dog had a biting voice.

     “How dare you.” Aiolia said it quietly through his teeth.

     And like a pack of feral hounds they all barked, covering each other’s backs and grating on the nerves b’fore they started to dogpile. It felt more than worm-like to turn his head as the Bronze was getting kicked around in a circle, the name of Athena must have been on that woman’s lips when she was hit with his lightning fists. It was on his own. And on Seiya’s even though he was mistaken of her name. Aiolia would speak it again in hopes she’d show herself once more.

     And as he stood on the ground where he belonged, the Pegasus rose into the air, bringing his goddess’s light and a hopeful ray, that of an electric angel. Dazzling wings that sliced through the wind mounted on his back, so righteous they dropped the three Silvers when he took flight into the clear sky. Aiolia couldn’t close his mouth when he looked up to the heavens, frozen and crisp by the autumn chill. Seiya was stripped of anything earthly as he spread the wings that used to belong to Aiolos and was held dearly in Athena’s expansive cosmo.

     Those were Aiolos’s wings. Aiolia had to kneel and hear the banging of war drums in his ears, allowing the woman rest somewhere safer lest she burn up in his arms. Again, that Bronze faced him in his stolen valor, holding his chest proudly, heaving breath just as Aiolos might have. Those wings didn’t belong on a traitor, Aiolia knew while everyone else pretended not to. So he’d have to raise his fists.

     “You’ll take off my brother’s Cloth, runt.” Then it was time for Aiolia to unleash the wrath of an older brother type. “Feel the power of a true Gold Saint!”

     Again, he let his lightning punches free, clearing an acre of trees and reducing them to charcoal with his fury. Athena was there with him, just as his brother surely was, giving him the strength to lay into his attack and bring honor to his name. When his Cloth heat up to an unbearable volcanic temperature, he assumed the Bronze was already a pile of ash, ‘till he looked up to where his brother might have soared b’fore.

     “Pegasus Ryu-usei-Ken!”

     Just as he remembered, he was pelted with blows from above when he was too overconfident. Every Saint had wings, his brother used to say, it was so unfair that he got real ones. And now a damn traitor.

     Looking just like Aiolos, triumphant and electric, Aiolia faced him again after pulling himself from the rubble. His fists brimmed with light as he could feel his goddess’s cosmo b’side him, trying to open his wings so he could fly and strike down everything evil as she and his brother would have wanted. She sang higher when the Lightning Bolt was released, taking those legs from under the traitor, leaving his face open to stomp. But why couldn’t he?

     When Athena rang her bells in a twirling glittering fan dance, she tilted his chin up to the sky where the angels fly. And b’fore him were dazzling crystal wings appearing as a splendid iridescent haze that wore his brother’s face.

     “If I could punch you, I would.”

     “Big brother?” The sting of tears brought him back to the old days when he’d suck his thumb to alleviate such emotion.

     “You should be ashamed. Real Saints don’t raise their fists to the true protectors of Athena.”

     He daren’t talk back. His older brother was always right. Traitor or not.

     “I pray you’ll think next time. Idiot.” It really was his brother.

     And when the tears fell, and Athena’s warm singing voice pulled his dear brother higher into the heavens, he tried to reach out for only a moment, b’fore he had to let go again.

     Lyttie, tu-liatua. Her voice reverberated through the bleeding forest as if it where belted in the halls of a cathedral. And when his tears, from something lost and found, etched deep in his cheeks and down his neck he knew his brother had been pardoned by her. Honored even.

     Her Pegasus, who would take Aiolos’s place one day no doubt, bowed his head in protection of her when she became the sun and touched the earth. Dressed in white, glowing with an unrelenting gold aura, and striking through his heart with a sword not brandished, she approached them. With a placid expression of wisdom and love, she would be the one to throw off the rusted chains of ‘traitor’ over his name so that maybe he could fly. She’d hold him dearly to the expansive sky when he took flight. Freedom and the victorious Nike in her hand, she wouldn’t give any transgressions a backwards glance.

     “You are,” He saw her. “The Goddess Athena.”