how am I to get home?

// i am the man we both couldn't stand. i can't wash the dirt from my hands. what was it like to feel in love?
i can't scrub off the black from my lungs, i can't wipe off the taste from my tongue //

“Hey,” it’s unceremonious. There’s no prayer, not beyond the ones he’s sure Frey’s heard in the interim on the way up here. There’s the offering, laid out with ripe peaches and blackberries (the blackberries are his favorites, thinking Frey might appreciate some themself.) But as he sits in front of the shrine, legs crossed before him with the dying sun hidden behind the fire of the shrine’s light, his fingers trace over the face of a wooden box, the contents of which probably were better suited for Ludo, though Sunjata has never once had an inclination to meet it.

Instead, he sits here at the shrine — usually arriving and leaving offerings without purpose but to simply be. Melita had told him to try and take some time for himself, and while it’s the last thing he feels like he should do, he winds up here anyway. Though this time is different, because rather than come and indulge in the warmth the shrine often had to offer (or the clinking bells of the wind chime or the frogs that seem to take an interest in the water display), Sunjata hasn’t left yet.

In fact, the Heartless has hunkered down. Maybe for the night, who knows? It’s been forever since he’s gotten any good sleep. Bags hang from his eyes as he tries to figure out where to start — but is there even a good spot to begin? “Am I cursed?” He starts off, squinting at the flame in the light before he shakes his head, huffs a humorless laugh, and sets the box down to reach into his jeans pocket to pull out the metal case of cigarettes — a bad habit brought back again. Though it wasn’t like it’d kill him.

The match is struck, the cherry glows and brightens his face. “Don’t answer that.” He says about the cursed comment. “I think that maybe I thought it’d be different this time, but… Maybe I should.. I dunno, embrace my biggest fear?” His chin drops, ash fluttering from the tip of the cigarette as he holds it between two fingers, a cloudy exhale leaving him in a sigh. “I don’t want to be alone. And I thought maybe this would solve that because it meant I couldn’t fuck it up again. But it feels like I did.” Even though he’d had zero control over it — hadn’t even had it in his possession. “Maybe I should’ve come to you and asked more questions. Maybe I shouldn’t have reacted how I did.” So many maybe’s, so many what if I’d done things differently? All things Sunjata wouldn’t even begin to imagine the answer to.

Instead, he drags another deep lungful of breath, tries to relax for how candid he’s been to his god for the first time in what felt like ages, tattooed shoulders loosening as his gaze lifts up back to the flame and the windchimes, the steel of his eyes a heavy storm cloud for a moniker that no longer fit. A triangle trying to cosplay as a square when it never really had the full piece.

“Do I fix it, Frey? Or am I better off without it?” The eventual prayer does come, even if half of the cigarette is long gone. And with it, the box lid is flipped open with the withered heart within.

---

Sunjata for Sex Frey!

Demigods will automatically receive an answer from their herald at a shrine with a 1% chance of speaking with a Big God. Demigods made by Big Gods may pray to them 1x per year with guaranteed success. Include this at the bottom of all shrine posts.

i am the shadow driving the hearse, what was it like to feel in love? what was it like to feel?

SUNJATA

The shrine does not flare or crack or announce Frey's arrival in any grand, celestial way; instead, it deepens, like breath drawn low into the lungs of the world itself, the air thickening with warmth and something sweeter, something that curls beneath the skin rather than striking the eye. The frogs go quiet first, then the chimes still as if caught mid-thought, and in that softened hush Frey simply is. Bare skin brushes the heat at Sunjata's back before he'll feel their hands, slow and certain, settling at the base of his neck.

"Mm," they hum, the sound less a word than a vibration, low and pleased and threaded through with something knowingly amused. "That’s a lot of second-guessing for someone who’s usually so good at living in the moment, grey-eyes." Their thumbs press in, finding the tension without searching, coaxing it loose in long, deliberate strokes. Their presence settles into him, a quiet, pervasive warmth that hums along his spine and through his ribs, asking nothing and offering everything all at once.

"Romantic attachments," Frey continues, voice soft at his ear, edged with that familiar purr, "almost always come with pain. Disappointment. Let downs. Death." One shoulder lifts in a small, careless shrug behind him, their hands never pausing their work. "That’s the bargain." Another press of their fingers, deeper this time, drawing a slow breath from his body, whether he intends it or not. "If that isn’t worth the happiness you might find along the way.." they murmur, and there’s no judgement in it, only a simple, unvarnished truth, "then yes. You’re better off without it."

