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Chapter Text

Peter Sqloint was not a religious man before Exandroth entered his life. He sorted rocks. He tried to feed his lizard. He didn't think about the gods much, because that meant thinking about his relationship with the concept of divinity, and by extension himself. And Peter really didn't like thinking about himself.

Maybe he let people get away with too much. Maybe he didn't have much of a spine. It hadn't been a problem until Exandroth swooped in, an inferno of judgment and holier-than-thou retribution. According to Exandroth, he'd chosen Peter exclusively because of his spinelessness.

Before Exandroth, before Rumi and Thanatos, Peter had wondered what it would feel like to be chosen by something bigger than himself. He daydreamed about it the way some people dreamed about flying. It was a nice idea. He never expected it to actually happen. Peter would put the quartz in the quartz pile, sort through another batch of andesite, and absently reflect on the idea of being worthy. Special.

Much like flying, being chosen by the divine wasn't all that it was made out to be. Or at least it wasn't for Peter. He felt like a flesh puppet for Exandroth's every whim, not anything unique or special, just another bundle of nerves, blood, and meat. He'd close his eyes and wake up gasping for air on a battlefield, soaked in his own blood and the ichor of the gods. And it hurt. Gods and goddesses above, it was agony. The few times he was aware in battle were the times Exandroth brought him back to absorb the pain of an attack.

He did his best not to complain. What came after the battles made every injury worth it a thousand times over. Peter had friends. People to sit around a fire with every night, people who would notice if he were gone. Even Thanatos with his terrifying aura was a balm on the frostbit loneliness of Peter's psyche.

And there was one person for whom the word friend didn't seem to fit entirely right. Not because Peter didn't love Rumi, but because he loved them in a profoundly confusing way. Rumi would put his hand on Peter's face and tell him that everything would be okay and Peter could almost believe him. They were breathtakingly beautiful and their kind words had driven Peter to tears on more than one occasion. Rumi was what an angel was supposed to be. When he told Peter that he loved him, that he mattered, it felt like what he used to dream about. Being chosen by a god.

The sex cult was a little strange, but nobody could be entirely perfect all the time. Everyone had their flaws, like Thanatos and his unwavering bloodlust towards all things divine, or Exandroth and his inherent bloodlust towards everything ever.

Their band of god-slayers had only been traveling together for a few weeks, but Peter was the happiest he'd ever been. Rumi's frequent caring smiles and Thanatos' rare but impactful remarks made every bruise, cut, and broken bone insignificant. Peter had Lizard, he had friends, and he had a purpose. He was content.

That contentment was harder to grasp when he spent his section of the night watch retching up blood, hunched behind a bush next to a pile of dead animals. His nausea wasn't because of the smell, although that wasn't great either. Peter wished Thanatos could find some other way to deal with the rabid creatures of the wood. No, the reason he was writhing on the ground was Exandroth. Wasn't it always Exandroth? The sensation of containing something incomprehensible to the human mind was agony.

Peter tried so hard not to complain. Thanatos was stoic. He bore his injuries in silence. Hits seemed to roll off of Rumi's back like they were nothing, gone in the blink of their stunning multichromatic eyes. He knew he wasn't like them. He knew he wasn't a driven warrior or a god in waiting. But every morning he woke up terrified that they would realize he didn't belong. That all it took was one more broken bone or bloody nose for them to see the weakness lurking in their party. Peter wouldn't lose this. He couldn't lose this.

The soil was damp beneath his palms. Every breath ached as if it were his last. Blood leaked from his mouth and eyes. It glowed a brilliant crimson as it seeped into the dirt, a mixture of Exandroth's ichor and Peter's own mortal blood. He tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't. There was a searing light sealed behind his eyelids and it burned.

He started crying. It was quiet to begin with, muffled shameful sobs, the sort he'd stifled by pressing his face into his sheets back home. But there were no sheets here, and his weeping increased in volume until he could only hold back the screams by sinking his teeth into the sleeve of his shirt. He tasted rust. His glasses had fallen off at some point. Peter hoped they didn't get too dirty. Or worse, broken. He had awful eyesight.

