#glide-thru

He was the lost son of a fertility goddess. He was the bastard child of a nymph and a god. He was the bastard child of a god and a human. He had no parentage at all and instead sprung forth from the forest hot spring that he’d been found in as a child, formed seemingly out of nothing more than the prayers of the villagers.

Yet another story said that he had not come to them a god-child, but instead a fully grown man—a stranger passing through. They had treated him as a stranger should be treated, with love. Their food and drink was given freely, even though their crops were failing and their herds were near skeletal. They offered him a bed even though there was barely enough housing for the villagers themselves.

“You deserve all the blessings the Gods have to give,” he’d said, on what was to be his last night among them, but none were so boastful that they agreed.

That night, he took a partner to his bed and from the passion they shared, new life came to the small village. The villagers had begged him to stay and the god had agreed.

None of these stories were completely true. The truth was this:

The god of Trysk was not a god at all. He was a creature for which there was not yet a name. But this creature had saved the life of an oracle and in return, she had given him a prophecy.

“Your future,” she said, “is in Trysk.”

He hadn’t fully understood her words, but he had searched out this small village, anyways, and stayed. It wasn’t until he saw the young man--blonde, thin, and on his deathbed--that he understood what the oracle had given him.

“I will save him,” the false god said to the boy’s mother, “and then he will be mine.”

She hesitated, taken aback. He had already saved many in their village with his power, but he had never asked for their service in return.

“Of course, my lord,” she said finally and the deal was struck.

Within the fortnight, the young man was sent to the modest temple of worship that had been built in honor of their patron. He knelt before the god’s dais, eyes deferentially lowered.

“You are well now?” The god asked.

“I am, my lord,” answered the young man.

The god stepped down from his dais, taking the young man by the arms and pulling him to his feet. Forgetting himself, the young man looked up into the god’s bright eyes, surprised.

“You will know this about me,” said the god. “I am not your lord. In truth, I am not even a god as they say. I do not have that kind of power.”

“But you do have power,” the young man answered reasonably. He did not rebuke, as the god thought he might. “And you use it in our favor. I think that makes you our god.”

The god smiled. The oracle had given him a great gift, indeed.

“Tell me your name,” he said and the young man did.

*

Steve, his name was, and eventually, he came to call the god of Trysk “Bucky"—a corruption of his true name.

That was who they were: Steve and Bucky. Deity and faith attendant, though it was impossible to tell which was which. For Bucky loved Steve and heaped upon him every treasure imaginable.

It wasn’t long before the villagers realized this as well.

*

“But he doesn’t eat these,” Steve said desperately, pushing a basket of oranges back into their farmer’s hands. “Please. I don’t want your offerings to waste. If you want to offer fruit, why not pomegranate? He likes those.”

“This is our offering,” the farmer, Clint, replied and thrust the basket back into Steve’s arms.

He did not even bother to address the subject of pomegranates. It was true that their god liked them, but that particular fruit was not kind to Steve. The juices caused a rash upon his skin and if he sampled them, his throat swelled until he could no longer breathe. It had happened enough times that the fruit itself was known to be the cause.

Pomegranates, by unspoken decree, were no longer suitable offerings.

“I tried to give them back,” Steve said later, setting the basket upon the dais where Bucky lounged. “I suggested pomegranates instead, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Bucky sat up, only just containing his pleased smile at Steve’s words. He plucked an orange from the basket and brought it close to breathe in its scent.

“I like oranges,” he said as he began to peel the fruit. His gaze pointedly went to the empty space beside him and obediently, Steve filled it.

It was awkward, being on the dais with Bucky. It was wrong. He was no god. He had no power. His place was kneeling beside, never standing upon as an equal. But this was where Bucky wanted him and so this was where he went.

“You don’t,” said Steve. He knew better than to believe such a lie--Bucky didn’t hate oranges, but he had no taste for them, either.

“I do,” Bucky insisted, but when the fruit was peeled, he only offered a slice to Steve and because it was his favorite, Steve took it with very little protest. “Who was it that gave these to you?”

“The Barton son,” Steve answered. “He’s newly married.”

“I remember,” Bucky replied, and fed him another slice. As he watched the fruit slip easily between pink lips, he did not imagine what it would be like to find its taste in Steve’s mouth. “His wife is with child.”

He did not eat a single orange for himself, but that year was a good year for the Bartons. Their crops were plentiful and the birth of their child was easy, without complication. Both mother and child made it through beautifully.