Their hands still for a moment at his shoulders, the warmth of their palms lingering before one drifts upward, threading idly through his hair, both soothing and possessive in their movements. "But it isn’t a choice you only get to make once." Their tone shifts, just slightly, something softer slipping beneath the indulgence. "You’re allowed to think you’ve found something worth risking it all for, and then decide later that you were wrong. Or that it changed. Or that you did." Their fingers comb again, slower now, as if disentangling more than just knots.

"You humans," Frey adds, with a quiet, almost fond sort of exasperation, "are the only ones who think something has to last forever to mean anything at all." Another small shrug, felt more than seen. "Circumstances change. Feelings change. People change." A pause, not empty, but full of the same steady, living warmth that seems to cradle the moment rather than let it fracture. "And that’s okay."

// i am the man we both couldn't stand. i can't wash the dirt from my hands. what was it like to feel in love?
i can't scrub off the black from my lungs, i can't wipe off the taste from my tongue //

“Yeah, I know.” Sunjata huffs with an almost humorless half laugh, his head dropping briefly as he feels the swell of their arrival, the warmth that he breaths in shortly after as a means to ground him, the warmth at the back of his neck working at muscles that likely haven’t known an inch of relief in the past twenty some-odd years. It fills him, though, and the hollowness in him feels more manageable, listening as his god goes on, nose wrinkling with the mention of death.

It wasn’t the result he wanted, but he supposes that’s the point. He’d lost everyone one way or another, even if the most recent one had been his choice. That’s perhaps the letdown part that Frey mentions. And he thinks, for a moment, that it’s selfish of him to just give up when the let down does happen, even if Frey’s tone and the movement of their hands and being give him absolutely zero inclination that it’s a bad thing.

He feels their hands still, before one is threading up through his hair – the brown flecked with strands of grey throughout as his head tilts into the touch like a feline might with the attention he craves. You’re allowed to, followed by so many potential reasons that help him feel a little less like a villain in so many stories, even if he might always be at the end of the day. But it’s the Circumstances change. Feelings change. People change. And that’s okay that really settles in his chest. The warmth is steady around him, an embrace that he realizes maybe he’d spent so long being afraid of being alone when he wasn’t really alone at all.

Frey was always there for him, had given him the space and the freedom he desperately craved from being under Safrin. But in the times that he needed their direction and their help, they were always willing to be here like this, however he might need.

He takes another long slow breath in, lets it fill him, before his head tilts up and back to let his grey gaze look back at his god – the shock of seeing vibrant blue eyes and dark hair, the stark masculine edge of their face that screamed Nate but wasn’t quite entirely him these days. Not since his heart died. “Why does everyone make it feel so.. shitty, though?” He asks with a small sigh, not able to accurately explain it. So he aims for trying to cast the feelings out in his mind, sure that they’ll pick up on it. The way that Hotaru had looked at him when he’d tried to talk to her at the Mathair. How he thought he was being reasonable not wanting to use her. How the look she’d given him screamed that it wasn’t fair and that he shouldn’t be doing it, that he should let her in again even if the one mistake she had made hadn’t been the one thing he was most afraid of happening.

“I feel like it took me so long to get back into everyone’s good graces after the Ascended war and everything I did in it and now everyone just thinks it’s convenient to use me as an excuse that I’m not doing enough or I don’t care enough. And when I do try to do something, it’s either too late or not good enough.” Which, as the words fall from his lips, he realizes are very minute and minimal in comparison to the god that he looks up at, and it’s that recognition in the storm clouds of his eyes that has him almost utterly exhausted. “Or maybe I’m just reading into it too much and shouldn’t care as much as I do. You’d think the whole Heartless moniker might’ve made that easier.” A snort escapes him as he tilts his head back down and slumps back into Frey. “I haven’t really slept in so long it’s hard to keep track of the why's.” Because as he’s sure Frey knows, Sunjata sleeps so poorly when his bed is empty.

i am the shadow driving the hearse, what was it like to feel in love? what was it like to feel?