Peter sat like that for what felt like an eternity. He prayed to the few gods they hadn't slain that Thanatos was up next for watch. He didn't want Rumi to see him like this. It scared him when they got that look in their eye, that blend of righteous anger and unmatched compassion. Rumi would hold Peter's hand and tell him that he was something worthy of being treasured. Sometimes he came close to believing them and that frightened him more than words could describe. Sometimes he wished that the gods could live forever if it meant that he could stay trapped in that moment with Rumi's hand in his own.

Those were selfish thoughts. Desires he snuffed out in the back of his mind long before they reached his foolish, clumsy tongue. But when Rumi thought Peter was hurt or in need of comfort, those wretched feelings rushed back. Thanatos didn't make Peter feel that way. He respected Thanatos, he would even call him a friend, but his heart didn't crawl into his throat whenever the man spoke. If Thanatos discovered him in this state, it wouldn't be anything more than a co-worker making sure that their companion was in a state to work tomorrow.

Peter leaned back against a nearby tree. He was glad he'd left Lizard sleeping on Thanatos' shoulder. Lizard didn't need to see this.

When the agony settled into a duller, constant pain, Peter was finally able to shut his eyes. He briefly wondered if he should wake Thanatos before he passed out. It was too late. He was already gone, pulled into the tides of a tormented, restless sleep.

He woke up to a warm metal hand on his shoulder. It was Thanatos. The robot's blood-red eyes glowed in the darkness. Peter wondered why Thanatos had woken him up. Was it just to scold him for falling asleep and missing part of his watch? Peter felt a wave of shame wash over him, but if Thanatos were going to scold him he would have at least waited until the morning. The automaton could be strict at times, but he wasn't petty enough to wake Peter up just to reprimand him.

Still, he was frightening. Not in the blushing, 'why do I feel like this' way that Rumi was, no, Thanatos' mere presence could make anyone fear for their life. Staring up at Thanatos looming above him, Peter could almost imagine how the gods felt when they stared down Thanatos' battle-ax for the last time. This felt like death. "Thanatos! Is-" His whisper-yelling was cut off by another retch. "Is everything alright?"

Thanatos only looked at him. His expression was as impassable as always, but there was a hint of his version of concern strained into his monotone voice. "Peter." He gestured to the albino lizard perched on his shoulder. "This one is distressed, and I awoke to you injured. Do you require healing?"

Peter shook his head. He laughed anxiously and wiped the blood from his mouth. "No thank you, Thanatos. I appreciate it, I really do, but it's just Exandroth. Nothing out of the ordinary." Thanatos didn't respond. Peter continued. "I'd really just like to go back to sleep if that's alright. Are you alright to keep watch? If not I can continue my shift, I know I passed out early and-"

Thanatos cut him off. "I will watch. Hold the creature." He extended an arm downwards and Lizard crawled onto Peter's shoulder. "You will need your rest for the tasks to come. Many gods still breathe."

Peter nodded and the inscrutable, stoic metal man walked off. He didn't feel up to the insurmountable journey to his bedroll fourteen feet away, so instead he leaned his head against a nearby tree. He tried to dream of Rumi and not the slaughtered gods that they had left in their wake.

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Rumi knew something was wrong the instant they woke up without Peter by their side.

He wasn't lying when he'd said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Peter. Rumi had seen it in their visions, as surely as they'd seen Thanatos strike down the gods and themself fix this broken, dark world. Even in those fantastical visions, where angels bled and the stars screamed, Peter had stood out to Rumi instantly. His humanity, all gentle imperfection, and warm trusting smiles had captured their heart instantly.

Rumi was perfect. He didn't say that out of conceit. They'd made themself into perfection the way a potter shapes a vase. The imperfections that he could root out he had destroyed. The flaws that couldn't be resolved? They could hide those easily enough like a thin layer of plaster over the cracks in the vase.