*

“I have the finest silks of Asia, my lord,” said the merchant, “and the latest fashions from Greece, Rome, Egypt. Whatever you desire, it is yours.”

He was just passing through, this merchant, and hoped for blessings on his travels. That was not how Bucky’s power worked, but no one voiced this out loud.

Instead, Bucky said, “Winter is near. Do you have anything to keep warm?”

“I do,” said the merchant and began to pull out a bolt of wool from beneath the displayed silks.

“Steve,” Bucky said, beckoning. To the merchant, he added, “It is for him.”

The merchant hesitated, looking from Steve to Bucky and then back again. He had hoped to dress a god, not this slip of a man.

When there was no response immediately forthcoming, Bucky raised a single eyebrow. He did not like it when Steve was insulted or cast aside.

There were a crowd of villagers in the temple with them, curious as to what this stranger would offer their lord and proud that they had a god travelers wanted to pay tribute to. This was a village that people flocked to now, when before it was nothing but a place to be forgotten. For those that called it home, Trysk and its god were something to be proud of.

From this cloud, a young woman--Pepper--slipped forward and quietly whispered into the merchant’s ear. His face transformed into a huge smile.

“Of course,” he said, bowing low. “It would be an honor.”

That winter and every winter after, Steve was kept warm by a deep blue tunic and its matching cloak, both more finely fashioned than anything he had ever owned before.

*

Steve was attendant to a god, but he found that he was rarely allowed to truly attend. When he tried, he was pulled away from his work.

“Come,” Bucky said, “leave that for later.”

He would invite Steve into a game, instead, or sometimes pull him out to roam the fields. They often ended up laying in the grass, Steve curled into his side as they basked in the warm sun.

“I am supposed to serve you,” Steve said one day, sitting up to look Bucky in the face. “That is what I was given to you for. Why do you not allow me?”

“I have told you,” Bucky replied, pulling Steve back down against him. “I am not a god. I am not be served as one. But if it worries you so, know this: you serve me well as we are now.”

Steve’s whole body warmed, but it had little to do with the sun.

“You allow others to serve you.”

“That is not the same,” said Bucky. “They require something of me and so they give something in return. It is a bargain. Do you require something of me?”

“No,” Steve said, even though he would’ve liked to answer the opposite. He wanted to give voice to the fantasies that had started creeping into his mind, but he couldn’t find the courage. It would’ve destroyed him to be rejected.

“Then I require nothing,” Bucky said, “except your companionship and only if you want to give it.”

Steve huffed. “You know I do.”

It was silly to think otherwise. Everyone clamored for Bucky’s attention, his favor, but Steve--he was given it freely and often. It was a gift in itself, even if it was not the gift he dreamed of.

*

Steve sat upon the dais, peeling grapes.

This, at least, he was allowed to do in service of Bucky--feed him while others gave offerings and asked for his blessings. It was a show, of course, and Bucky never allowed it except for in this instance, but it helped Steve feel useful. It helped him feel as though he were succeeding for the purpose in which he was given to the temple.

He kept his focus on the fruit between his fingers and not on the god whose head lay in his lap, soft hair spilling over his thighs, nor on the young woman that knelt before the dais. She was the blacksmith’s daughter--Carina, he believed her name was--and her offering reflected that.

Steve dropped the peeled grape into Bucky’s waiting mouth and Bucky grinned conspiratorially up at him as he chewed, as if Steve feeding him was a joke they shared. He turned to look at Carina and with his gaze upon her, she spoke.

“These are from my father,” she said, gesturing to the ironworks laid upon the stone floor of the temple. “It would honor him if you chose a wife for my brother.”

She laid out the simplest of cloaks, beautifully stitched but plain.

“And this is my own offering,” she continued, blushing, “I know it isn’t much, but--”

Bucky sat up, smiling at her warmly, and faced with such a smile, Carina fell silent.

“What would you ask for such a beautiful offering?” He asked gently.

She smiled back shyly, biting her lip.

“I have come of age this year, too,” she said. “I only ask that you spare me a thought during the festivities.”

Her true request was no secret, not with the mention of her maturity. She wanted more than just his thoughts.

Bucky nodded, his smile widening. “Of course.”

Steve’s throat tightened, but he ignored it in favor of continuing his task.

The problem with being in love with a man that was, in essence, a fertility god--whether he liked to admit to this fact or not--was that he was a fertility god. His power came from pleasures of the flesh.