SUNJATA

Frey doesn’t pull away when Sunjata looks back at them; if anything, their fingers slip deeper into his hair, nails just barely grazing his scalp in a way that hums rather than scratches, their gaze meeting his with an ease that doesn’t flinch at what he’s become or what he’s lost. There’s recognition there, certainly—of Nate’s shape in the lines of their face—but it’s worn loosely, like a form chosen for familiarity rather than fidelity.

"Because judging is easier," they say with a small, unbothered shrug, their voice low and warm at the edges. "It takes far less effort to decide what someone is than it does to understand why they are that way."

When he opens himself, Frey settles into his thoughts like warmth into cold water, a buoyant, steadying thing that doesn’t press or pry, only drifts, only is. Their hands resume their slow work at his shoulders, thumbs circling into old, stubborn knots. " You humans love your stories," they go on thoughtfully, head tilting just slightly as though considering something well-worn. "And in every story, there are good characters and bad ones. Heroes and villains. You’re taught that from the very beginning. You tell these stories to babies who can't even use words yet." A soft exhale, almost amused. *"And then you grow up and keep telling the same kinds of stories, just with bigger words and messier consequences."

Another shrug, careless but not dismissive. "No one ever thinks they’re the villain in their own story, of course." Their fingers press, release, press again. "But if those are the only roles anyone knows how to cast, then when you don’t fit neatly into ‘good,’ you get painted in black. Not because it’s true.."Their mouth curves faintly. "But because it’s the only other colour they’ve got." 

Their nose wrinkles slightly at his thoughts, then, at the name that brushes through them, though there’s no sharpness to it, only a quiet sort of acknowledgement. "The Voice is a perfect example," Frey adds, tone drifting toward the contemplative. "Painted as something simple and bad. Something singular. When there was always more to her than that." A pause, brief but intentional, before their attention settles more firmly back on him. Their hands don’t stop moving, but the pressure eases, shifting from working tension loose to something slower, more soothing, as if the act itself is as much for his mind as his body.

"The squeaky wheel gets the grease for a reason," they murmur with a soft, almost knowing sigh, the faintest hint of wryness threading through it as his thoughts edge toward ones about Colt. "And the loudest complaints are the ones that get heard." Another small shrug follows. "But that problem’s already solved itself, hasn’t it? From what I’ve seen, your region will continue to flourish just fine, as it has."

There’s a subtle shift then, a repositioning, and one of their hands slips free from his shoulder to cup Sunjata's cheek, warm and steady, guiding his attention back to them without force. The touch is softer now, less indulgent, more deliberate. "If I could tell you not to care what anyone thinks of you.." Frey begins, their voice dipping, something almost regretful threading through the edges of it, "and have that be enough, I would." Their smile changes, just slightly; not losing its warmth, but gaining something quieter, something that understands the weight he carries whether he wants to or not. "But you do care." It isn’t said as a flaw. It isn’t said as praise. It simply is. Their thumb brushes lightly across his lips, gaze steady on his, blue eyes holding his storm without trying to calm it. "And you probably always will." The words don’t linger heavily; they’re offered the same way everything else is. Open, unforced, allowed to settle where they will. This was Sunjata's particular cross to bear, and it was up to him to find the strength to either carry on or toss off the weight. 

"I will come to your bed," Frey adds softly, their tone slipping back toward that familiar, low warmth, though tempered now, shaped to him rather than spilling outward unchecked, "anytime you find it too lonely. In any capacity you might want."

// i am the man we both couldn't stand. i can't wash the dirt from my hands. what was it like to feel in love?
i can't scrub off the black from my lungs, i can't wipe off the taste from my tongue //

They’re right. Judging is easier. And gods knew Sunjata had been judged a vast majority of his life whether or not it was true. He should’ve learned to be able to shrug it off, to not let it get to him, that if there was one think he inherited from Shaju shouldn’t have been his eyes but the ability to ignore opposers. And as he settles in and listens to his god, the only one who hasn’t judged him the way everyone else had. The only one that had helped him when he’d known his choices wouldn’t be well received by the general public.

He should listen to them more often, he decides.