He was a changeling. Rumi knew the human form inside and out. He needed to. Every time they changed, they took something humans admired and did their damnedest to become its embodiment. In the past, it had been wit or fortitude. Now it was charisma. One might think it was divinity, but really what was divinity if not charisma and a few impressive magic tricks?

Rumi was by no means detached from human society. They were exceptionally well acquainted with humanity. He thought he'd seen it all, the flashing lights and pretty colors, the people starving in the streets while the few chosen Holy ate their fill. He'd been wrong. They hadn't known true humanity till they'd met that awkward, wonderful man with an unkempt haircut and glasses a little too big for him.

Peter and Rumi had been together (well-not together, together. not yet, at least) for a while before Thanatos joined their valiant little trio. Rumi had first seen Peter in a crowded tavern. He'd been lurking at the edge of the crowd, probably hoping to discern Rumi's speech without having to interact with anyone. It didn't work. They'd instantly known that something was different in Peter. It wasn't Exandroth, Exandroth was a parasite with delusions of grandeur. It was Peter himself. Even now, Rumi smiled to himself as he remembered the look on Peter's face when Rumi put a viola in his hands and asked him to join the performance.

The shame and insecurity Peter carried was a disgrace. Not because it showed weakness, as Thanatos would sometimes robot-mumble under his breath, but because of the way it made him doubt himself. Among the god slayers, there was no true innocence, but Peter came the closest. Although Rumi was not as inherently violent as his robotic companion, sometimes he longed to find the person who had beaten Peter into a shadow of himself and show them what divine retribution actually looked like.

Peter was a constant presence in Rumi's life. When he was gone, it was like missing a limb. Or, more accurately, like missing a piece of their heart. So when Rumi woke without Peter gently snoring on the bedroll next to his, his initial reaction was confusion. Concern and fear were quick on confusion's heels, and Rumi rose from their position on the ground without their usual ethereal grace.

Last night, Peter had insisted that he was fine. He'd claimed that Exandroth had healed the damage from their previous fight. Rumi had taken him at his word, too exhausted to check for themself. It wouldn't be the first time Peter had neglected to mention an injury. That particular habit was one Rumi found especially distasteful. Other people could martyr themselves as they pleased, but Peter was different. He was meant for something more.

This time Rumi had been too tired to press the issue. He regretted that. Peter wasn't obstinate enough to die before seeking help, but he was more than content to suffer in silence.

Thanatos stood at the edge of their clearing. His eyes didn't burn their usual vengeful crimson. He almost looked contemplative, which was never a positive sign. The shriek of metal against metal got on Rumi's nerves. Thanatos was sharpening his ax. Again. Rumi was no expert on battle axes, but they felt that there was a limit to how often you could sharpen your weapon before it stopped being productive. "Thanatos! Good morning, my friend."

Thanatos didn't look up from his ax. "No morning will be adequate until the sun rises on a godless world."

Rumi rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He'd experienced a miserable start to the day, with Thanatos' usual pessimism and without their dearest companion by their side. He slung his harp/blade over his shoulder. "I see that time has yet to change your vehemence. I admire it, honestly. Have you seen Peter anywhere?"

Thanatos stopped sharpening his ax. He was not a liar, and he did not hesitate, but Rumi sensed something like reluctance creep into his monotone voice. "Peter needs time to recover. I do not think he wishes to see you."

Rumi frowned at that. Thanatos was strong, they would be the first to admit that. His ax was swift, his mission steadfast, and his arm did not waver. However, when it came to more sensitive matters his experience was lacking. It was one of the few issues they quarreled over. Still, Rumi did their best to keep a reasonable tone. "Nonsense. Thanatos, you and I both know that the moments Peter and I spend apart are rare and wholly unwanted. There is no situation where he would not wish to see me."