It was not the first time someone had propositioned him, not even close. Steve thought he might be used to it by now, watching Bucky go to bed with everyone except him, but no. He was never spared the icy stab through his heart.

Carina peeked up at him from beneath her lashes and suddenly, she paled. Her gaze lowered to the ground again as she rose to her feet.

“I’m sorry if I was forward, my lord,” she said, bowing with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Not at all,” Bucky said, but she was already scurrying from the temple. He turned to Steve, frowning in confusion. “What was that about?”

Steve stared after the girl, his expression mirroring Bucky’s.

“I’m not sure.”

*

The festival was supposed to be one of harvest, but in truth, it was a celebration of Bucky. He was the reason for their plentiful crops, for each year of prosper they enjoyed. Because of this, after every harvest, there were three days of revelry to celebrate their good fortune. It was a time of excess food and drink, laughter and music, and above all, pleasure.

It was a time when Bucky seemed to glow from the strengthening of his power. In those days, he looked truly like the god he was lauded as walking among them. He didn’t need to partake of the pleasure himself in order to be fed from it, but he did so, anyways.

Steve hated the festival. He hated watching the play of firelight across Bucky’s skin as men and women pressed against him, all hoping to be bedded by him. He hated watching Bucky’s hands glide across their bodies.

This year was no different and when he saw Bucky catch sight of the blacksmith’s daughter amidst the festivities, he turned away. He did not want to watch what happened next.

In truth, he didn’t need to--he had seen it too many times before. He knew the way it would play out. Bucky would go to her and pull her close, whisper something in her ear that would make her smile or blush or laugh--what exactly his words were, Steve was not privileged to know. They would share a kiss and then she would pull him away from the festivities, in search of a bed that they might lose a few hours in.

The images poured into his mind and Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat, sickened.

He was so lost in thought that he did not notice where he was going or that he was being followed. In the quiet shadows between two homes, a hand grasped his wrist and pulled him to a stop. When he turned, he saw that it was Carina.

“I hope I don’t disturb you, my lord,” she said, letting go of his wrist to curtsy.

Steve balked, stepping back as though she had tried to slap him. He was not anyone’s lord, nor was he deserving of the title or its accompanying treatment.

“You don’t,” he said slowly, for little else to say. “What do you require of me?”

“I only wished to make sure that I have not caused you offense,” she said, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. There was something flirtatious about her expression, but Steve could not understand why. He couldn’t understand any of this. “If I had known your desires, I never would have flouted them so.”

“My desires?” He repeated unthinkingly, but then the memory of her expression, the way she had hurriedly left after looking to him sprang to the forefront of his mind.

His face burned. Was he really so obvious?

“We did not think you desired anyone at all,” Carina said, stepping forward, “given what you rejected. But you are very pleasing, my lord. I have always thought so, but I did not think you returned it. It would be an honor to receive you into my bed.”

We? He thought. Rejected?

Her words dizzied him, he was so confused, but he did not have a chance to question her. As soon as she said this, she leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Perhaps he was not as obvious as he feared.

It was his first kiss. No one had ever before shown interest in him. Despite his confusion, he found himself wrapping arms around her as he tentatively moved his mouth against hers. She sighed, leaning more heavily against him.

It was not the kiss he wanted, not the person or body he would have liked. But he could do this, he thought. He could bed her, if that’s what she wanted. At least he would know what it was like to be desired by another, even if she was not who he wanted to desire him.

“Stop,” said a sharp voice, interrupting them. “Take your hands from him this instant.”

They broke apart, panting a little, turning in unison to see Bucky standing just a few feet away. His expression was thunderous.

“Oh,” Carina squeaked, springing from Steve’s embrace entirely.

She pressed back against one of the houses that they stood between, her gaze on the ground again. Steve could see the burn of her cheeks even in the shadowed night.

“Leave,” Bucky snapped.

Carina nodded quickly.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said and for once, Steve had no idea who the words were for.

She fled, just as she’d done in the temple. Steve watched her go before rounding on Bucky, his expression incredulous. He ignored his own embarrassment and the way it made his eyes burn.

“How dare you?” He breathed out.

It was only after he spoke that the anger melted from Bucky’s face. He blinked in surprise, as if he only just realized what he’d done.

Steve found that no other words came to mind. With nothing else to say, he turned on his heel and fled, too, shaking with barely checked anger.