Their fingers massage through his shoulders, loosening the tension that’s continued to weigh on each other. He’s reminded that people are complex, that they’re right in the fact he isn’t inherently evil, even when he doesn’t do things that better the vast majority. And maybe it’s about time that he stops trying to appease everyone, not quite to the Voice’s extent in this instance, but there was more to him than the mistakes, the good, and the bad that he’d done in his life.

“Yeah, that’s true.” He huffs a little, indulging selfishly in the soothing touch Frey offers even as the mention of Colt comes back – reading between the lines of just how much he’d let her fuck with him. And for what? King’s End was flourishing. He’d had a good trade amount, was respected as a leader, and worked well with the others. What more could he ask for?

Their hand slips free from the massage, though, cupping his cheek and guiding his head up until his silver gaze lands on them, studying the loose shape they take and the stark blues. His lips twitch toward a slight frown, knowing that they don’t mean it in the way that he feels like it could be. It isn’t a flaw, it isn’t something to be fixed as his father might have tried to do, and so he tilts his head into Frey’s touch, the frown softening under the touch of their thumb against his lower lip. The offer is a boon, though, one that he looks forward to, that there’s utmost comfort in that little offer. Like he’s worth something more than just the loneliness he feels.

He is theirs, after all. “Thank you.” He says softly, sinking into them a little more before a small huff of amusement leaves him and he loosens the tension in his jaw. “Is it too much to ask for a night or two where I can get a little fucked up?” He asks, not hesitating too long before he continues the explanation. “I know it won’t fix anything, but it’ll make me feel a little more like me for a bit. I think it’ll help me reset.” Gods knew he missed the occasional ability to be drunk or high, to forget about things for a little bit.

i am the shadow driving the hearse, what was it like to feel in love? what was it like to feel?

SUNJATA

Frey watches the tension in Sunjata's mouth as it shifts, as something guarded and tight slowly gives way beneath their touch, and the smile that follows is not singular in its intent; it curves with a quiet hunger that lingers in the spaces between moments, greedy in the way of something that already anticipates his return, already imagines the nights he will reach for them. Yet threaded through it, just as clearly, is something softer, something patient and knowing, a tenderness that doesn’t demand, only waits. Their thumb lingers a moment longer against his lip before their hand lifts away, though not far, not fully, as if they’ve no real intention of giving up the contact entirely.

At his question, one brow arches, slow and deliberate, and then they laugh; low, warm, a sound that curls easily into the space between them. "Mm. No," Frey says, the word rolling out with easy amusement as their hand comes back to pat his cheek, light and approving. "That’s not too much to ask at all." There’s a flick of their wrist, casual as breath, and from nothing at all two small vials appear, hovering for only a heartbeat before settling within easy reach. The liquid inside them shifts constantly, colours bleeding into one another like oil on water, never quite settling, never quite still.

"These will get you suitably fucked up.." Their smile tilts, faintly wicked at the edges. "But keep you just shy of losing yourself entirely. No blacking out. No dull, heavy drop at the end of it. Just the fun parts." Their shoulders lift in a small, almost feline shrug, unconcerned, indulgent. "And if you decide you’d rather not rely on little gifts like these," Frey adds, tone turning idly thoughtful, though their gaze remains fixed on him, "if you'd like the ability to recreate this feeling in yourself or in others, all you have to do is ask."

// i am the man we both couldn't stand. i can't wash the dirt from my hands. what was it like to feel in love?
i can't scrub off the black from my lungs, i can't wipe off the taste from my tongue //

Quietly indulgent in the gentle little touches that Frey offers to him, Sunjata’s unsure of how his request will be received. Will it be seen as a means to try and avoid everything that’s hard, or a way to let loose as he intends on it being? So it’s with the quiet underlining anticipation of how the question could land either way that smooths out immediately with the warm laugh that curls around him just as warmly as his deity’s body does, the approving pat to his cheek sparking a brighter smile.

The vials appear in his visuals, eyes catching on them as he sees the oil slick hue within them, promising everything he’d been trying to search for over the past few weeks – all of the attempts and unknown amounts of Blue Torcher he’d downed just to chase after something he hasn’t had in so long.