Thanatos resumed his sharpening. The few birds that had perched nearby in the brief silence fluttered away. It was difficult to read Thanatos' expression, mostly because there wasn't really a face to observe, but from the robot's body language, Rumi knew he was worried. Thanatos brought down the honing steel swiftly and sparks danced in the air. "I do not pretend to understand your and Peter's situation. Regardless, he needs time to recuperate, and when you are around he does not focus his energy on recuperation."

That statement wasn't necessarily untrue. Peter had a difficult time focusing on himself when he was alone. When someone else was present, the possibility was almost entirely void. But Thanatos was missing the larger picture. "I can help him recuperate. Do you want him to think he deserves to suffer alone? That may not be your intention but it will be the result."

Thanatos considered that for a moment. Eventually, he let out his version of a sigh (it was an odd noise, creaky and metallic) and gestured to some shrubbery a good distance away. "He may still be sleeping."

Rumi strode through the underbrush in the direction Thanatos had pointed. They tried to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder as they walked by. His metal was scalding hot and Rumi drew his hand back with a wince. They'd have to ask what was troubling their robotic companion later.

It was Rumi's turn to sigh when he noticed the stack of dead animals. They didn't have much of a bleeding heart, but they knew it upset Peter. And besides, it was unhygienic. There was no reason to store the rabies-infested squirrel corpses next to where they cooked their meals. Rumi would need to bring it up with Thanatos eventually. He might listen if they painted as a risk to their health, and therefore the success of their mission.

There were more pressing issues now, though. Rumi lowered their tone, switching over from the firm cordiality that they had addressed Thanatos with. He really tried to be patient with Thanatos, but sometimes it felt like trying to discuss philosophy with a zealot. The conversation didn't progress unless Rumi had some bite to their tone. The exact opposite was true with Peter. He overthought everything, constantly doubting himself and Rumi's care for him. They needed to keep their tone calm, and unbothered, even if that couldn't be further from how they felt.

Rumi called Peter's name a few times before realizing that it was ineffective. Eventually, they reached the location Thanatos had indicated. A muted golden glow shone from Peter's body, slumped against a nearby oak tree. He was unconscious. His skin was pale, ichor coated his hands and the plants nearby, and his palms were bleeding where he'd dug his fingernails into them. Rumi's heart ached to see him in this state. They swore that when the gods were dead and gone, this would end. Exandroth would leave by his own will or he would kill him as he'd killed the gods before him.

The dried tears on Peter's cheeks shone like diamonds in the morning sunlight. Rumi wondered how something with such a capacity for destruction could look so lovely and promptly realized the hypocrisy of that question.

Rumi knelt down on the mossy soil. They were considerably taller than Peter, so this was the easiest way to meet his eyes. They'd done it many times before. One day Rumi hoped to get down on one knee for a different reason, but for now, they reached out to lay a hand on Peter's shoulder to assess his injuries. Their voice was soft, nearly a whisper. "Peter."

The creature that opened its eyes wasn't Peter. Rumi could tell immediately. Peter's eyes were dark brown. Exandroth's eyes were brilliant ivory, so bright that it stung to meet his gaze. Peter held himself like someone constantly expecting a scolding. Exandroth's posture was rigid and his demeanor was cold. Not unlike the gods he claimed to loathe, Rumi thought with some disdain. They longed for the day Exandroth's light was extinguished. He was nothing but a parasite with a halo.

Rumi didn't flinch when they saw Exandroth. Peter deserved to reemerge in a body healed of its cuts, scratches and-gods above, was that a broken bone? Rumi felt something snap back into place under their healing influence and resisted the urge to wrap Peter in several layers of fabric and tie him to Thanatos' back. He meets Exandroth's eyes despite the discomfort. "Exandroth, you are not needed. We have many hours of travel before we face our next god."

Peter's body lurched forward into a coughing fit. The light in its eyes flickered, but before it could dim, Exandroth's lips parted to spew out words in a voice that was entirely his own. "You do not control me, mortal."