“Steve,” Bucky called after him, and his footsteps quickly followed, but Steve ignored him.

If they were to fight, he did not want witnesses.

He thought that he would have more to say once they were in the privacy of his room, but when he actually arrived there, he found he still had nothing to say. No words to describe the emotions bubbling within his chest. He stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his sizes.

He didn’t turn to face Bucky--for once, Steve found that he didn’t want to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly into the silence.

Somehow, those words broke the dam inside him. He rounded on Bucky once again.

“What was it?” He spat, his voice shaking. It was a struggle to keep tears from his eyes and he hated that weakness. Bucky saw--of course he did, he always did--and his expression was stricken. “Were you angry that she had chosen me over you?”

It was unlike Bucky to be jealous, but it was the only explanation Steve could come up with.

“Of course not,” Bucky replied. “It is her choice, who she gives herself to--I don’t care if it is me or not.”

“Then why?”

Bucky’s lips pursed together. He looked at a place over Steve’s shoulder instead of at Steve himself.

“It was surprising,” he said carefully, “to see you with someone like that.”

“This was about me?” Steve was taken aback. Did Bucky think himself lord over this as well? “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You have no right to that decision, Bucky. It is for me to decide and no one else.”

“I know,” Bucky said immediately, his tone full of nothing but desperation. “Steve, I know that. I would never presume to--please. You must understand. I knew that you would eventually take a lover. I thought that I had prepared myself for it. I did not realize otherwise until I’d already hurt you. I will do better next time, I promise.”

 Steve shook his head. “Why should you need to be prepared? Why do you even care? Should I not be able to have as many lovers as I want? Don’t you?”

Bucky did not immediately answer. His desperation fell away and suddenly, he was guarded, closed off from even Steve.

“I know that you are angry with me,” he said softly, “and I know that I deserve it, but such callousness is unlike you.”

Steve was unbalanced, thrown off-kilter. He knew that he was right to be angry at Bucky, with or without his saying so, but the change in his demeanor, his voice--suddenly Steve felt as though he should be the one apologizing.

“Callousness?” He asked.

“Do not toss aside my feelings for you as if they are nothing,” Bucky replied, “as if you think me a child in the first throes of infatuation. You drew a line between us and I have always stayed on side you wished, but that does not mean that my love has waned. I will always care, but I care more for your happiness.”

“Y-Your -- your --”

Steve’s heartbeat was too quick, his chest heaving as he tried to take in air, but it was to no avail. Carina’s words came back to him.

We thought you desired no one, she’d said, given what you rejected.

“You think,” he started and then stopped again.

He took in a deep breath, licking his lips.

“You love me,” he said, “and you think...you think that I have rejected you? Everyone thinks that I have rejected you?”

This gave Bucky pause. The rest of his body was tense as he stared back at Steve, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Have you not?”

“How could I!” Steve said, his voice rising against with this new, unnameable emotion bubbling over inside him. “How could I reject something that was never offered!”

“It was offered,” Bucky said and even though his voice was calm, Steve saw the tremble in his fingers. He, too, was at the edge of his restraint. “It was offered to you plainly--so plainly that everyone that lives among us knows how I have desired you.”

“But you never said,” Steve protested, his voice breaking a little.

“Of course I didn’t,” Bucky replied. “You think me a god, Steve. You think that you are my servant. If I gave voice to all that I wanted from you, how could I be sure that you returned my feelings? How could I be sure that you weren’t doing it out of obligation or service to a deity that doesn’t truly exist? I could not say, but I could show you.”

He stepped toward Steve and it was wrong, this movement. Bucky was always so graceful, but now his movements were jarring, barely controlled. A warm hand cupped Steve’s cheek as he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to Steve’s temple as he closed his eyes.

“Are you really such a fool?” Bucky asked, his voice so quiet it was barely more than a sigh. “How could you not know that I cherish you? That you are the only thing I desire in this world? I have told you a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. Have you really not be listening?”

Steve gripped the front of his spotless white tunic, his whole body trembling with revelation.

“You are the fool,” he shot back, but his voice was shaking like the rest of him. “How could you think I spurned you?”

Bucky smiled and it was such a warm, beautiful smile that Steve could not resist pressing the tips of his fingers to the edge of it.

“We are both fools, then,” Bucky murmured. He leaned closer, until his lips were but a breath away from Steve’s. “Will you allow me to try and tell you once more?”

Steve nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “I will listen this time.”