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Gehrman does not know how long he has spent in Mr. Fool’s embrace—kneeling on the floor of Sefirah castle, amidst the flowing gray fog, face resting in the crook of ‘His’ shoulder as cold, slender fingers stroke through his hair.
Knots loosen from Gehrman’s muscles, breaking down their tension. The exhaustion, buried and suppressed for eight long years, bleeds like an open wound, spilling in the form of shuddering breaths and drying tears.
As the hand passes through his hair, Gehrman cannot help but press closer into the touch. Mr. Fool seems compliant in indulging him, humming some soothing tune Gehrman recognizes from one of the countless, cherished interactions he has had with his God—one spent listening to ‘Him’ reminisce about ‘His’ past life as a human.
Gehrman wonders about that life; he wonders if Mr. Fool would tell him more about it if he asked; he knows without a doubt ‘He’ would.
Here, Gehrman feels the world to be all but a lucid dream. In the cradle of his God’s arms, he feels like he could do anything—cross any line—commit any crime and Mr. Fool would forgive him.
Like a flower, a desire blooms in his heart.
Its roots, however, have long covertly grown throughout his flesh and bones as if to intertwine with each and every nerve and vein.
“Mr. Fool.”
The hand slides down through his locks to settle at the base of his nape. “Yes, Gehrman?”
Gehrman’s gloved hands loosen from the front of Mr. Fool’s cloak but do not let go. “I would like to cash in my rewards… All of them.”
A chuckle sounds out in reply, its vibration passing from ‘His’ body to Gehrman’s. “You have stored up quite a bit. I was starting to consider the possibility you had simply forgotten about them.”
Gehrman has never once forgotten.
Rather, he has always been incredibly conscious of the increasing pile, but given what he owes to Mr. Fool—his very flesh and life and so much more, he has never fathomed the idea of cashing in his successful missions in adherence to his God’s principle of equivalent exchange.
Or, at least, until now.
Mr. Fool continues, “I am quite curious to know what you have decided on,” tapping ‘His’ finger rhythmically on Gehrman’s neck like ‘He’ often does upon a table. “So, tell me, my Blessed.”
The words, said softly, echo like deafening drums in Gehrman’s ears.
“What wish shall I grant you?”
In the following silence, Mr. Fool waits patiently for his answer, another testimony to ‘His’ mercy.
It only serves as a source of courage.
When Gehrman lifts his head, pulling away from Mr. Fool’s embrace, his eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses burn clear with something one could not name as anything other than boundless desire.
“I wish to kiss you, my Lord,” Gehrman answers.
Mr. Fool blinks.
Silence carries through the atmosphere, but Gehrman fails to take notice of it considering the thumping heartbeat in his ears.
Without the concealment of the gray fog, Gehrman receives easy access to Mr. Fool’s surprised face, one's whose expression he has only ever known to be amused, gentle, or indifferent. ‘His’ mouth falls open to reply, but no words seem to find ‘Him’ other than, “Pardon?”
Gehrman goes to repeat himself, but Mr. Fool stops him with a hovered hand. After all, there is no world in which a True God fails to catch the words Gehrman has just uttered.
Brown eyes with flecks of gold stare at him, inexplicable thoughts running through them. “Gehrman, you…” Mr. Fool murmurs, almost to ‘Himself’.
However, rather than feeling uncomfortable under his God’s scrutiny, Gehrman drinks up the attention like a starved man.
Mr. Fool begins, “Is this truly what you want, Gehrman?”
Gehrman answers, “If you so allow it, Mr. Fool.”
The lack of hesitation must take Mr. Fool off-guard because ‘He’ can only stare at him quietly, lips parted in subtle surprise. For an outsider, perhaps, such a sight would be comical. For Gehrman, however, it is a blessing to be able to witness the humanity of his God.
After a long moment, Mr. Fool sighs. The sound is not one of disgust nor disappointment—but of fond exasperation.
Surrendering with a smile, Mr. Fool tilts ‘His’ head and nods. “Alright, then. Your wish will be granted—”
Gehrman surges forward to catch Mr. Fool’s lips with his own, slotting their mouths together, cutting off a noise of surprise. A gloved hand, stained with divine blood, invades under the black hood. It slides up the length of Mr. Fool’s neck, wrapping around the nape to pull ‘Him’ closer.
The world falls away. Space and time seem to collapse, losing their meanings and rules, as Gehrman kisses his God, avid and desperate.
The stifled sounds of ‘His’ voice. The softness of ‘His’ lips and their taste. The stuttering pulse of ‘His’ conjured heart under Gehrman’s fingertips. All of Mr. Fool’s reactions, no matter how small, draw him closer into a state of delirium and, given time, Gehrman knows he could lose himself in this pleasure.
If not for his Beyonder abilities, Gehrman fears he would be shaking.
With one hand on ‘His’ nape, Gehrman’s other wraps around Mr. Fool’s waist, supporting the small of ‘His’ back to lower them slowly to the floor. The fog washes over them in gentle waves. Squeezing ‘His’ waist, angling up ‘His’ chin, Gehrman presses deeper into the kiss.
Fingers gently pushing at his chest, Mr. Fool pulls away slightly to pant, “Gehrman… ha, wait—mmph…”
Gehrman kisses 'Him' again, unwilling to part from Mr. Fool’s soft, reactive lips for even a second, taking the opportunity to slide his tongue inside and pry open ‘His’ teeth, licking into Mr. Fool’s mouth.