Rumi sighed and moved their hand from Peter's shoulder to trace the tear tracks on his face. His thumb swipes across warm, almost feverish skin and he shakes his head. "And yet," Their voice takes on a commanding quality. It was as soft and sweet as ever, but there was something colder and sharper wrapped in dulcet tones. Something divine. "Two can play at that game, angel. Retreat."

The light receded from Peter's eyes and Rumi once again saw the brown that they adored. Another coughing fit wracked Peter's body and Rumi pulled him away from the base of the tree and into their arms. With Peter's head pressed against their shoulder, they let out yet another sigh. "I wish you would come to me with these things, love."

Chapter Text

Peter woke up to a hand covering his eyes.

It was too perfect to be human. Where there should have been lines on the palm and around the joints there was only flawless, smooth skin. It was cool against his forehead, but that might have been Peter's fever. He felt like the inside of his skin was on fire. It wasn't an uncommon sensation, but somehow he never adjusted. Peter's agony was expected; it was never bearable.

He was still in the forest. It was morning now, judging by the cold brightness that seared his eyes. Peter could hear birds and vaguely human conversation in the distance. The hand covering his eyes moved to trace idly along his cheekbones. He knew he was in the forest because it smelled like dirt and he could hear the birds. He couldn't see the forest. A blurry mess of green and brown loomed above him.

Peter frowned. His glasses were gone. He needed those. Exandroth's eyes burned when he tried to see through them and in all truth, the angel's vision wasn't significantly better than his own.

He closed his eyes again. At least wherever he was sitting was more comfortable than the tree roots he had fallen asleep on. It was soft. It smelled like herbs and spices in a comforting way, like a warm kitchen on a cold night. Peter felt strangely at peace even as his own body waged a war against him. He did need to see though. That was pretty vital to his role as a godslayer. His lips were cracked and dry but he managed to get out a single, somewhat pathetic whisper. "M'glasses."

The hand on his face moved away, which was a pity. It had been nice. Peter heard a voice address him. It was an exceptionally pretty voice in his opinion. It sounded like sunlight. "I put your glasses in your bag, Peter. Remember?" The voice sounded worried now. That was upsetting. Peter didn't know why, but it was.

The hand moved back to his face. The owner of the voice moved their head so that it was no longer facing Peter. It was quieter now, no longer directed at him. "Thanatos, I'm worried. My healing isn't effective anymore. I think-"

A different voice cut off the first. This one was more intimidating. Less like sunlight and more like a whetstone on the surface of a blade. "He will not die. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Divinity is a leech on the life of a mortal. If Exandroth did not help our cause, I would strike him down without hesitation."

Whatever Peter was leaning against shook slightly. The kind, almost musical voice spoke again. "I've never seen Peter this hurt."

After a moment's consideration, Peter remembered the metallic voice. Thanatos. Thanatos was death, the taste of rust, and strangely enough Lizard's favorite out of Peter's companions. Maybe it was the warmth of the automaton's metal layer.

Thanatos interrupted Peter's train of thought. "He did not want you to see him in this condition. So you did not."

The hand moved upwards to comb through his hair. It gently unraveled the knots and twisted the strands together almost idly. It was as if this was something that had happened a million times before. Peter felt a wave of deja vu wash over him. Rumi. That was their name, Rumi. How could he have forgotten that? Rumi sounded heartbroken. "Thanatos, is this our doing?"

Peter heard metal creak as a new figure appeared in his vision. It was a blur of obsidian and steel. Thanatos was looking for something, and when he couldn't find it he moved out of Peter's sight. "No. We did not summon the angel. We did not incite the gods' wrath. We are no more at fault than Peter."

He knelt down beside Peter. "I can carry him. The day is not young, and we have much distance to travel."

The air around Peter warmed. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he did have to shut his eyes as a bright light radiated from beneath him. Rumi spoke again. Although his voice was composed as ever, there was something brittle about it now, something almost fragile. "No. We won't continue when our friend is in such a delicate condition. The gods will remain. If we aren't cautious, Peter may not."