“Just the fun parts.” He repeats, more to himself than anything else, reaching for the vials to turn over in his hands and look at, despite feeling Frey’s gaze on him. The suggestion that they offer, though, has his attention snapping up – like he’s been lost at sea and Frey’s thrown yet another buoy for him, one he latches onto almost immediately with a raise of his scarred brows. He doesn’t need to try them to know what kind of potential that particular bit of magic might have, and gods how he’d love to have such an ability. “What do I need to do for that?” He asks, the obvious answer feeding through his body to say yes, please, just tell me what to do.

i am the shadow driving the hearse, what was it like to feel in love? what was it like to feel?

SUNJATA

Frey’s grin deepens as Sunjata’s attention snaps back to them, sharp and immediate, that familiar hunger for something more flickering to life in his eyes. They tilt their head, considering him in a way that feels less like judgement and more like an appraisal of something truly valued. "Mm,"
they murmur, softer, slower, their head tipping as though considering whether to indulge him or make him wait for it.

They don’t.

The space between them dissolves in a breath, Frey shifting forward until there’s nothing polite left of the distance, until warmth presses in close and unavoidable and entirely intentional. Their hand slides from Sunjata's cheek to the back of his neck again, not quite restraining, but not quite guiding either. "This," they say, voice dipping low enough to feel more than hear, "is what you must do.." Frey leans in, slow and unhurried, letting the anticipation stretch just long enough to ache before their lips brush the curve of his ear.

---

Sunjata has been given a quest! In order to receive

It's Stronger Than You Think | Can imbue any substance with intoxicating properties that heighten the effects regardless of tolerances/endurance.

Sunjata must:

1. Complete three threads, witnessing the effects of intoxicating/mind-altering substances on characters with different tolerance levels
2. Complete a thread witnessing the positive effects of using intoxicating/mind-altering substances (either himself or something else)
3. Complete a thread witnessing the negative effects of using intoxicating/mind-altering substances (either himself or something else)

// i am the man we both couldn't stand. i can't wash the dirt from my hands. what was it like to feel in love?
i can't scrub off the black from my lungs, i can't wipe off the taste from my tongue //

He waits, with that anticipation sitting in his gut and on the tip of his tongue, the heavy weight of it spilling between them as Frey considers whether or not to tell him. Perhaps he’d been a bit too eager for the opportunity – but after what felt like years of searching for it, he can’t help but to latch on. There’s no second thoughts about thinking it over. There’s only the want, the desire to have such an ability that meant he wouldn’t have to try and pretend he could reach any other way.

The space shifts, no longer sunk in against Frey’s front as they shift and press in close and intentional against him. Their hand smooths from his cheek to the back of his neck and he feels held and seen and heat spreads through each of his veins like a fire ignited by the sheer possessiveness that settles within Frey that he can see as much as he can feel. It’s that realization that blooms within him like a flower finally finding sunlight, that maybe he’d spent so long trying to bloom and focus on all the wrong things and that maybe, just maybe, he should have focused on the one that never left, that had always appreciated him regardless of his mistakes.

It yawns open in him, a soft little sound escaping his lips as he feels their lips brush against the shell of his ear, the instructions clear and honestly quite invigorating that he can’t help but to blindly find a spot to place the vials down safely so that he can wind his arms around Frey and keep them in close – like he has any control over it – managing to find it in his suddenly flushed body to murmur a soft little “thank you, Frey.” For all the opportunities that Frey had always found a way to help him, even if they didn’t entirely agree at the time. But all of those were lessons learned at the end of the day, weren’t they? And this one in particular is a lesson he’ll hang onto and internalize, deep in his soul.

i am the shadow driving the hearse, what was it like to feel in love? what was it like to feel?

SUNJATA

Frey’s expression softens into something deeply pleased as Sunjata folds himself against them, the gratitude in his voice settling warmly beneath their skin like sunlight sinking into dark water. One of their hands slides briefly through his hair again, slow and indulgent, before they simply nod, as though this—his trust, his devotion, the way he reaches for them so instinctively now—is exactly what they’d expected all along. "Good," they murmur softly, the word threaded through with approval more than command.

Then they lean forward once more, though this time the touch is gentler, almost startlingly so, their lips brushing against the centre of his forehead in a kiss that feels warm enough to seep all the way through him.

And just like that, they’re gone; dissolving from around him in a rush of warm wind scented faintly of ripe fruit, crushed herbs, and skin heated beneath summer sun, the shrine exhaling softly in their wake as the chimes begin to stir again overhead.

~FIN