Mr. Fool could easily stop him. Even further, ‘He’ could smite Gehrman on the spot, graft his mind to nothingness, or cast him to some corner of the universe if ‘He’ so wishes. Yet, ‘He’ does not. Instead, ‘His’ hands clutch at Gehrman’s back, anchoring themselves on his jacket, and the latter takes this as a tacit granting of his wish.
Mr. Fool, after all, is a kind and gracious God.
Gehrman continues drinking up Mr. Fool’s gentle noises, the hand on ‘His’ neck leaving to grab at one of Mr. Fool’s, tugging it from his back to intertwine their fingers. Gehrman presses their hands down by Mr. Fool’s head and squeezes them tightly, and when he receives a squeeze in return, overwhelming joy swells in his chest.
Waves of uncomfortable heat rolling in his gut, Gehrman cannot help but yearn for more. More of ‘His’ taste. More of this pleasure. He knows the orientation of their bodies well: the way their legs are entangled, the way they are pulled flush against each other, the way they can feel each other’s warmth—
Gehrman longs for Mr. Fool in ways he does not dare voice. He knows he has done far from enough to deserve acting upon that desire; he wonders how much of himself he is willing to give; he knows without a doubt the answer is his everything.
When Gehrman breaks away from Mr. Fool, a thread of saliva connecting their mouths, it is an uphill battle to not dive back in. Panting, he stares down, entranced, at the uncontrolled dilation of Mr. Fool’s eyes, the warm flush of ‘His’ cheeks, the swollenness of ‘His’ lips, the rise and fall of 'His' chest, and the daze of ‘His’ expression.
Gehrman wonders if there has been anyone else in the world who has had the honor of witnessing this beautiful sight.
The hair on the back of his neck prickles.
A bolt of silver lightning tears horizontally through the air like a bullet, soaring through the space where Gehrman was hovering in just a moment ago.
Gehrman lands a few paces away, half-knelt on the ground. Recognizing the act of power, he does not go to grab for his weapon and, instead, rises to his full height, straightening his coat in the meantime.
Across from him, past Mr. Fool, stands Arrodes.
Bristling like a cat, Arrodes points with one human hand and two illusory ones. “How dare you taint the Great Master with your dirty mouth!” After spouting those words, Arrodes runs over to Mr. Fool, carefully taking ‘His’ arm in hand. “Are you alright, Great Master?!”
Once hidden away, dark tentacles bloom from underneath Mr. Fool’s black cloak, spilling to the floor with leisure movements, and, along with Arrodes, they help Mr. Fool to ‘His’ feet.
Mr. Fool clears ‘His’ throat behind a fist. Gray fog returns to conceal ‘His’ gaze, only revealing the rest of ‘His’ indifferent expression and… ‘His’ reddened lips.
“...Yes,” Mr. Fool says after a moment. ‘He’ adds, almost with an accusatory tone, “Arrodes, did I not tell you to leave us?”
Arrodes flinches as if struck. They bow once, twice, before straightening again to reason hurriedly, “I—I sensed you were in danger! From him!” They whirl around to Gehrman. “First, you betrayed the Great Master, and now, you dare have the audacity to commit such blasphemy against ‘Him’!”
Had Arrodes said such words before he was taken above the gray fog, Gehrman would have no doubt been struck with stomach-sinking guilt. However, there is one crucial difference between then and now.
“Mr. Fool has granted me forgiveness,” Gehrman replies steadily.
"Of course!" Arrodes retorts before clasping their hands together, smiling with a dreamy look. “The Great Master is the most kindest, benevolent deity. That is certain!” Not even a beat later, their eyes darken, illusory arms rising behind them to sharpen themselves like spears. “You, however—”
“Arrodes.”
Arrodes abandons the anger faster than the speed of light as they turn to Mr. Fool, smiling bright, gaze softening unabashedly, “Yes, Great Master?” Their illusory arms reshape in animated beating hearts. “How may this humble servant be of use to you?”
Mr. Fool sighs, rubbing ‘His’ temple. “The situation you walked in upon was… consensual. There is no need to be defensive on my behalf.”
“But,” Arrodes begins, brows furrowing in concern as they glance at Gehrman, “he betrayed your trust. He shed your blood…”
Mr. Fool smiles sadly. “You know the reason why he did, don’t you?”
Arrodes’ mouth hangs open for a moment before shutting. They purse their lips, deflating. “...Yes, Great Master.”
One of Mr. Fool’s tentacles reaches out to stroke Arrodes’ hair, the latter immediately perking up to soak in the touch. Mr. Fool turns ‘His’ gaze toward Gehrman.
“Gehrman,” Mr. Fool says, “you should leave before Arrodes decides to smite you again.”
The dismissal washes over Gehrman like a dark, rain cloud. However, he dares not protest against it.
As a benevolent God, Mr. Fool has the gracious habit of giving many things without receiving the equivalent in return, and today, Gehrman has received far too much: both forgiveness and a forbidden touch. As greedy as he may be, Gehrman knows not to ask for more.
Pressing his hand to his chest, Gehrman bows and says, bleeding reverence, “By your will.”
As Gehrman feels his body begin to sink and descend through the gray fog, he lifts his eyes just in time to catch sight of Mr. Fool’s smile, one made of a fond farewell.
Gehrman hopes to receive his next mission as soon as possible.