Rumi's grip on Peter tightened. It didn't hurt, but as soon as Peter shifted slightly they relaxed their hold. Rumi's hand was still in his hair.

Thanatos stood. "A friend? To me, maybe. To you? I am not blind. Your affection clouds your judgment."

The temperature suddenly dropped again. Rumi's voice took on a chill as well. "Your lack of affection does us no favors."

Although Peter couldn't see Rumi and Thanatos, he could picture the scene unfolding fairly well. It wasn't the first time a conversation like this had taken place. Rumi cared for people, cared for lives, faith, and hope. Thanatos cared for their mission and a godless world. To him, anything else was inconsequential. These ideologies often clashed. Sometimes Peter would get caught in the middle. Sometimes he would stand by and watch as the two traded jabs.

Gods above, he wished he could just get up. He didn't want to be something they fought over. And Thanatos was right, as much as Peter loathed to disagree with Rumi. They had a lot of distance to cover and Peter could rest just as well slung across Thanatos' back. (Well. Maybe not just as well. Lizard was the only one who really enjoyed the sensation of hot metal. But he could rest well enough.)

Silence descended on the clearing. Thanatos and Rumi were probably staring at each other right now. Usually, it was Peter who breached the awkward gap. Now he tried his damnedest to keep completely quiet.

Finally, there was another creak as Thanatos got to his feet. Rumi let out a tired sigh. "I don't wish to argue with you. Now is not the time for one of our disagreements. There's an inn in the next town over. I know the owner's discretion when it comes to customers and she owes me a favor. We'll still make progress and Peter will end the day in a place much more suited towards recovery."

Rumi sounded profoundly tired. The frantic anxiety in his tone had faded to a duller, ever-present buzz of worry, but there was still something sharp there. Something scared. "Thanatos, I..." They trailed off, leaving their thought unfinished. He took a deep breath. "I'll carry Peter. You break camp."

Peter closed his eyes.

His dreams were a blur of ichor and steel. He felt bones press out of his back and watched feathers float to the ground. The gods laughed, screamed, and wept beneath the void that was their sky now.

He heard Rumi cry. It was probably another nightmare. It sounded real enough to make his chest ache.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still exhausted but less agonized. Wherever he was, it was arm and quiet. His mouth didn't taste of rust, and the last few stabs of pain in his back faded as he took in his surroundings (or tried to, anyway. He was still missing his glasses.)

Someone was holding his hand again, which was nice of them. It was the same hand as before. Rumi's hand. Peter knew because it was missing some of the lines that human hands were supposed to have. They leaned forward with a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat and dried ichor from his forehead. Despite the fresh blood drying on his face, Peter didn't feel any significant pain. That was a miracle in and of itself.

He opened his mouth to ask if he were dead. That would make the most sense. Nothing hurt anymore because his body had finally collapsed in on itself. He would have preferred to have better eyesight in the celestial realm, but he supposed not even the gods themselves could have fixed his atrocious vision. When he parted his lips to ask, only a dry rasping noise came out. Rumi moved the cloth away and stood up. "One moment, love, I'll be right back."

He was gone just like that. If Peter was dead, he clearly hadn't made it to the celestial realm. He felt a pang of loss for...his friend? His companion? Whatever Rumi was to him, they were important. Extraordinarily important. He felt a single tear make its sorry path down his fever-flushed face.

Peter knew he hadn't been anything great, hadn't even been anything especially good, but the gods were truly cruel to take this from him.

When the door swung open again and Peter saw Rumi it was the most profound relief of his life. The bed creaked as they sat down beside him. "I brought some water. It's been a long day of travel and we couldn't get you to keep anything down. Exandroth came out a few times and bellowed about mortal filth, so I assume he had something to do with it. Destructive wretch." Peter smiled slightly at that and Rumi squeezed his hand once in response. "I brought your glasses as well, although they're a little scratched. I made the grave mistake of letting Thanatos carry your bag."

Rumi brought the cup to Peter's mouth and he drank. The cold water was bliss on his throat. It'd been raw and dry as if he'd been screaming at the top of his lungs for hours. Maybe he had been if Exandroth had taken the opportunity to spout some religious vitriol. When he was done drinking, Rumi set the empty cup on the nightstand and gently placed his glasses on his face. His lenses were in slightly rough shape, but it was nothing unbearable. As Peter squinted through the room's dim lighting, he felt another wave of relief wash over him. "Rumi."

He let the word out as if it were a prayer and a confession. He could see Rumi clearly now, and gods, they were truly breathtaking. Every time Peter saw him it felt like falling in love all over again. Rumi smiled down at him, benevolent and impossibly fond. "Peter."

Peter was disoriented. He was still struggling to properly grasp reality, and the room was spinning around him. His stomach was beginning to turn. He was fairly certain he was running a decent fever. But none of that mattered right now, because Rumi was here. Everything was going to be okay. "You're really pretty."

Rumi let out a relieved laugh. He put his hand on Peter's face to wipe away the tears Peter hadn't known existed. "You're everything, Peter. Everything that's ever been good. Words cannot express how grateful I am to see you open your eyes again."

Fresh tears rose to said eyes. "Really?"

Rumi sighed. It was still fond, but there was a note of inexplicable grief. "Yes, Peter. Really. I mean it every time I say it, Peter, and I will keep saying that I love you until you don't feel the need to ask that question."

Peter started crying again. Rumi held him while he calmed down.

They stayed like that for a while. Eventually, they shifted to where Peter's head was in Rumi's lap while they read aloud from a book on the different types of rocks. It was everything Peter had ever wanted.

And then there was a deafening bag as someone slammed the door open, which sent Peter into another fit of tears and Rumi reaching for the knife on his hip. Luckily (or unluckily) for both of them, it was just Thanatos. He walked in like a general surveying the battlefield and took in the scene unfolding in front of him. Peter and Rumi were sprawled across the bed like an especially homoerotic Renaissance painting. Tears were streaming down Peter's face and Rumi's hand was still in his hair. If Thanatos had human eyes, they would be narrowed. "I did not mean to intrude." He turned to address Rumi specifically. "Peter has awakened."

Rumi seemed a little taken aback by that. They looked down at the sobbing man in their arms. "I noticed."

Thanatos nodded. "We leave at dawn." He turned around and slammed the door shut behind him.

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Dawn did not exist. The sky was a void. Thanatos was running purely off of his internal clock, which worked just fine for Thanatos but left Rumi and Peter groggy and exhausted.

As the morning's light, or lack thereof, began to filter through the perpetual night, Peter remembered what happened last night with a stab of panic in his chest. Rumi had slept in Peter's bed last night. Rumi had told Peter that they loved him. Gods above, what had he said? He couldn't remember. Sometimes Peter wondered if he was breathing wrong. He was the most nervous he'd ever been.

They stumbled out of the door and into the perpetual night. Peter's mind was running on overdrive, trying to figure out what Exandroth could have possibly said yesterday. Rumi was trying to convince Thanatos to let them stop for food because they were tired of surviving off of dried rations alone. They were on their way to kill another god and Peter was scared.

Rumi said that they needed to have a conversation tonight between just the two of them, which scared Peter a lot more. He wondered if he'd done something wrong. Did Rumi regret what they'd said last night? He wouldn't blame them for it, not at all. Peter would love them if they thought he was nothing more than a worm and their love for him often seemed too good to be true.

Exandroth had been quiet over the past few hours. Maybe he was resting. Maybe he was upset that Peter's form hadn't been able to withstand their last battle. Maybe, Peter thought with a sinking feeling in his stomach, the angel was waiting for an opportunity to return. There were so many things that could go wrong. His worries swarmed his mind like flies. When one departed another landed, and the cycle would repeat.

But Rumi was holding his hand, and Lizard was staring at him from Thanatos' shoulder, and despite it all Peter thought that maybe everything was going to be okay.